The Perfect Mistress (8 page)

Hearing a scrape of glass raking metal, she sat up and braced on her arms.

The blood drained from her head, clearing her vision but leaving her flushed and a bit unsteady. She scooted to the edge of the divan, tucked her skirts securely down about her ankles, and prayed she didn't lose her nerve.

She had come this far…

Shortly he returned to the divan with two tall, fluted goblets filled with a sparkling golden wine that contained tiny bubbles. She hesitated, then accepted the glass he offered her, giving it a suspicious sniff. "This is

'champagne,' isn't it?" She made a face and held the glass well away from her nose without tasting it. "My mother is mad about the stuff. It's terribly
romantic
."

"And, I take it,
you
are not." He took another sip and eyed her over the rim of his glass.

"I haven't a romantic bone in my entire body," she said with a perverse bit of pride. "I can't abide staying up until sunrise and then sleeping all day with squashed cucumbers drying on my face. And I loathe wearing bosom enhancers and being stuffed into dresses that don't have any shoulders…

and milk baths and risqué stories and oysters on the half shell and the smell of cigar smoke… He choked on a swallow of wine and stared at her. She realized how strident she sounded and halted to take a steadying breath. "I simply have no desire for a life of extravagant love and soaring passions."

"You haven't?" he said, lowering his empty glass, watching her keenly for telltale signs of pretense. "I thought all young girls wanted to fall madly and thrillingly in love… to capture a man's eye, his heart, and his fortune."

"As you pointed out, I am hardly a 'young girl' anymore." She gave him an adamant look, as if expecting a rebuke or rebuttal. When none came, she softened a bit, confessing matter-of-factly: "That… and… I don't have the juices for it."

Pierce wasn't sure what sort of tale he had expected to hear from her, but he certainly wasn't prepared for the blend of innocence and matter-of-factness that she displayed toward carnal matters. And there was something oddly unsettling about her sitting there in her ruined dress and bedraggled hair, forswearing girlish dreams of love and all the pleasures, intrigues, and agonies of human desire. Her story of being forced by her mother to take a wealthy lover was plausible enough; he had known others who found their way into the demimonde in that very fashion. But none of them had resisted their pampered fate for long—or protested it out of a professed lack of feminine desire. Juices. Good God. Did she honestly believe she had no passion or desire in her?

There was a new spark in her blue eyes when she looked up again, and her next words threw him into even greater confusion.

"What I need, your lordship, is a
lover
. Someone my mother would accept as a suitable protector. Someone with wealth and sophistication and a noble pedigree." Her face began to glow with expectation. "You wouldn't have to do much… just come to my mother's house, declare your undying fascination with me and behave as if utterly besotted." In the ensuing silence, a few additional duties occurred to her. "And be generous. And attentive, at least at first." She warmed to the images forming in her mind.

"Then my mother will think me safely settled with a generous protector and leave me to find a suitable hus—"

"Just a moment," he interrupted, scowling. "Your proposition is that I present myself as your lover… to your
mother?
"

She nodded earnestly. "In return, your lordship, I could pay you. And, of course, I would also reimburse you for whatever flowers, chocolates, and love tokens might prove necessary. When I turned nineteen, I began receiving a sizable income from an inheritance left me by my great aunt Theodora. Money is no object."

"Money?" He lay back on one elbow on the divan, staring at her. Could she be serious? She certainly seemed to be. He thought for a moment. She wanted to buy him. Never before, in all his sensual exploration and indulgence, had a female offered to
buy
him. The possibilities in that idea sent a tantalizing stir through his blood.

"You propose to purchase my services as a lover, for money?"

"Not as an
actual
lover. As a lover in name only," she clarified, adding,

"And only for a few weeks."

The notion captured his jaded fancy, insinuating itself into his highly developed sense of the absurd.
In name only
. The term applied to marriages, not affairs. And it was that very fact—the perfect irony of pretending to sin

—that appealed to the social scapegrace in him. What a delicious game that could be. And how very interesting of her to propose such a thing.

He slid his gaze over her curvaceous form and lush, intriguing mouth…

which just now was set with concentration. Even if she was serious, the prospect of
not-sinning
, in close consort with this toothsome bit of muslin, was a novel and utterly delicious one. And when the novelty and charm of illicit abstinence grew tedious, as it undoubtedly would, there would be an even more stimulating prospect at hand: the leisurely erotic discovery of the curious and unpredictable creature inside Gabrielle's appealing body. There certainly would be endless opportunities… the inevitable consequence of the closeness required by such a pretense.

Better yet… if he could manage to wring some political benefit from her bizarre proposition, then this night wouldn't be a total waste.

"I have more money than I will ever spend," he replied. "No, if I did agree to help you, it would have to be for something far more interesting. Or important."

"Such as?". She held her breath as a calculating look settled over him.

"I might be willing to pose as your lover if you would be willing to see the prime minister again and report to me on it."

She frowned. "See him again? You mean, let him 'rescue' me?"

He laughed wryly. "If he is so inclined. Meet with him again and, afterward, tell me everything the old vaulter says and does."

That was all? Just talk to Old William again? Eat biscuits and drink cocoa?

The memory of William's fervent exhortations to purity and decency rose in her mind. She would have to suffer a few platitudes and improving lectures.

And she would have to keep Rosalind's name out of—

What was she thinking? She had to agree to anything that would get her out of the earl's clutches.

"Agreed." She pushed to her feet, squaring her shoulders and stiffly offering him her hand to seal the agreement. He rose, fixed on the sight of her awkward gesture.

"Agreed. But I think a bargain as unique as this should be sealed with something more befitting than a clasp of hands."

