The Perfect Mistress (29 page)

"All right, I'll do it."

When they reached the stables where his carriage was waiting, he suggested that they go by the restaurant, The Montmortaine, so he could show her where she should bring Gladstone when he approached her again.

At the restaurant, he escorted her through a side door and they were shown up the stairs to a private room.

She stood near the door, surveying the dining room. It was a refined version of the room at Le Ciel, where he had taken her that first night.

Instead of heavy red velvet and mirrors, this chamber was swathed in sedate moiré and dignified tapestries. The mantel and hearth were made of fine mahogany, inset with tasteful white marble, and the large divan was upholstered in tapestry and strewn with pillows of sundry shapes and colors. And, of course, the table was set for two, with china and silver, candles burning, and fresh roses.

The sight of those particular flowers sent a shiver through her, and she went to the window to look out. Below and across the street was a park surrounded by an ornamental iron grating. Lamps were just being lighted along the street.

"It's Green Park," he said, settling behind her, looking over her shoulder.

"If you could see the sun, it would have set over there." After he pointed, his hand lowered and rested on her shoulder. She felt a weakness in her knees at that contact and braced, suddenly aware of how near he was… how warm… how delicious.

There was always a price to pay for "delicious," she reminded herself.

Even biscuits cost three pence.

She held her breath, and he moved away, turning to the table. "Say—I've rented the room for the entire evening. Gladstone is having dinner… Why don't we?" He gestured around them. "Unlike Le Ciel, this place has a very creditable kitchen." He smiled and waggled his brows. "The people who patronize The Montmortaine actually do
eat
."

Before she could think of a reasonable objection, he was at the door and laying down a host of instructions with the headwaiter. When she heard him ordering salad and rarebit and a good, simple burgundy, she relaxed a bit.

Removing her gloves and unpinning her hat, she laid them aside and tidied the wisps of hair that had worked free on their ride. And when he returned and held out a chair for her at the linen-draped table, she accepted graciously.

The waiter arrived with wine and a tray of bread and herbed butter.

When he ordered the waiter to bring them more of the bread and butter, he caught the look on her face and grinned, explaining: "I'm afraid I'm something of a glutton when it comes to good bread." Then he amended it:

"Or good food of any kind. I especially love a good beefsteak… cooked over hot coals, 'American' style, smothered in mushrooms and onions…"

The look of rapture on his face surprised her. As much time as they had spent together, she realized, she scarcely knew anything about him. She didn't know where he lived, how he spent his time, what his political affiliation was, or even whether he had brothers and sisters. Yet, she had put her matrimonial fate, the key to the rest of her life, in his hands.

"Tell me about you, Pierce St. James," she said, sipping her wine. "Tell me about your life, your schooling, your travels, your politics… your family."

"Not my
amours!
"

"I believe we can skip those for now," she said, refusing to be deterred.

He turned to the side, unbuttoned his coat and stretched his long legs out before him, getting comfortable. "No siblings. My father died when I was seventeen, just as I was set to go off to the continent. I postponed my grand tour… indefinitely."

She frowned. "Indefinitely? You mean you never had a grand tour?"

"Never. My mother refused to allow me to go off to school—always managed a well-timed bout of nerves or a sudden violent illness whenever my father mentioned sending me away. So I had tutors, an endless stream of them… fusty old cods with dried up…" He glimpsed her widening eyes and cleared his throat. "When my father died, my mother took to her bed and declared it would kill her if I left. I had to wait until I was nineteen and enlist the help of my uncles, even to escape to Cambridge."

She understood. He was a man who couldn't abide being under another's control. And his rebellion against society's rules and norms had begun long ago. "Strange, isn't it," she mused, feeling the warmth of the wine spreading through her, "how I was sent away and wished to be home, while you were kept at home and wished to be away."

He sat quietly, looking into her warm, clear eyes and feeling once again that uncanny connection with her. Then the first course arrived, and over the salad, he resumed his story. His family seat and most of his landholdings were in Sussex. He owned a large house on Hyde Park's Park Lane, and—when he wasn't being snared into wild schemes by females he mistook for tarts and snatched off the streets—he oversaw his family holdings and fortune, indulged in politics, enjoyed racing his horses and hunting pheasant, and made speeches in the House of Lords.

"In short," he said, "I led the placidly pleasurable and predictable life of an upper-class male… until I met you."

"Me?" She sniffed indignantly and broke off another piece of bread. "I see your game. Blame all the turmoil in your life on me, will you?"

"Not all the turmoil in my life," he said, catching her gaze in his and stopping her heart with the seriousness she glimpsed in his expression. "Just the turmoil in my heart."

Gabrielle froze. For a moment she didn't blink, didn't breathe. When she looked up, his dark eyes were compelling in a way she had never seen them

—warm, alive with need. Something deep within her responded, and she felt a flutter of panic.

"I believe you were telling me about your brothers and sisters."

"I don't
have
brothers or sisters." He held her gaze fast in his. "I was talking about how you make me feel."

"Annoyed, mostly, I suppose," she said, tearing her gaze from his and reaching for her wineglass with a trembling hand. "Do take heart—if all goes well, I won't be a burden to you much longer."

He reached her hand before it reached the wineglass, and he held it until she looked up at him. "I've never met anyone quite like you. You're clever and educated and accomplished. You're unpredictable and exasperating and sometimes downright silly. And I somehow have the feeling that you intend every bit of it. Just carrying on a conversation with you is something of an adventure." He released her hand, but kept her gaze captive.

"You make me laugh, Gabrielle. You make me worry. You make me think. The sound of your voice sets my fingertips vibrating. The scent of your hair makes me a little dizzy." His voice lowered. "And when I see you walk, I can somehow feel you swaying against me."

