The Perfect Mistress (35 page)

It was stunning, the pleasure, the warmth, the sense of oneness she felt with him. She looked up into his eyes, reading in him the same desire, the same pleasure she was feeling. Instinctively, she met his deepening thrusts, giving herself to him without reserve, wanting his pleasure as much as she wanted her own. They moved together in a slow, mesmerizing crescendo of loving, savoring the glide of flesh on flesh, exploring each sweet rush of sensation. That same breathtaking tension built in her loins, only sharper, keener. And when she shattered those bright and brittle boundaries of sensation, he followed her into those steamy realms of release.

They lay together for a while, still joined, their limbs entwined… letting their hearts and bodies return to normal. After a time he withdrew and propped himself up on an elbow beside her, to look at her, to luxuriate in the sight of her rosy breasts and sated blue eyes.

She smiled. And he smiled.

"Just for your information," he murmured, brushing her hair back from her damp and glowing face, "I think your mother meant for you to wear that sheet and that smile… now."

She realized what he meant and covered her burning face with her hands.

"Although 'before' was quite delightful as well," he said with a laugh, pulling her hands away from her face and kissing them gently. "Tell me, sweetness, what other interesting instructions did your mother give you?"

The sun had been up for some time when Pierce awakened and propped himself up on his elbow beside Gabrielle. He watched the slow, even rhythm of her breathing, took in the rosy blush of her skin, and lost himself for a time in the curve of her lips, which, even in sleep, seemed an expression of her pleasure with the night just past. But perhaps it was the deep, lingering pleasure in him that made him see that in her.

He couldn't recall ever experiencing a night like the one just past. And he had certainly never felt like this before on a morning after. Usually after a night of heated indulgence, he felt wrung out; his senses were discharged and empty, and his body was mercifully dead to sensation. He couldn't wait to haul himself from the bed and go home to a hot tub of water and several uninterrupted hours of sleep. And there was always the personal aftermath… having to confront his partner in pleasure in broad daylight, to pay her risqué compliments and make pacifying promises about a "next"

time.

But just now he felt warm and full and his body hummed with a low vibration that seemed paradoxically both peaceful and energizing. He felt he could take on all comers in a footrace, or ride a wild stallion, or swim the whole blessed English Channel before breakfast.

He felt like waking her up, just to see the look—
that
look—in her eyes again.

Never before while making love had he stared into a woman's eyes and watched the effects of his lovemaking registering in the depths of her. His eyes were usually closed or fastened on some erotic combination of shape and motion. But last night he had looked into Gabrielle's eyes and hadn't been able to look away. Something had held him, absorbed him, made him want to see what was happening to her and within her. He had seen the anxiety, the awe, the delight, and the discovery born in her and watched as every motion of his body etched an impression into her mind and heart. He saw the longings in her before her body expressed them, saw the pleasure exploding in her depths well before its tremors rocked him.

He had given her pleasure, and she had given it back to him, with all the eagerness and generosity her sweet little body could manage. Making love with her was astonishingly like doing anything else with her… warm and enthralling and a bit unpredictable. As her longing turned to pleasure and her desire was transformed into a glow of satisfaction, he found himself discovering it all anew with her, through her. And as alluring as the discovery of her passions was, it was equaled in full by the stunning pleasure of discovering it all again himself.

Now, watching her sleep, he wanted more of that unique and enchanting pleasure. He wanted to wake her up and love her again and again. He was still hungry for her, and he understood that it wasn't just physical. He wanted to tickle her and listen to her laugh… wanted to stroke her and feel her shiver… wanted to be the center of her curiosity and her attention and her discovery, as he had been last night. He wanted to be the center of her world, the way she was becoming the center of—

His heart stopped for a moment, convulsed, then lurched and beat wildly to make up for missed beats. His gut tightened, his blood surged, and his skin contracted in the first case of gooseflesh he had had since he was a boy.

The intensity of his longing suddenly broke through the barriers passion had erected between his emotions and his instinct for self-protection.

It was happening again—that unholy seduction of his senses, his pride, and his better judgment. She had gotten to him. After making mad, passionate love to her all night long, he was lying here, watching her, wanting her, wanting more. The crushing tightness in his chest made him break out in a cold sweat. How many times would he have to take her? Or would this ravenous appetite for her never be satisfied? Somewhere in the night, in the taking of her passion, he had lost a bit of himself.

Sitting up slowly, he realized that every time he tried to quench that soul-deep thirst in him, he would fall just a bit deeper into her thrall, under her spell. She would have just that much more power over him. Soon he wouldn't be
him
at all, but some haunted, pathetic wreck of a man, devoid of will and determination of his own. Look at him—panting after her as she slept, hanging on her every breath and every sigh.

With gentle ferocity, he peeled his skin from hers and slid from under the sheet. His heart was pounding and his mouth was dry as he bolted from the bed and stood watching her with rising panic. Something in her reached right to the core of him and touched long-buried needs and responses. She had already aroused his conscience and hitherto unknown impulses for protection and possession in him. What was next?

This was a test of his manhood, his very personhood, he realized. One misstep, one moment of weakness, and he would find himself forever relegated to the matrimonial drone's corner of society's ballrooms—counting his drinks, complaining of his arches, wincing his way through interminable waltzes…

Gabrielle awakened to Rue shaking her shoulder and calling her name. She shifted languidly and felt a burst of discomfort in her loins and a dozen small steamy aches in her limbs.

