The Perfect Mistress (26 page)

Rosalind had gone into an immediate flurry—ordering her boudoir freshened and made ready, selecting foods and flowers, and dragging out her most provocative garments for evaluation. She was so preoccupied that she waved Gabrielle off with a distracted, "Of course—of course—have a nice time, dear."

When Pierce arrived to collect her, Gabrielle had Gunther carry the hamper out to the carriage and settle it in the boot. Pierce stood looking at her a moment, savoring the sight of her in her teal silk dress with its soft, ruched bodice and her picture hat rimmed with yellow flowers and draped with yellow and teal ribbons. Then, with a deep breath, he reached for her hand and helped her up into the forward-facing seat.

"Your mill owner from Reading doesn't stand a chance," he said smoothly as he settled on the seat beside her.

"You think not?" She was genuinely surprised by what seemed a compliment.

"I'm sure not." He glanced away and adjusted his tie. "You'll undoubtedly turn both of his heads."

She just managed to keep from smiling.

The tension between them was still present beneath the surface, but they both were determined to be civil. They spoke of the weather, the shocking news in the papers of the discovery of a cache of explosives and plans by the Irish-American dynamitards to destroy a number of public buildings in London, and of the controversial principle of Home Rule for Ireland. Time and miles flew by in the bright sun. By midafternoon, they were in Reading, inquiring as to the whereabouts of Wright's Mill.

They were surprised to learn it wasn't a knitting mill at all, as she had been led to believe by the fellow's letter. It was a grist mill, set on the banks of a modest stream. And next to it was a rather rough-looking house with a warped roof that had been propped up with hastily nailed planks. They stepped down out of the carriage, into the middle of the afternoon's trade—

farmers, householders, and bakers' apprentices with handcarts, awaiting the results of the day's milling.

As they drew near, they could hear laughter coming from just inside the main doors. Shortly, several men spilled out into the yard, their faces ruddy and glowing, their fists wrapped around tankards of ale. When one of the bakers' boys called to a short, thickset man wearing a canvas apron and asked if his employer's flour was ready, the man turned on him with a booming voice.

"O' course it's ready, boy! A man is as good as 'is word. An' I give mine.

Bring yer cart round to the side door. Will be easier loadin' from there."

What followed was a flurry of orders and activity that set the yard and the mill humming. With a judicious blend of cajoling, bullying, and good-natured curses, the stocky miller accomplished the delivery of feed grain, bakery flour, and the filling of various householders' orders in what must have been record time.

Somewhere, in the midst of that bustle, Gabrielle realized she was looking at her potential husband, Mr. William Wright. And it wasn't long before he looked up, caught sight of her, and stopped dead.

"What can I do for ye, sir—you an' yer pretty laidy?" he asked striding across the yard and brushing flour from his shock of wheat blond hair and his broad shoulders as he came.

"Perhaps you would let us see the inside of your mill," Pierce said, pleasantly. "It's been quite a while since I've seen the inside of such a works… and I doubt my cousin has ever seen a grist operation, close at hand."

"Sure enough. Only, I can't be responsible for yer fancy clothes, ma'am."

He scowled at Gabrielle's dress, but then raised his gaze to her rosy face and grinned broadly. He was missing a couple of teeth. "Ye'll have to be careful."

He showed them around his mill, pointing out with pride the longevity of its use—more than two hundred years of milling on that very site. He eyed Gabrielle, embarrassed her with his gruff flattery, and made her flinch when he cleared his throat and spat. To his credit, each time, he begged her pardon and explained it was the constant dust.

By the time they climbed back aboard their carriage, she was greatly relieved to get away and feeling a huge burden of guilt for her unworthy thoughts.

"He's a good man. A fair and honest man," she said aloud, but mostly to herself. "He works hard, and he probably deserves a good wife and a house full of children…"

Pierce watched her grappling with the conflict between her liberal principles and her own bred-in-the-bone sense of class distinctions. He was a good man… But the unspoken remainder of that sentence, they both knew, was:
of the working class
.

"And he's about as suited to be your husband as a prize boar," he said, taking responsibility for saying what for her was unspeakable. "He spits and scratches. He likes his ale and his bluff stories and giving his workers an occasional boot in the backside. Just imagine him across a chessboard or ordering wine in a restaurant or even wearing a shirt with a collar." He smiled wryly. "Though, now that I think on it, you might just find common ground if you read him a few of your limericks or played him a few choruses of 'Whoops, Alice!'…"

She folded her arms irritably and turned her shoulder to him, staring out at the fields they were passing. "You really are intolerable, sometimes."

"Sometimes." He watched her struggle and felt a powerful impulse to make it easier on her. "And sometimes I am right. You couldn't abide marriage to him any more than J could. You haven't wronged him. And it's not a great failing in you. It's just a fact. But of course, being an eminently logical sort—you already know that."

She cast him a look from the corner of her eye, then turned back to the countryside. She hated that he was right. And she hated even more that he was being so decent about it. It would make things so much easier if he would crow and swagger and be insufferable.

"So, who is next on your list, Cousin Gabrielle?" he said brightly.

"A baron." She refused to look at him. "Baron Colchester, in Kingston-upon-Thames."

After a stop in a shady grove, and a picnic that grew increasingly more tense, they resumed their course back to London, by way of Kingston-upon-Thames.

They asked after the baron in a number of reputable hostelries and mercantile establishments in the town. The fact that he was universally unknown did not bode well for Gabrielle's hopes. When they finally located someone

who

knew

of

him,

they

were

nearly

through

Kingston-upon-Thames and back on the road to London. Following an inscrutable set of directions, they turned down one country lane after another, searching for what was reputedly "old Colchester's" house.

