The Perfect Mistress (23 page)

"I hardly think a liaison with a man of means would make you a 'trinket,'

Gabrielle." He felt a stab of guilt. Mistresses and professional beauties were often referred to in such terms in the clubs. But until now he had never considered it particularly arrogant or belittling—until now, when he thought of Gabrielle being spoken of in that way.

"What would I be, then? Selling my body for a life of comfort, pretending always to want whatever my current lover wants, pretending to need only what he is willing to give?" She had scarcely allowed herself to think such things, much less speak them aloud. But suddenly she felt a desperate need to speak them, and for some reason she wanted him to hear them, to understand why she could never accept her mother's plans for her.

"I don't want to live the way my mother has… constantly paring myself into a man's idea of desirable or worthwhile. My mother had a choice." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I only want the same chance to choose for myself. What is so wrong with that?"

Nothing, he thought ruefully, watching the passion flickering in her glowing face and feeling a curious tension building in his body. Nothing, except that it was too simple. And life had taught him, long ago, that nothing was ever quite as simple as having a free and clear choice.

"And what would you do with that choice, Gabrielle?" he said thickly, wishing he could give her that freedom, wanting to—he halted that thought, wrestling with the seduction of her heartfelt revelations. "—except choose another man, another set of expectations?"

"I would not choose a
man
," she declared. "I would choose a
marriage
. I would choose a life in which my body and my feelings and my accomplishments would be my own, not the conjugal property of a man."

He studied her determination. "To the best of my knowledge, marriage also involves a man, sweetheart. And I cannot help but wonder where you think you'll find one who won't exert a few 'property rights' from time to time."

She felt her eyes stinging and looked down to hide the tears collecting in them. "I'll find one. One who can appreciate that a woman must be more than a head of hair and an eighteen-inch waist." He lifted her chin and held it, searching the prisms of moisture in her eyes. "Is being a whole, real person too much to ask?"

"No." That single, powerful syllable reverberated all through him.

Perhaps it was his experience of those same longings for choice and freedom that made him vulnerable to them in her. Or perhaps it was the sweet and satisfying rebellion of her spirit that drew him to her. Or perhaps it was the uniqueness of her mind… or the genuineness of her heart… or the pull of her oddly jaded innocence… "It is not too much to ask."

In that quiet moment, sitting in the shaft of sunlight streaming through the window, he felt an irresistible sense of connection to her. They had come from such different worlds, such opposite circumstances to arrive at this common place.

She felt it too: a powerful and tantalizing sense of oneness, an understanding that somehow went deeper than words. It was a closeness that went beyond their pretense and even their mutual attraction. He truly had listened to her. And in that moment, staring into his worldly brown eyes, the protective barriers inside her lowered yet another notch.

He leaned closer. She migrated toward him.

A knock came on the door, startling them. He stood up abruptly, and she turned aside and began brushing her skirts and smoothing her hair.

"Ten minutes of five." He reached for his watch and made note of the time. "I fear we've displeased the goddess of romance, yet again. She's sent for us early."

Gunther was outside with the now customary summons to tea. Gabrielle closed the door and turned to find Pierce standing just behind her, staring at her with a warmth that betrayed roused feelings. She cleared her throat.

"Do I look all right?" She ran a hand down her hair. "No smudges…

nothing disarranged?"

"You're perfect," he declared softly, meaning every syllable of it. She glowed, golden, full of warmth and vitality. He simply had to touch her.

For one shimmering moment, she felt the stroke of his hand on her cheek sweeping across her very heart. The peculiar ache in her chest sank into her stomach and she recognized it for the hunger it was… a physical need for contact, for pleasure. For
him
.

The realization nearly undid her. She had fallen completely under his spell. Even knowing he was a worldly and complicated man, an arrogant and devious and possibly even dangerous man, she had opened herself to him the way she had opened to no one else in her life. Just being with him, she felt more vital and alive and powerful, more womanly and passionate and vulnerable. It was wonderful. And it was terrifying. Her plan to find a husband and marry—to put herself beyond the destructive reach of passion

—was jeopardized more with each moment she spent alone with him.

"Please, your lordship," she said, jolting back a step. "I think we've had more than enough touching for one day."

"You do keep forgetting my name.
Pierce
," he insisted, in a voice that was oddly husky.

"Pierce," she said, nodding. Then she stepped around him and headed for the door with her cheeks ablaze.

Rosalind received them alone in the drawing room. Throughout tea she could scarcely take her eyes from Gabrielle, as if searching her daughter for the answer to the question that weighted her brow and sometimes made her halt with distraction before reaching the end of a sentence. Pierce and Gabrielle exchanged glances, wondering if she was contemplating some maternal retribution for their earlier indiscretion. But when the clock struck half past five, Rosalind rose with a serene expression and an announcement that put an end to both their anxiety and their confinement.

"I must say, your lordship, your manner of courtship is certainly unconventional." She drew herself up and looked him over with her discerning eye. "But it is also clear, after today, that it is quite effective. You have shown yourself to be a generous and considerate lover. I believe you and Gabrielle are ready for the next step in your relationship."

Gabrielle swayed on her seat, and Pierce looked a bit startled by the announcement. They looked to each other, then to Rosalind, uncertain what she meant.

She sighed. "You are free to continue your relationship wherever, whenever you will. You may go out… to the opera or the park, riding or on picnics."

The joy that filled Gabrielle's face was heartfelt as she put her arm through Pierce's and ushered him to the door. "Free—at last!" She gave his arm a squeeze before releasing it. "Your rosebush worked. You truly
are
a genius."

