The Perfect Mistress (6 page)

"To whom? Give me the benighted fellow's name and address, and I'll send for him to collect you."

"Well, I…" She halted, tripped up by his challenge. "Well, I haven't decided who he is, yet. I need to be absolutely sure of the right match. But I assure you, I am to be married before…" In a telling pause, her eyes flitted over some internal scene. "Before the autumn season begins. My mother has her heart quite set upon seeing me settled by then."

She lifted her chin a notch, assuming a beleaguered dignity, and he laughed out loud. She obviously had no concept of just how absurd she sounded. Nor, he was beginning to think, was she fully aware of just how tempting she looked in her ruined dress with its sodden ruffles that draped in sulky invitation over her shoulders. There was something appealingly self-conscious in the pains she took to hide her body from him. But his burgeoning qualms evaporated when his gaze slid down her nearly transparent gown—following it closely along the curve of her hips, where it flared into layers of wet flounces that clung and revealed the promising curve and taper of her legs.

She was all white and pink and smooth. And wet. In his mind he could see the way her eyes would darken as he peeled away those clinging layers of ruffles and exposed the sweetly voluptuous body beneath. Phantom sensations of how her cool, damp skin would feel trickled through his fingertips, and he could just imagine the scent of her hair. Unconsciously, he breathed in and found his head filled with the smell of… horse manure.

"Good God." He snapped forward in his seat, startling her. "Where is that intolerable smell coming from?" He glanced down and spotted her dirty slippers on the brazier… drying… emitting that unmistakable aroma of the streets. "Ugh."

He seized her feet and, despite her protests, yanked off the offending slippers and flung them out the carriage window. While she was sputtering, he leaned his head out and shouted an order to his driver. She demanded to know where he was taking her. He settled back in his seat as the driver whipped the reins and the carriage lurched faster, and he smiled.

"To Le Ciel, sweetheart. Le Ciel."

Gabrielle stiffened with alarm. Twelve years of living in a French village made it impossible to mistake the name. He was taking her to "heaven"…

whether or not she wanted to go.

3

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^
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H
eaven
, as it happened, was located in a large brick building with its main entrance in an alley. At least that was Gabrielle's impression, from the little she was permitted to glimpse as she was being pulled from the coach, caught up in her captor's arms, and carried through a set of double doors.

Attendants in livery greeted them and led them up a carved stairway and through a maze of hallways furnished with an assortment of thick Persian carpets, Queen Anne hall tables, and hunt scenes in elaborate gilt frames.

The fact that the servants seemed to know her captor and do his bidding stoked her anxiety a bit higher. Clearly, she could expect no sympathy or assistance from them.

Desperately, she tried to memorize the turns they made, but by the time they passed through a set of doors and entered a spacious, candlelit chamber, she was in a quiet panic. Left,
right, left, up a half flight of stairs,
then left again
… or was that
right?

"This will do nicely. Send up some Perrier-Jouet… and someone to build up the fire. The lady needs a bit of warming," he said with a dismissing nod.

The head servant bowed and withdrew, closing the doors with a discreet clack that left no doubt that they were being given complete privacy.

He did not so much set her down as let her slide down his body to reach the floor. The contact was prolonged, direct, and so suggestive as to make the prime minister's supposed indiscretions pale by comparison.

As soon as her feet were solidly on the floor, she stumbled back, clutching her shoulders and looking with dread about the luxurious chamber.

"Where have you brought me? What is this place?"

Every visible surface seemed to be gilded, polished, or swathed in a heavy red velvet. From floor to ceiling, the place invited tactile appreciation

—fairly begged to be touched. Light was provided by ornate candelabra, one of which sat on a table laid with rich linen, china, and silver. In the center of one wall was a grandiose white marble fireplace with a polished brass grate, and nearby was a massive velvet-clad divan that resembled uncannily the rounded sofa in her mother's boudoir. She knew before he spoke what sort of place this was.