The road grew too rough and rutted for the big landau. When Pierce and Gabrielle got out to walk what promised to be the last bit of the way, she could scarcely bear to have him touch her or look at her.

When the tumbledown farmhouse with derelict plow and hay wagon in the overgrown yard came into view over a rise, her heart sank all the way to her stomach. Pierce called out to whoever might be at home. As they approached the house, a tall, gaunt man who looked to be in his late fifties stumbled from the farmhouse door, shielding his eyes from the bright sun.

"That you, boy? This is the second time this week you've been late with my bot—" He stopped at the sight of them, weaved, and squinted. "Who are you?" His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion sallow, and he looked like he hadn't had a either a haircut or a decent meal in months. The slight breeze carried scents of stale drink, sweat, and unwashed linen to them.

Gabrielle looked to Pierce with alarm. "We were out for a ride and our carriage got stuck," he said. "I was wondering if we might borrow your horses to free it."

"Got no horses," the fellow said with something of a slur. "Sold the bolters off ages ago." He turned to stagger back to the house, and Pierce tried again.

"Then perhaps you could offer us a bit of shade and something to drink.

We've had a dusty walk up the road."

He waved his arm irritably and lumbered coward the house. "There's the well."

When the front door slammed behind the man, Pierce went to knock on it. "I do hate to trouble you further," he said tautly. "But could you tell me where we are?"

"You're on my land… and I'll thank you to f-fix your rig and get off."

"Whose land? Who are you?" Pierce demanded.

"Baron Colchester—now get off!"

When the door slammed a second time, Pierce strode back to Gabrielle, turned her by the arm, and escorted her forcefully down the lane.

She was too stunned to protest, too humiliated by the rude treatment they had just received from her most "noble" suitor. He was a vile, drunken old wreck, apparently looking for a woman to keep him in the style from which he had fallen. And with his rough rebuke, her last and best hope for a quick marriage had crashed.

By the time she reached the carriage, her face was stiff, her shoulders tight, her whole body was rigid with self-control. If he said one smart word to her, one casual I-told-you-so, to add to the burden she was carrying, she would smack him—she truly would.

Jack had managed to turn the landau, and when Pierce handed her up and climbed aboard himself, she sat stiffly at the far side of the carriage, avoiding his gaze. They were turning onto the main path when the fatal comment came.

"Well, you might never ride another horse or drink another drop of lemonade… but at least you'd be a baroness."

The stinging in her eyes became a surge of hot tears, and once they started flowing, she couldn't make them stop. She fumbled blindly about in her handbag for a handkerchief and discovered that it was the one thing she hadn't thought to bring. A folded square of linen appeared around the shoulder she had turned to him. Accepting it, she dabbed at her eyes and held herself rigidly. What was the matter with her, breaking down like this?

She tried to tell herself one more disappointment didn't matter. She could go back and search again the letters she had received. She could place another ad. She would find a decent husband… somewhere… sometime…

eventually…

Pierce watched her struggling with her tears and her pride, and his hands curled into fists. Just then he would have given almost anything for five minutes alone with rummy old Colchester. As she strained to control her emotions, he slowly lost the battle with his… growing more furious, aching to plant his fist in someone, ready to take on the whole damned world for her with just bare knuckles.

But he couldn't. What was making her cry was not something a man could use his fists against. It was an idea, a possibility, a desire in her. And she was trying against overwhelming odds to make that possibility a reality.

She deserved better than this—better than unscrupulous sweatshop owners, priggish vicars, swaggering millers, and broken-down peers. She deserved a home, a loyal and sensible husband, a secure future. She deserved her choice.

"Gabrielle," he said quietly, reaching out to touch her arm. She flinched as if his hand burned her.

Tumult erupted in him. Seizing her by the arm, he dragged her back against him and wrapped her in his arms. She struggled briefly, pushing and saying "no." But he refused to release her and after a moment she stilled. And after another moment she buried her face in the lapel of his coat and began to cry in earnest.

He listened to her sobs and felt every breath and shudder of her frame.

She was so warm and soft, and so very miserable. The scent of her hair filled his head, and the sense of her despair filled his heart. For a long time he just held her. Gradually her tears ceased and her body began to relax against him, drawing warmth and comfort from his presence. After a while, he shifted back and raised her face to his on one finger.

Her eyes were red, her cheeks were flushed, and her lips were… the most irresistible thing he had seen in a very long time. His gaze fastened on them, and he became aware of the heightened sensitivity of his own, of the rush of his blood and the thickening in his loins, of the desire he had managed to set aside for these last three days. She was so lovely… He knew just how she would taste…

He lowered his head, and she made no attempt to avoid his mouth.

Her eyes closed, her lips parted. Her hand came up to weave her fingers into his hair. There was nothing else in the world that could fill the aching hollow inside her.

Suddenly they were spiraling deeper into a passionate kiss, hungrily tasting each other, touching, stroking. She arched against him, and he pressed her back into the soft carriage seat, his hands covering her back, her shoulders, her waist and hip. She wasn't wearing as much boning… felt softer, more accessible as he searched the shape of her through her clothes.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling a storm rising inside her, willfully ignoring the warnings of her battered reason and sensibility.

Passions long denied now demanded release and expression. And the warmth and vitality of his presence, of his desire poured through her in a rich, life-giving flood, assuaging the hurt and loss.

Pierce suddenly lifted his head, alert to some change in their surroundings, and she struggled back to reality through the steam in her senses. He said something, but not to her, then relaxed his hold on her. She looked up to find him moving away with regret in his eyes.