Before she realized what he intended, he had pulled her into his arms and was lowering his mouth to hers. And for the second time that day she was being kissed against her will. Two seductions, two kidnappings, and now two
kisses
. Why wouldn't anyone believe that she hadn't the slightest interest in this amorous stuff?

She tried to push away, but his hold on her tightened to match her efforts, and she relented, deciding to endure it as long as it went no further.

Gradually her attention shifted from her own inner turmoil to the fact that his lips seemed strangely both hard and soft against hers, and were mercifully
dry
. She considered the way he varied the pressure of his mouth on hers and canted his head, covering and massaging her lips with what she supposed—by comparison with the count's crude motions—must be some finesse. And at least he had the decency to keep his tongue to himself.

After what seemed an interminable length of time, he broke it off and straightened above her with a roused look. An instant later, he purged his expression, but not before she caught the male pique in it. She gave him an apologetic smile.

"Don't take it personally, your lordship. I just don't have any desire for that sort of thing." Slipping from his arms, she stepped back and discreetly wiped the corners of her lips. "Now, if you would be so good as to take me home… or send for a cab."

"I shall send you home in my carriage," he growled, coming to his senses and giving the bellpull a fierce yank. By the time his driver brought the coach around, he was in control enough to insist that she wear his cloak over her damp clothes.

"Thank you, your lordship," she said, as he settled the heavy garment on her shoulders. "I will return it to you when you come to meet my mother.

Tomorrow at five?" Unable to think of a reason to decline, he nodded.

"Twenty-one Eaton Square." A rap at the door indicated that the carriage was ready. She paused with her hand on the door handle and gave him a glowing smile.

"You won't regret this, your lordship."

He stood staring at the door after she had gone, reliving that disturbing kiss, feeling again the maddening warmth and impassivity of her mouth beneath his.
No juices
. The corners of his eyes crinkled as his face warmed with a devilish smile.

"I might not regret it, Gabrielle. But you very likely will."

4

«
^
»

T
he carriage sped through the damp streets toward Eaton Square, carrying a very different Gabrielle Le Coeur back to the house she had fled a scant few hours before. This Gabrielle sat smiling on the plush seat, bundled in the earl's cloak, giddy with both release and triumph. She had not only survived her misadventures, she had actually managed to turn them to her advantage. That fact generated in her a startling new sense of power and purpose. She no longer had to suffer her mother's edicts in daughterly meekness; she had a plan now—or the start of one—and the means to carry it out. She had taken her first step toward a life of her own.

But as her thoughts shifted from the memory of the night's events to what awaited her, she sobered. Her only hope of escaping a scene with her mother was to announce straightaway that during her adventures she had met the man of her dreams and fallen madly and passionately in love. If Rosalind had a weakness at all, it was for the wildly and recklessly romantic.

And the coup de grace would come when Rosalind learned the identity of her daughter's grand inamorato… none other than the handsome and wealthy earl of Sandbourne. All would be instantly forgiven; she was sure of it.

Now all she had to do was behave as if she were wildly and gloriously in love. And how, she wondered, did one do that?

The house was ablaze with lights when the carriage rumbled to a halt and she peered out the window. While the earl's driver was dismounting, one of the massive front doors opened and Gunther appeared with a lantern in his hand, jolting into motion at the sight of a crest on the side of the carriage. He dashed down the steps as the driver was letting down the carriage steps.

"Miss LeCoeur!" Gunther shouldered aside the coachman to assist Gabrielle himself. "Your mother has been wondering where you were."

She had more than "wondered," Gabrielle knew the instant she stepped through the doors. The gaslights of the large center hall were on high and the drawing room and dining room doors on opposite sides of the hall had been thrown back. It was as if Rosalind had turned her house into a beacon of light, hoping her wayward daughter would see it and find her way home.

"Madam—she is home!" Gunther called, propelling Gabrielle quickly across the polished marble floor.

Rosalind rushed from the drawing room, accompanied by her friend Clementine Bolt and a uniformed constable carrying his hat in his hand.

They met Gabrielle just outside the doors. Rosalind seized her shoulders and thrust her back an arm's length to make a frantic assessment of her.

"Dearest heaven, Gabrielle—are you all right?" She stared at her daughter's bedraggled hair and the voluminous man's cloak she wore. "Are you hurt? Ill?"

"I'm fine, Mama, truly. I've never been better," Gabrielle said, smiling with what she hoped passed for romantic bliss. Rosalind's maternal relief was short-lived.

"Then you've a great deal to answer for, young lady—flying out the door without a word to anyone—unescorted and unprotected!" Rosalind felt the several pairs of eyes trained on them and abruptly halted, releasing Gabrielle and reclaiming her legendary poise. She turned to the constable, and her voice and manner gentled. "Thank you, Sergeant, for coming so quickly to my assistance. You may call your men in. It appears my daughter is home, safe and sound, and that is all that matters to me."

He murmured something about it being a pleasure to assist her and, with a dubious glance at Gabrielle, departed. When the door had closed behind him, Rosalind turned on Gabrielle once again with rising indignation.

"Do you have any idea how many people you have inconvenienced with your thoughtless, headstrong behavior? I've had my friends, the constables, even the servants, out combing the streets for you. You haven't the slightest notion of the dreadful things that can befall a young g-girl—" She stammered to a halt, for at that moment Gunther lifted the black cloak from Gabrielle's shoulders, revealing her ruined dress and stocking-clad toes.

"Good God. You look like a street urchin." True horror crept into her face.

"Your dress is ripped—and where are your shoes? What's happened to you?"