"A restaurant… of sorts," he said, watching her reaction. "A private establishment, where one can entertain a friend… out of the public eye."

"I am not hungry."

"I expect not, after all that
cocoa and biscuits
," he said with a sardonic smile.

"If you don't take me home now"—she made a step toward the door—"I shall go on my own."

"What? On foot? Without shoes?" He feigned gentlemanly horror. "I could never be so ungallant as to allow that." He sauntered toward her, sending her back an equal number of steps, where she bumped into the andirons on the hearth and just saved them from clattering onto the floor. She righted them and turned to face him defiantly.

He was taller than she had guessed, a full head taller than she, and his shoulders gave the impression of substantial strength. He was dressed in evening clothes: a black swallowtail coat and slim-fitting trousers with satin piping, an ivory satin vest, a tucked-front shirt, and ivory shot-silk cravat held by a tasteful diamond stickpin. His clothing echoed his coloring: dark hair that just now bore a faint golden sheen from the candlelight, a smooth, medium complexion that darkened noticeably around his angular jaw and square chin, and those dark eyes that reflected candlelight like shimmering pools.

"Who are you?" she demanded, as her mouth went dry. "And what do you want of me?" Ignoring her own better sense, she met his dark gaze and felt her knees go a bit weak. "I've told you the truth. What else do you want me to say? That the prime minister took vile advantage of me on the kitchen table… between cocoa and sweets… and while his butler and his wife looked on in shock? My saying it—even if you could persuade or coerce me

—would never make it true." Her voice lowered, pulsing with anxiety. "I cannot accuse a man of wrongs that never happened… no matter what crimes he may have committed against others."

Something in those tense and quiet words arrested Pierce. Her protestations of respectability were either remarkably well rehearsed or genuinely believed. A moment later he shook himself mentally. Of course they were rehearsed; she was a professional "maiden," an expert at pretending respectability. But her gambit might indicate an ambition to better things, which could prove the key to her cooperation. He changed his strategy accordingly.

"You asked who I am." He smiled smoothly. Experience had taught him that nothing exerted quite as lubricious an effect on an ambitious young thing as the sound of a title. "I suppose it is only fair that I introduce myself.

Pierce St. James, sixth earl of Sandbourne"—he nodded with exaggerated gallantry—"at your service." When he captured one of her hands and bent to plant a kiss on her palm, he caught a whiff of something familiar. He stilled and inhaled again, closing his eyes, concentrating on it.

Biscuits
. Good Lord—her hand smelled like biscuits—those fancy ones dipped in chocolate! He quickly grabbed her other hand and sniffed, finding it smelled the same. His eyes flew open. She was leaning stiffly back at arm's length, looking at him as if he'd lost his senses. This bizarre confirmation of her story knocked his assumptions about her night's activities into a cocked hat. He had to admit the possibility that the old man
had
fed her cocoa and biscuits. And if so, perhaps he
had
refrained from sexual indulgence and
had
plied her with his hypocritical "reform" nonsense instead.

The possibility infuriated him. He had just spent an entire evening in heated pursuit of a major political stroke, only to have his efforts reduced to naught by a whiff of chocolate-dipped biscuits.

"What on earth are you doing?" she demanded, trying to free her hands.

"Making your acquaintance, I believe," he said curtly.
Making a bloody fool
of myself
, he said to himself, glaring down at the cause of his frustration. But his irritation gradually faded as found himself looking into her very blue eyes, noticing streaks of blond emerging in her hair as it began to dry, and watching the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. Suddenly one desire supplanted another. "If you cannot give me your betrothed's name, then give me yours," he continued in a milder, almost conciliatory tone. When she hesitated, he offered her choices: "Polly? Maude? Lizzie, perhaps?"

"Gabrielle."

"Truly?" He smiled, and she couldn't help thinking it was the same sort of smile a man gave a prime beefsteak just before he took a knife and fork to it.