"R-really, your lordship…" She pushed her chair back and stood, feeling light-headed and a little frightened. She hurried to the window, pressing her cold hands against her hot cheeks as she stared down at the streetlamps and tried to collect her wits.

"Don't say any more, please," she said in a constricted voice. "It will only complicate things, and my life is complicated enough as it is."

"I'm crazy about you." He stood several feet behind her, but his low, softly spoken words caressed her as surely as hands. "I've never felt this way about a woman. Never had a woman on my mind all the time—

wondering what she was having for breakfast, what she wore to bed, or which newspaper she likes to read each morning. I've never bought shoes for a woman… never recited limericks or arranged flowers for a woman…

never held a woman as she cried… Until now."

She could feel the heat of his desire melting her precious reserve and somehow couldn't sound the call to arms of her defenses. She just didn't have any resistance left in her. Her eyes closed and her shoulders rounded.

She wanted him.

She tried desperately to think of her future, of the man she would marry, the children she would bear. If only there were someone else, some other name or face on which to fasten her thoughts and longings. But there was no one. No one but Pierce.

He wanted her.

With breath, pulse, and thought suspended, she waited, her back still turned. Then came a rush of warmth, a powerful, bone-melting presence—

the feeling of being surrounded and engulfed by him—as his hands gripped her shoulders and slid down her arms. She shivered. There was a soft rasp of fabric as his arms glided around her waist and she felt the pressure of his body against her back. She wrapped her hands over his, at the front of her waist, welcoming their warmth…

They stood at the window for some time in that half embrace. And as the night grew darker outside, the light of the candles made a mirror of the windowpanes. She focused on their image and felt a surge of pleasure at the sight of herself cradled in his arms. One part of her knew that he was the most dangerous thing in her world. But another part knew she had never felt so safe and protected, so alive, so wanted.

When he turned her in his arms, she allowed it.

When he lowered his head, she raised hers to meet it.

When his lips touched hers, tomorrow no longer mattered.

13

«
^
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H
er whole being came to life in his arms. She drank him in—the winelike sweetness of his mouth, the lean heat of his body against hers, the soft rasp of his breathing, and the salty tang of his skin. Every tilt of his head, every sweep of his tongue became her tutor. She returned him kiss for kiss, touch for touch, instinctively mirroring his movements and caresses.

"Gabrielle… sweetheart… do you know how I've waited for this?" he murmured against her mouth, then sank into another long, plundering kiss.

"Days?" she whispered weakly, as his kisses continued along her jaw.

"Months." He traced the rim of her ear with his tongue. "Years. A lifetime.

I think I've wanted you forever."

The revelation of his closely guarded feelings unleashed a surge of joy within her. She felt suddenly flushed and dizzy and eager for everything he would say and do with her. He raised his head briefly to rip his coat from his shoulders and cast it aside. Then he drew her into a deep, knee-melting kiss that left her breathless. She felt his hand sliding between them, across her chest, reaching for the buttons of her jacket.

"Help me, sweetheart."

His urgent whisper set fire to her blood. In moments, her jacket was on the floor beside his, and her silk ascot soon joined it. She ran her hands up the rows of starched tucks on the front of his shirt and tugged at his tie. The bow dissolved into silken ribbons that parted to reveal a small mother-of-pearl button at his collar. She hesitated, biting her lip. On impulse, she twisted the button and released it.

With a triumphant smile, he bent and scooped her up into his arms, carrying her to the divan, pausing briefly to turn the key in the lock.

The sight, the scents, the feel of him… everything steamed and shimmered in her senses as she settled back on the pillows. Moments later, his chest slid over hers and her sigh of response was absorbed by his kiss.

He lovingly traced her shape, adoring each line and curve of her clothed form, then began to work her buttons, nudging aside both her blouse and her inhibitions. Notch by notch the fabric parted, baring her corset and revealing her passion-flushed skin. He dragged his lips along the edge of her corset in one long, heated kiss, then sank a finger beneath the lacy rim of her corset to pry her nipple free. Swirling it with his tongue, he brought that rosy peak to a burning point… and began to untie her laces.

In a flurry of trembling hands, his and hers, her corset yielded and her breasts were bared to him. He rubbed each tightly budded tip with his hot cheek, then captured it in his mouth… teasing, tantalizing… teaching her the breathtaking sensations of physical pleasure. She arched against his hands, as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her, buoying her, carrying her along on powerful currents.

As each layer of garments was removed, she felt his touch changing—one minute trickling like water over her skin, the next burning like hot brands, the next reaching deep into her blood and sinews… caressing her to the core of her being. Following his lead, she began to explore the shape of him beneath her hands—caressing, raking, kneading… learning the contours of his back and shoulders, the corded column of his neck, the hard planes of his chest.

Then he shifted his body over hers, settling against the intimate heat of her body, seeking her, molding himself against her. She welcomed his weight, shifting her legs as he nudged her knees with his, to allow him to fit the hard wedge of his body tight against her sensitive woman's flesh. That intimate contact seemed to assuage the strange heaviness in her loins and the taut, drawing sensation in her woman's core. As his body flexed slightly and moved against hers, she felt a gorgeous flume of pleasure rising through her and breaking into a shower of sensation that cascaded down the walls of her body. And with each motion of his body against her, that overpowering sensation was elaborated and enlarged.

Wave upon wave of sensation broke over her, leaving her pleasure-drenched and quivering. He raised onto his arms above her, staring down at her, sliding his body against hers, watching the way her body arched and her eyes closed as desire rippled through her. It drummed in his head, in his heart, in his blood:
she was his… this way… always… his