The Perfect Mistress (36 page)

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, blocking the way and glaring past him and all around the entry hall for evidence of his newly acquired

"baggage."

"Where is she—your bit of fluff with the shocking pedigree?"

"My
wife
is at Thorndike," he declared hotly.

"You left her there? Alone?" Beatrice seemed genuinely shocked.

"Afraid she'll try to make off with the silver?" he said irritably.

Beatrice's eyes narrowed as she searched his tense and angry face.

"Well… things must have been dismal indeed if you've abandoned her after only one night." She drew herself up to deliver a coolly calculated thrust.

"You'd think a professional tart would take a bit more pride in her work."

Neither of them was prepared for the explosion of anger her verbal gouge set off in him. He sprang forward, sending her back against the wall, and shoved his burning face close to hers. He could barely contain his anger.

"She's
not
a damned tart! She has had one man in her entire life." He jerked a thumb at his chest. "Me. And that was just last night. Is that bloody well clear?"

Beatrice stared at him, eyes wide with astonishment. After a pause that fairly crackled with heat, she gave a nod. He drew back sharply. She watched him withdraw once again behind stony walls of self-control as he whirled and took the rest of the stairs by twos and threes.

The echoes of a door slamming wafted down to her as she stood, still frozen, on the step. Never in all their confrontations had she seen him on such a ragged edge. And, to her knowledge, never in his life had he behaved so protectively over a female. This Gabrielle wasn't a tart, he insisted. But if she wasn't, then just what was she?

Beatrice wobbled on down the stairs, thinking about the fire in her son's eyes and the fury with which he had just proclaimed the girl's virtue and laid exclusive claim to her passions. Clearly, something about the chit had gotten to him—gotten right under his skin. She knew the signs all too well.

And what sort of woman could do that to her worldly and decadent son?

Settling herself in her knitting chair in the drawing room, she took out her latest needlework project and made her needles fly as she resurrected the sights and sounds of the marriage in her mind.

The girl was a bastard—the love child of the duke of Carlisle and that flamboyant creature in the monstrous yellow hat. When the bishop had introduced Pierce's future father-in-law, Beatrice had been caught flat-footed, gaping at the duke like a perfect fool. The girl was the acknowledged offshoot of a duke of the realm—her blood almost as blue as Beatrice's own… or Pierce's. And while bastardy was a terrible blight in respectable circles, Beatrice had lived too long and seen too much to condemn a person solely on the circumstances of his or her birth.

She turned a mental eye to the girl herself: blond and lovely and surprisingly demure, considering the influence of that gaudy flowered female who claimed to be her mother. And virtuous, according to Pierce.

Beatrice doubted her jaded offspring could have been easily fooled on such a point.

As Beatrice considered her new daughter-in-law, she recalled that Gabrielle had seemed strained, even a bit frightened when facing Pierce before the bishop. A good sign, there. A bride with any sense should be frightened at the prospect of vowing away all control of her life to some man who would use it for his own convenience. And Pierce had done exactly that

—bedded her and left her to fend for herself in a strange house after only one night…

Beatrice's hands suddenly dropped into her lap, still clutching her knitting needles. She sat up straight, her heart beginning to pound and her eyes widening as the importance of it rumbled through her. Dear God, he had left the girl at Thorndike after only one night. Bedded and abandoned her.
After
just one night
.

Damn. It was happening again.

Snatching up her tapestry bag of yarn and needles, she sailed out the doors and up the stairs. "Sophie!" she called. When her maid appeared,

"Beatrice had thrown open her wardrobe and was pulling out an armful of dresses.

"
Oui
, madam?"

"Get my cases and start packing my things. We're leaving for Thorndike, first thing in the morning!"

16

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T
he next morning dawned gray and damp over the Sussex countryside…

and in Gabrielle's heart. At Rue's badgering, she submitted to cool compresses to reduce the swelling around her eyes, then finally hauled herself from the bed and took a bite of breakfast from the tray Rue had brought. She insisted upon wearing some of her oldest clothes—relics of her schooldays in France—and putting her hair back in a plain chignon. There was no one to impress here, she insisted when Rue tried to persuade her that a bright dress and a proper coif would lift her spirits. Only the hope that moving out of Pierce's chambers would separate her from the disturbing memories they contained convinced her to set out with Onslow to choose other accommodations.

There were two suitable sets of chambers nearby; one across the hall from his, and one adjacent to his, but neither seemed appropriate. She asked that he show her additional rooms, but nothing appealed to her, and she insisted on looking at the rooms on the floor above.

The uppermost floor of a country house, even a grand estate, was usually a functional, unpretentious space, with lower ceilings and few of the architectural blandishments common on the floors below. It was for children, nurses and tutors, servants of visiting dignitaries, and poor relations; there was no need to extend luxury to such as them. But whoever had planned Thorndike clearly had thought otherwise; the ceilings were just as high as in the lower floors, the windows were as plentiful, and the doors and finish work, while more modest, were still substantial.

In fascination, she went from room to room, opening doors and peering under dustcovers. Here was the nursery, and there was the schoolroom, and still further along was the playroom. School desks, a rocking horse, pails of wooden blocks, shelves of books, and a piano draped with a sheet, all stood silent, keeping vigil until the next generation of St. Jameses arrived.

Further down the hall, they came to a modest but comfortable set of rooms with plenty of sunlight, a recently plumbed bath, and an adjoining room large enough to serve as a sleeping room for Rue. Gabrielle brightened. "This is wonderful." She went to look out the huge windows that overlooked the entry court, a grand sweep of front lawn, and a duckpond beyond.