"Hurry,
chérie
, your husband awaits," Rue said, hurrying to her unpacked trunk and throwing it open. "Downstairs… at breakfast."

Gabrielle sat up and quickly snatched the sheet up around her.
Your
husband
. That had a very nice sound to it, indeed. She looked beside her at the bed, where he had slept, and smiled, giving the pillow that still bore the impression of his head a caress. In a moment she was out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, and hurrying to the basin in the dressing room.

Despite Rue's urgent fluttering, she dressed carefully in her best eggshell silk, printed with purple and blue violets. It was past ten before she rounded the gallery and descended the stairs. Pierce was standing in the entry hall, speaking with Onslow and Frieda, and she could tell the instant she set eyes on him that something was wrong.

His back was rigid, his jaw was set, and his hands were clamped behind him, as if he was containing something within himself. When he spotted her, he dismissed them and strode to the bottom of the stairs to meet her.

Ignoring her smile, he seized her by the wrist and pulled her into a cavernous walnut-paneled drawing room.

"I'm sorry I am so late; I had no idea I had slept so long," she said breathlessly, at a loss as to how she might have offended him. "I'm usually an early—"

"I have to leave in a few minutes, and I thought it would be best to set a few things straight before I go."

"You're leaving?" She leaned against the back of a large, overstuffed chair, alarmed by the drastic change in his demeanor. "Where are you going?"

"Back to London. I have business to attend to." He strolled a few paces away, refusing to look directly at her. "Since this will be your home for the foreseeable future, you should know what you may expect. I have given orders to Onslow and the staff that your wishes be accommodated in every regard. You may continue to use my chambers, until you decide which rooms you wish to claim for your own. If you wish to ride, you may use the stables. Besides the household funds, I have arranged a certain stipend for your personal needs. Should you decide to make changes in the house, you will need to write me in London with the details. And as to my mother…

when she is here, she usually spends her time in the west wing and dines in her rooms."

He glanced at her, then quickly away. "I think that covers the essentials.

If you have questions, ask Onslow and Frieda. They've been in this household longer than I have." He turned to go.

"Pierce—" The sense of what he was proposing finally seeped through her disbelief. He was leaving her. Now—this minute! "Wait!" He halted in the doorway, turning just his head to her. "When will you be back?"

"I cannot say. I have a good bit of work to do. Parliament is in session."

"But you cannot just leave…"

"I
cannot?
" When he turned partway, she saw the anger her words sparked in him. "Giving orders already?"

"Orders? No… I only meant… can't it wait a week?" There was no softening in his face, and she knew she would have to be more direct. "We were just married yesterday. Why did you bring me here if you were only going to go—" She halted, and her eyes widened.

"I brought you here to see to it that you have exactly what you wanted,"

he declared tightly. "You wanted a sensible, reasonable marriage… with a dull, ordinary sort of fellow who wouldn't make demands on you and would allow you to run your own life… well apart from his. I had no wish to be married at all. But since I am, I realize that a sensible, reasonable marriage is precisely what I want as well… with a dull and obedient sort of woman who will keep to her place and who understands that I wish to run my own life…

well apart from hers. How fortunate that what we both desire, a tidy legal arrangement, is quite within our grasp.

"This is your new home, your new life." He gestured sardonically to the handsomely decorated room. "I sincerely hope you find it everything you expected."

He turned once again and strode out into the hall, where his hat and walking stick lay on the center table. Stunned, she hurried after him.

"Pierce?"

When he had donned his hat, he couldn't resist one last look at her. He found her stopped a short distance away in the center of the hall, staring at him with her face pale and her eyes like bruised violets. She seemed so innocent and so bewildered—and so damned irresistible. Against his own better judgment, he let his gaze roam her, memorizing every detail—the delicate, springlike flowers of her dress, the lustrous gold of her hair, the lush curves of her body, the ripeness of her reddened lips, the longing and confusion in her face. The air between them heated. He took a sharp breath and felt a blast of dry heat searing his lungs.

Turning on his heel, he strode out the open door.

She stood in shock, listening to him give instructions to Jack and hearing the carriage door slam. Then she rushed to the door and caught a glimpse of him through the window of the carriage as it rolled past. He was looking the other way.

Gripping the doorframe for support, she watched the carriage move, praying that at the last minute it would turn and carry him back to her. But it rumbled on until it disappeared into the trees that overhung the drive near the main road.

Stumbling back into the house, she found old Onslow in the entry, watching her with a scowl on his face.

"Will you be having some breakfast, your ladyship?" the august old houseman asked with a frown of concern. "Or shall I clear away in the dining room?"

"I am not hungry, thank you," she said woodenly, turning toward the steps. Her knees weakened, and she just managed to make it to the bench that nestled against the wall between the two branches of the split staircase.

Gone
. It would have been more merciful if he had just refused to marry her at all… instead of speaking binding vows with her, whisking her off to his country house, making mad, passionate love to her…

Passion.

Once again, she had succumbed to it, and once again she paid the price.

Tears made it difficult to see as she dragged herself up the stairs to the rooms they had shared. She couldn't have been more wrong… about the fact that she had no passions, about the possibility of having some control over her own life, about the meaning of Pierce's loving… and even about the nature of marriage itself.

Apparently a husband
could
just walk away.

That evening, Pierce blew through the doors of his London house, with his body and his mind grimly braced to withstand the turmoil that threatened to overwhelm him. And, as invariably occurred when he was troubled and in need of comfort, the first person he encountered was his irascible and domineering mother. She was coming down the stairs as he started up, and they met in the middle of the steps.