"That's a very romantic name. Tell me,
Gabrielle
, what was a decent and virtuous young woman like yourself doing out in the Haymarket in the middle of a raging downpour?" The sardonic way he emphasized the words

"decent" and "virtuous" rankled her.

"Getting lost… getting wet… and getting into trouble," she said, bracing.

With every exchange he was edging a worrisome bit closer. "I suppose I should thank you for providing me with the names of my two kidnappers, sir. At least I shall know who to bring charges against, later."

That took him aback for a moment, then he laughed heartily, purging the tension that had risen between them. As he sobered, an ironic humor lingered in his eyes.

There was a discreet knock at the door, and two liveried servants entered, one with a coal bucket and the other with a bucket of champagne and glasses. Gabrielle's heart rose as she eyed the half-open door. But she had no conveyance… no money… no shoes… When the earl stepped into her line of sight, blocking the way, her heart sank again. The servants went quickly and efficiently about their business, then withdrew, leaving behind cold champagne and a hot fire. When the door closed, she gave in to her need for warmth and hurried to the hearth.

Heat flowed up her arms in waves, and gooseflesh appeared over her shoulders. It was a moment before she felt a nudge at the nape of her neck and realized that
he
was partly responsible for that unsettling reaction in her skin. Whirling to one side, she checked the buttons at the back of her dress and found the top two unfastened.

"I thought you might like to step out of those wet clothes and let them dry," he said with a voice that was low and silky with concern. "I wouldn't want you to take your death of the grippe, in my company."

He might be a good bit more handsome than the count, she thought darkly, but he wasn't much more subtle. This was the second time today a man had tried to divest her of her clothing in an attempt to drag her into some amorous entanglement or other. Two kidnappings, two seductions.

What other torments would she have to suffer in pairs before the day was out?

"I shall keep my clothes on, thank you," she insisted, trying to contain her anxiety. "And if I die of pneumonia, my death will be on your conscience."

She met his gaze with narrowed eyes. "Assuming you have one."

"Oh, I have one," he said, surprisingly unaffronted. "But, I haven't heard from it in years, and I do not intend to let you interfere with that perfectly splendid state of affairs. Here…"

He brought a chair from the table to the hearth, pushed her down on it, and sank onto one knee beside her. When he pulled her skirts up to expose her shins and wet undergarments to the heat of the fire, she gasped, seized them, and they found themselves in a bizarre tug-of-war over her petticoats.

He finally relinquished his hold on her skirts and snagged her wrists instead.

"See here, Gabrielle—or whatever your real name is—don't be tiresome.

It's not as if no man has ever seen your legs before."

"Gabrielle
is
my real name," she declared with her face crimson. "And no man
has
ever seen my limbs before." Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures, the ultimate distraction, the
truth
. She summoned every bit of nerve she possessed.

"If you must know what I was doing out in the Haymarket," she blurted out, "I had a fierce argument with my mother and ran out of the house to walk off my anger. I kept walking and walking… before I knew it, I was lost, caught in the rain, mistaken for a 'street woman,' forced into a carriage and then a kitchen, and finally escaped… only to be snatched off the streets a second time and accused of all manner of depraved indulgence." She squirmed slightly on her seat, feeling the warmth he radiated almost as strongly as she felt the fire. "It may sound ridiculous, even foolish, but that is exactly what happened. And now all I want is to go home."

He caught her gaze in his, probing her startlingly blue eyes for the truth.

There was something intriguing about the odd combination of tenuousness and self-possession in her. One minute she seemed a frightened young woman, the next a tart-tongued young chit with pretensions to gentility and a strong rebellious streak. Just as striking was the blend of freshness and sensuality she exuded. Every step, every sway of her hips, every twist of her shoulders and sweep of her lashes, carried the promise of carnal pleasures. And yet, if he were honest, those enticements seemed largely unintentional. Like the scent of biscuits on her hands… simple and real…