The Perfect Mistress (37 page)

"Rosalind…" he said, completely taken aback. Everything he had intended to say to her somehow deserted him. "What's gotten into you?"

"What has gotten into me? I sent for you last evening and this morning, and again this afternoon, because I desperately needed you," she declared.

"Where have you been?"

"Don't be absurd," he said, tucking his hands into his waistcoat pockets and puffing with manly outrage. "I cannot just drop everything and come running whenever you get a bit hysterical."

"
Hysterical?
" She propped her hands on her waist and moved closer to him, her eyes hot. "Clementine brought me word that Sandbourne is back in London—alone. She saw him outside Brooks's last night. That means he has

abandoned Gabrielle in Sussex—just dragged her out to
some moldy old pile of bricks in the country and dumped her there!"

The duke crossed his arms and glared at her. "It's none
of my business if he did. He's married the girl and what he
does with her from now on is his concern, not mine…
or yours
."

She straightened and lowered her arms to her sides, seeing him as she had never seen him before.

"No, she was never a concern of yours… until you decided she was a threat to your precious family honor. The name of Carlisle wasn't even involved until you came charging home and barged into the situation.

"Heaven help me, I told myself you loved me and that our love was all that mattered." She stalked slowly closer. "Marriage vows and a place in high society didn't matter to me. And after all your gifts and protestations of love, I believed it didn't matter to you either. But it did, didn't it? I never saw that, never understood it until the other night. You said I wasn't a harlot and, in the next breath, forbade me to attend my daughter's marriage!"

"Rosalind, cease this at once!" he thundered, grabbing her by the shoulders. "I have loved you and taken care of you… placed you above all others in my life!"

"Have you indeed?" She shoved back in his arms, the turmoil in her heart visible in her eyes. "Would you have married me? When your wife died…

when you were free again… I never asked. Perhaps I didn't want to know.

But I am asking now. Would you have married me ten years ago?"

He stared into the face he knew so well, into eyes he had seen so often glowing with desire and pleasure and love. Marry her? Marry his mistress?

How could he have? He had an heir to protect, obligations, a place to maintain for his son in society. If he said yes, now, would it pacify her?

She searched his gaze and read in his eyes the thoughts he dared not speak aloud. He was deciding whether or not to lie to her, she realized.

Whether or not to buy another little bit of her soul with the counterfeit currency of easy assurances.

"Don't you dare say it," she said, her voice scraped raw on jagged emotion. Wresting free, she stumbled back. "I devoted my entire life to your comfort and pleasure. I have loved you openly and honorably. And this is the respect you show me—ordering me about like a servant, demanding I keep to my 'place'… expecting that I can be bought with a simple lie.

"I am just a mistress, a
harlot
, to you after all." Scalding tears flooded her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. "Well, I'd much rather be an honest harlot than a lying hypocrite like
you
."

"R-Rosalind—you—y-you—" He stammered and clenched impotent fists, caught somewhere between astonishment and outrage.

Rosalind rushed to the door and jerked it open. Her whole body was trembling.

"Since you have such a terrible loathing for harlotry, Your Grace, I shall do you the service of removing my offensive presence from your life. As of this moment, our relationship—the
arrangement
we had—is over. Finished.

And I'm certain we shall both be greatly relieved if you never darken my door again."

She strode out into the hall, calling for Gunther. When the houseman came running, she seized his sleeve. "Show the duke out, and send for the locksmith straightaway. I want every lock on every door in this house changed by tomorrow night."

As the duke burst out into the entry hall, bellowing her name and demanding she come back downstairs that instant, she continued defiantly up the steps and down the hall to her private chambers. There, she stood in the middle of her boudoir, waiting, breath and movement suspended, until she heard the duke's angry oath and the slamming of the front door. Then she slammed the door to her chambers, threw herself on her bed, and broke into sobs.

Later that night, a tense, somewhat haggard Pierce entered the bar at Brooks's. He ordered his usual scotch whisky and considered sitting a few hands of faro in the Subscription Room. But just as he was about to make his way from the small room that housed the bar, Arundale and Shively entered with Edward Dimsdell, Lord Catton, and two others, and they spotted him.

"Ye gods—there's the bridegroom now!" Arundale crowed.

Every muscle in Pierce's body contracted as if he'd just taken a blow to the gut. The announcement of his marriage had come out that morning in The
Times
. He should have known someone would bring it up if he had little enough sense to show his face in clubland that night. He wasn't thinking clearly or he'd have stayed home. Before he could escape, they were bearing down on him in those tight quarters and offering him their hands and their sly smiles of congratulations.

"Lucky bastard, you," Arundale said with a quick knowing glance at Shively.

"So your pretty 'cousin' wasn't merely a pretty cousin, after all, eh, Sandbourne?" Shively laughed.

"Not such a
distant
relation now, I'll bet." Lord Catton rolled his eyes.

They had a good laugh at Pierce's expense, ignoring the bronzing of his features and the hardening of his eyes. "But what's this? Married one day and already he's haunting the clubs." Arundale's voice was thick with insinuation. "That is something of a disappointment. I would have guessed your voluptuous little Gabrielle would provide more than a single night's…

entertainment
."

Pierce reacted instinctively. Seizing Arundale by the coat, he drove him back across the bar and smashed him against the wall, setting it trembling and the other club members in the bar into an outcry.

"That's my countess you've just referred to as common 'entertainment,' "

he snarled. "Don't ever make that mistake again, Arundale. You'll not live to regret it." He released the young lord and stormed out of the bar.