"It's perfect. I'll make these my rooms." She turned to old Onslow, who blinked and stared at her as if she'd lost her wits.

"Not these, your ladyship." He shook his head. "These are governess rooms."

"Well, we don't have a governess just now," she said, suppressing the thought that she might never have or need one. "And until we do, these rooms will do nicely for me. If you'll please send up the housemaids and get them started scrubbing down the walls and airing the rugs. We'll need a new mattress, new curtains for the windows, some pillows, and a chair or two from downstairs. I'm sure it will be quite comfortable."

If Onslow was distressed by her choice of accommodations, Rue was horrified. "
Non, non, chérie
, you cannot do this!" She looked around her proposed quarters in dismay. "It is so small—so drab—and so far away from…" Gabrielle's scowl stopped her before she said what was on both their minds: so far away from Pierce's rooms.

At Gabrielle's insistence, and under her direction, the staff labored through much of the afternoon cleaning and freshening the rooms, locating acceptable furniture, and preparing to move her things upstairs. By dinnertime, she felt a bit better. Perhaps this was just what she needed, a chance to take her life into her own hands. Perhaps some independence and solitude would help her see things in a more comprehensible light.

As she stared out the window at the setting sun, she caught sight of a carriage rolling along the road in the distance. Her heart slowed for a time, then picked up speed as the large black coach entered the cover of the trees, then emerged on a course for the front doors of Thorndike.

"It's him! He's back!" She started for the door, then turned back shaking her hands with anxiety. "How do I look?"

Rue held her back long enough to remove her apron and give her skirts a good brushing. There was no time to change clothes or bother with her hair.

Soon, she was running down the upper hall, hurrying down the steps, then racing down another long hallway to the gallery, where she finally slowed to a more dignified pace. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes were bright, and her heart was pounding as the front doors opened and Onslow stepped inside with two large valises in his hands.

At the half landing, Gabrielle halted, staring into a face that was hauntingly familiar, but of both the wrong age and the wrong sex to be the one she had hoped to see. Descending the steps slowly, she watched the woman conferring with Onslow and frowning. By the time Gabrielle reached the main floor, she felt an icy chill and knew beyond all doubt this was the much-dreaded Beatrice. The first words out of the woman's mouth confirmed it.

"So, you're the one who trapped my son into marriage, are you? I am Pierce's mother, Lady Sandbourne." She came forward, giving Gabrielle a thorough looking over, letting her gaze linger on the simple blouse and skirt and the uninspired style of Gabrielle's hair. "And
you
are… ?"

Gabrielle came within a hair's breadth of saying:
that tart
. "Gabrielle LeCoeur… St. James, I suppose." Flustered under the woman's critical regard, she curtsied as she had been wont to do when Mme. Marchand introduced her pupils to the local nobility. It didn't have quite the same effect as it had had in France.

"Well, I never." Beatrice stiffened visibly. "Such cheek!"

It took a moment for Gabrielle to realize what she had done wrong.

Curtsying to a woman of the same rank… Pierce's mother had taken it as a bit of mockery. "I'm sorry, Lady Sandbourne." She tried to fix it. "Forgive me. I am not accustomed to addressing countesses as equals."

"Do you make a habit of impertinence, Miss LeCoeur? Along with poor judgment?" Lady Beatrice demanded imperiously.

"Poor judgment?" Gabrielle blanched. Which poor judgment was Beatrice referring to? The idiocy that made her proposition Pierce in the first place?

The momentary lapse into passion that got her caught in flagrante delicto with him? The hopeless muddle she was making of her introduction to her mother-in-law?

"Onslow tells me you have chosen to sequester yourself on the top floor in the governess's rooms." She came forward, jerking the fingers of her gloves forcefully. "Obviously you are new to the workings of a substantial household, otherwise you would know how ridiculous it is to have the wife of the master housed any place but near the master's chambers. Even worse, you failed to consider the hardship and inconvenience to the staff. A number of our servants are getting on in years, and it is grossly unfair to think of making aging servants traipse up and down an extra flight of stairs just to see to your whims."

Gabrielle's face was on fire as she glanced at Onslow, who looked down.

"I'm sorry. I hadn't thought of such things."

"Quite obvious enough, without your stating it." Lady Beatrice dropped her gloves on the hall table and reached up to unpin her hat. "Now that you have thought of it, choose either of the apartments across from or adjacent to my son's, and be done with it."

With that, Lady Beatrice laid down a string of orders that made it dismally clear who was in charge here and exited up the stairs to the west wing. Gabrielle tucked her chin and headed for the drawing room. Once inside, she sank down onto a window seat and stared out into the deepening gloom, just managing to keep her composure and hold back her tears.

Though the air was fairly crackling with angry tension at Maison LeCoeur when the duke arrived the next afternoon, he scarcely noticed. Rosalind had sent several messages asking him to come—the previous evening and this morning—but he had delayed coming because he was furious with her for appearing at the church in defiance of his wishes. Her behavior of late had appalled him, and he knew that when he saw her again, he would have to set her straight on a number of things.

Now it could be put off no longer. Pausing outside the drawing room, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and girded himself for one of the most onerous duties a man could face: the disciplining of his mistress.

He found Rosalind standing by the fireplace, wearing a high-necked dress and an angry expression.

"There you are. At last." She gave him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. "Are all your trunks unpacked and your hunting trophies hung? Are your guns cleaned and oiled for storage and your shirts all laundered? Have you caught up on all the parliamentary gossip and visited your barber and your bookmaker? Are the cats all fed?" Her gaze sharpened to a razor's edge. "How good of you to finally think of me, after attending to such urgent and weighty matters."