The sight of her glowing pleasure struck him in a very vulnerable place.

He didn't feel very much like a genius just now. He felt annoyed.

"Well, of course." He forced a smile. "And now that we're allowed in public together, what do you want to do tomorrow?" The gleam in her eyes made him realize she was going to say something about a husband, and he quickly preempted it. "Besides
that
."

She gave it a moment's thought. "A carriage ride. Shall we say at three?"

Pierce ate dinner at his club, took a brandy in the bar, and declined to round out a table in the card room. He felt surly and deprived and out of sorts, and he had no one to blame but himself.

He had participated in Gabrielle's rebellion, expecting to give her a taste of the tantalizing pleasures locked inside her and then claim her delectable person and passions for himself. But today he had not only roused her passions, he had also glimpsed the depths of her heart as well. And the resulting clash between his worldly intentions toward her and his growing feelings toward her had awakened his long-dormant conscience.

Knowing how she loathed her mother's way of life, how could he seduce her into it? But if he didn't seduce her, what was he to do with his growing desire for her? And to complicate matters, just as he was melting her reserves and reaching for her passions, her blasted mother decided to release them from their confinement, and now she was free to pursue her marriage plans—with the help he had promised her!

To top it all, he was about to become one of those beings that men loathed worse than the Devil himself: a matchmaker.

Pierce arrived on time the next day, wearing his best charcoal gray coat and matching pinstriped trousers and a charcoal felt top hat. His arms were full of flowers, for Gabrielle and her mother. And when he saw Gabrielle in her powder blue shot silk dress with its long bodice, elegant bustle, and snugly fitted sleeves, looking ripe and womanly while still suitably demure, the pleasure in his smile was genuine. Under Rosalind's doting gaze, he greeted Gabrielle and ushered her out the door with a haste that satisfied Rosalind that he was eager to have her daughter all to himself.

For her part, Gabrielle was understandably both nervous and excited.

The world seemed a new place as she descended the steps of Maison LeCoeur on Pierce's arm and, with his help, stepped up into the fine black landau that awaited them. The sun seemed brighter, the breeze warmer, and the greenery in the square across the street seemed more lush and vibrant. Both vehicles and foot traffic moved briskly in the streets, and the moist air had a buzz of expectation in it. She was making a new start, taking her first steps toward securing a husband and a respectable life.

As the carriage lurched into motion, she settled back against the seat, adjusting her short-brimmed hat with its pert blue and gray feathers to be sure its veil was securely in place, checking her handbag, and making certain her bustle wasn't being disarranged.

Pierce watched her primping with a scowl, realizing that he had never, not once in all the time he had known her, seen her behave in such a manner.
Primping
.

Today marked the start of a new phase of their relationship, an intensely personal association for which there was no precedent in either polite or impolite society. They weren't quite respectable, going about without a chaperon, but neither were they quite a scandal, riding in a sedate landau with the top down, seated respectably across from each other. They weren't family or business associates or lovers. They weren't even officially acquaintances. When she looked up at him through that demure veiling that somehow both cloaked and enhanced her eyes, his attempt at defining their relationship got snarled in a tangle of feelings that included both pleasure and irritation.

"All right. You've said you have a plan," he said, giving his tie an unnecessary straightening. "I think it's time you tell me what it is."

Infused with new energy, she turned to him. "First, we must go to the offices of the
Pall Mall Gazette
." When he just stared at her, she fished about in her handbag for a slip of paper bearing the address. "It's on Fleet Street…

number—"

"I know where it is," he said. "What I want to know is why we're going there."

"I've rented a box there, and I need to collect my mail," she declared, drawing a folded piece of newspaper from her purse and handing it to him.

Circled in black ink was an advertisement from the
Pall Mall Gazette's

"Personal" section, reading:

Refined young woman of means and excellent education seeks a younger gentleman of standing and high moral character. Object: matrimony. Must love children. Reply by letter to Box 47.

"Yours?" he choked out, giving her an incredulous look. 'You
advertised
for a husband?"

"I most certainly did." She straightened defensively. "I don't have family or the usual social contacts to provide candidates. Correspondence is a perfectly logical and acceptable way of making an acquaintance, in the absence of a proper introduction. And this way I can evaluate the applicants without risk to my privacy or safety." Struck by the indignation in his face, she braced for a protest or sarcastic comment.

But he couldn't fault her common sense without sounding petty and mean-spirited. A woman, alone, in search of a husband, had to make reasonable provisions for safety and privacy. The fact that she had taken such sensible steps irritated him, and he didn't want to think about why.

After an uncomfortable moment, he sat forward and called the
Gazette's
address to his driver. When the driver nodded and the carriage lurched faster, he sat back with a cool expression and a terse: "Well, this should prove interesting."

The
Pall Mall Gazette
made provisions for responses to advertisements for a fee. When Gabrielle applied at the appropriate desk of the bustling newspaper office for the responses to her advertisement, the clerk checked his files and made out a bill. After paying the box rent and waiting for what seemed an eternity, she was handed a wire basket with the stamped metal tag bearing the number 47. It was filled with letters. Something cold and cramped in her relaxed at the sight of so many responses. Under his gaze, she stacked and arranged the envelopes in one arm, then slipped her other through his and announced she was ready to go.

"How many are there?" he asked when they were again seated in the carriage. Immediately he regretted it. She counted the letters in her lap with unabashed pleasure and looked up.