Arundale straightened his coat and tie and brushed off the impact of the attack when other members crowded around to see if he was all right. "I am fine. Apparently Sandbourne has lost all sense of humor about the subject of marriage. A pity." He smiled with innocent-looking malice. "The rest of us find the circumstances of his marriage quite amusing…"

On the afternoon of the fifth day of Gabrielle's marriage, she pleaded a headache and asked for a tray in her rooms to avoid yet another interminable meal under the critical glare of Pierce's mother. In the last two days Lady Beatrice had monitored her activities, declaring the stables, the gardens, the kitchens, and the work buildings off limits to her. But even in her rooms she was not safe from the woman's control. That morning, a huge pile of linen had been sent to her rooms. When Gabrielle stared at it, bewildered, old Onslow explained that Thursday was always Lady Beatrice's mending day. The message was clear; she was expected to comply with her mother-in-law's habits and notions of economy, household management, and decorum.

Gabrielle retreated in turmoil to the nursery on the floor above. There, she wandered around, touching the hand-carved swinging cradle in the corner and the low, narrow bed that looked as if it had seen a bit of use.

Examining the books on the shelves, she wondered about the children who had spent time here. Inevitably her thoughts came to Pierce. She imagined him here, as a little boy with dark hair and irresistible brown eyes. She wanted that little boy… and a whole house full of others just like him, with ruddy cheeks and warm brown eyes full of mischievous laughter. She wanted hugs and bedtime stories and frogs in the schoolroom, and tea-and-bread-sandwich picnics in the garden…

Downstairs, Beatrice was standing on the gallery, frowning at the untouched tray of food Onslow was holding. "Didn't touch a morsel this time either, your ladyship," the old butler said, then looked up at her and wagged his head. "She's miserable, she is."

"Or simply too precious and finicky for her own good," Beatrice declared, glowering at the old houseman, who glowered back. After a moment she relented. "All right, I'll go and have a word with the chit." She started off, but Onslow's voice halted her briefly.

"She ain't in her chambers, your ladyship. She's upstairs in the nursery."

"What the devil is she doing up there?"

"Looking, touching things, I imagine… like she done before. Fancies it up there. She likes children."

"Does she indeed?" Beatrice mulled over that bit of information, adding it to her growing knowledge of the girl. When she reached the first landing of the stairs, the first strains of music reached her. She stopped, immobilized by the faint but recognizable strains of a melancholy sonata. Gabrielle was playing the piano in the schoolroom. Beatrice stood for a moment listening.

Piano… the girl played beautifully… clearly, from the heart.

Gabrielle turned to find her mother-in-law standing behind her with her face flushed and her eyes bright with emotion.

"That instrument is hideously out of tune." Beatrice put a hand to her temple. "In future, please confine yourself to the lower floors and to more productive pursuits." She closed the cover over the piano keys with a clack and gave Gabrielle a look that made her slide from the stool.

When she was gone, Beatrice stood there a moment, staring at the piano and then at the door. The girl was lovely and well mannered and accomplished, probably a better catch as a daughter-in-law than she could have hoped for, considering her son's reputation in respectable circles. And Onslow had said she loved children. That boded well. But, it would take nothing short of a miracle to make a success of a marriage with Pierce. And it remained to be seen whether the girl was indeed that miracle.

Gabrielle was on the verge of tears as she headed down the stairs. Just as she reached the main staircase, she caught sight of Onslow hurrying through the entry hall and then peering out the side window. Straightening his coat and looking a bit flustered, he headed for the door. She slowed on the half landing, realizing someone was arriving.

When the door opened, in rushed a storm of swishing silk and swirling perfume… a veritable typhoon of extravagant femininity.

"Dear God—they said the place was out in the country—but no one said
which
country! Why, we must be halfway across France by—" Rosalind halted in the midst of tilting her blazing red "cavalier" hat to the proper angle, jerking the matching crimson military-style jacket down into place, and brushing at her tailored black serge skirt. Pinning the stunned butler with an imperious look, she demanded: "Where is she, my daughter? What has that beastly wretch done with her?"

"R-really, madam—"

"Very well, I shall find her myself!" Rosalind brushed past the butler to rake the entry hall with a critical glare, then headed for the open doors of the drawing room. "Gabrielle! Where are you?"

"Mother!" A tide of relief washed over Gabrielle.

She ran down the steps and in a heartbeat was engulfed in a smothering hug.

"My dearest—are you all right?" After a thorough squeezing, Rosalind thrust her back an arm's length to look her over. "I've been worried sick ever since Clementine brought me word two nights ago that Sandbourne was back in London
alone
. I kept imagining you in some dreadful old country pile, abused and heartbroken—" Taking Gabrielle's face between her hands, she searched the traces of puffiness around her daughter's eyes. "The wretch

—bedding you and then abandoning you the very next—" She halted as an even worse possibility occurred to her. "The bounder did at least
bed
you, didn't he?"

"Mother—please!" Gabrielle pulled back, her reddened face answering for her.

"Then, he has some nerve, stuffing you away in the country. But you needn't worry, my dear. I have come to see you through your wretched time of trial. I shall not abandon you this time."

"What on earth is all the commotion—" A voice came from the stairs above, drawing their attention upward. Lady Beatrice was standing on the stairs, gripping the railing, staring at Rosalind in extreme agitation. "What is
she
doing here?" she demanded, apparently of Gabrielle.

"This is my mother, Lady Beatrice. Mrs. Rosalind LeCoeur." Gabrielle stepped instinctively in front of her extravagantly attired mother.

"I know both who and what she is," Lady Beatrice declared, descending the stairs with her back rod-straight and her eyes crackling. "What I want to know is what she is doing
here
… in this house."

Gabrielle steadied herself, caught between two overwhelming and diametrically opposed forces. "My mother is here because… she…"