The Perfect Mistress (41 page)

She was treacherously soft; he could feel his body growing hot and responsive where her curves were pressed against him. As he glanced anxiously back along the stairs, watching for Parnell, her arms tightened slightly around his neck, wreathing his head in her warmth and her bedeviling scent.

"This isn't fair, you know," she said quietly, her breath teasing the side of his face. "I've done nothing wrong. And banishing me to the country won't settle anything between us."

"There is nothing to settle," he declared grimly. Where the hell was Parnell?

"I beg to differ," she said. He could feel her staring at him but refused to meet her gaze. "But then, we'll have several hours to discuss it, in the carriage, on the way to Thorndike."

The silky insinuation in her voice sent a shaft of heat straight to his loins.

His tensed muscles began to quiver with a new sort of strain as he struggled to keep from responding to her erotic suggestion.

At last, Parnell returned from summoning the carriage, spotted them, and rushed to open the doors. Relieved, Pierce carried her out onto the darkened steps to wait for the carriage. But a moment later, she began melting in his arms, pressing her breast against him and settling closer to him. Through her fitted bodice, he could feel the hard boning that contained her waist, and through the layers of her silk and muslin skirts he could feel the firmness of her thighs.

Suddenly he was remembering the sight of her bare breasts… creamy mounds, tight, velvety nipples… jutting, inviting, beckoning. A whisper of phantom sensation along his flanks recalled the feel of her bare thighs—

strong, sleek, and silky—pressed intimately against him, parting for him, cradling his own. His skin grew hot and his breathing became labored.

Trickles of excitation were wending slowly down the inner walls of his body, collecting and pooling in this loins.

Hours alone with her… in a darkened carriage… on moonlit roads. The deliberate yielding of her body against him promised a lush response… her softness at his fingertips… her mouth yielding beneath his, tasting, teasing, tempting him… her moist heat absorbing his fire and softly extinguishing it, then clinging to his skin, clinging to his senses…

In the dim light he looked down into her luminous jewel eyes, and cold panic seized him as he felt his desires rising, slipping slowly out of his control.

"I see your game," he declared, abruptly carrying her back inside and depositing her on the top of a trunk with a plop. "And it's not going to work.

Go ahead… take over the bloody house. Hang chintz everywhere—get half a dozen cats—plaster crocheted antimacassars all over the place. Paint the damned shutters pink, for all I care!" Turning on his heel, he made straight for the front doors.

He spoke to Parnell, but loudly enough for her to hear: "I shall be at the Clarendon from now on. Have Peters bring my clothes and kit first thing tomorrow." Then the front
doors rattled from the force of his exit.

She sat on the trunk, staring after him, feeling aroused and deprived and roundly frustrated… until the thought occurred that he was undoubtedly suffering similar complaints. She had touched him, she was sure of it. Desire had been palpable in his every breath, every fiber, every pulse of his being.

When he looked deep into her eyes, she had felt him responding with an intimate caress of recognition. And in the darkness she had seen the answering glimmer of need in him.

She had been so close… in his arms… in his desires…

Footsteps caused her to look up, and she found Lady Beatrice and Rosalind hurrying toward her. "What happened?" Beatrice demanded breathlessly.

"He told me to hang chintz everywhere and to paint the shutters pink,"

she said with a small, triumphant smile.

"Chintz? Shutters?" Rosalind scowled. "With you in his arms, all he could think of was painting the house? He is more his mother's son than I thought."

Beatrice pointedly ignored Rosalind's nettling to focus on the nuances of Pierce's caustic remarks in retreat. "He's ceded you the house. Excellent.

Then the next step must be to establish your place as his wife in the eyes of society. We have to get you out and about."

"That's absurd," Rosalind declared with a dismissive wave. "The next step must be to establish her hold on his passions. With them engaged, the rest will follow."

"She first needs to secure her place in his
world
." Beatrice bristled.

"She first needs to secure her place in his
bed
." Rosalind glowered.

In a blink they were nose to nose, the truce they had tacitly observed since that afternoon at Thorndike unraveling before Gabrielle's eyes.

"Mother! Lady Beatrice!" She insinuated herself between them, calling them back to the challenge at hand. "I see no reason why we cannot work on
both
."

Rosalind straightened, a determined glint in her eye.

Beatrice raised her chin to a haughty angle

"I'll have her in his bed within a week," Rosalind declared, tossing down a gauntlet.

"I'll have her at his side in public before week's end," Beatrice countered.

After a long, charged moment, the mothers withdrew, each to her chambers—one plotting to make her a wife, the other scheming to make her a lover.

Thus was born a potent, two-pronged attack on Pierce's aversion to marital bliss. Rosalind and Beatrice were both determined to see the recalcitrant bridegroom brought to heel within the week, and both spent the rest of the evening charting a strategy to achieve that end. The next morning, Beatrice seized the initiative by whisking Gabrielle away, first thing, to an appointment at a dressmaker's salon in the heart of Regent Street's exclusive shops. Gabrielle had protested that she needed no new clothes, but Beatrice rolled her eyes in forbearance.

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear… of course you do. Your wardrobe is woefully inadequate for a married woman in society. But, more than clothes, you need social contacts. And there is no better way to gain introductions and entrance to the first circles, than at the proper modiste."

They spent three hours in an elegant salon that was arranged more like a drawing room than a dressmaker's shop. Measurements were taken, then refreshments were served as they perused model dresses and sketches and fabrics… in the company of two prominent hostesses who were also at the task of acquiring new dresses. Lady Cecilly Morton and Olivia Tyler-Benninghoff were intensely curious about Gabrielle. The earl's sudden marriage announcement and speculation about the bride's origins had been a topic at every society event for the past ten days. They were surprised to see the formidable Lady Beatrice in public with her questionable daughter-in-law and were nothing short of amazed that she introduced Gabrielle with a blend of candor and delicacy that left no doubt that she was pleased by the match her worrisome scapegrace of a son had made.

As the appointment and the acquaintance progressed, Lady Morton mentioned that she had received Pierce's acceptance of an invitation to her annual charity gala and commented that she was looking forward to introducing Gabrielle to her guests.

"As am I," Beatrice declared, sending Gabrielle a speaking smile. "Your charity gala is always one of the highlights of the season. However, I must confess, I was bemoaning the timing of it to dear Gabrielle. We have been so occupied with settling in, we have scarcely had a moment to plan what to wear…"

Gabrielle watched her mother-in-law responding as if the gala had been at the very top of their social calendar all along and marveled at the woman's consummate aplomb.

"Are we going to her party?" she asked as they settled into the carriage.

"We certainly are. The timing is a stroke of pure fortune. There is no better place for you to make your debut in society at Pierce's side."

Gabrielle frowned. "But how can you be certain Pierce will be there?"

"Trust me, my girl, he'll be there. If there is anything Pierce cares about in this world, it's his blessed politics. And Cecilly's annual charity 'do' is a must for aspiring politicians"—Beatrice gave her a gloriously devious smile— "

and their wives
."

When they arrived home, they found the drawing room filled with brilliant silks, feather boas, and the scent of expensive Parisian perfume. Gabrielle halted in the doorway, surprised by the sight of three familiar faces.

"Who are these people?" Lady Beatrice demanded, sailing into their midst, primed to defend her household. The women were dressed to the nines, but one look at their artificially enhanced beauty and knowledgeable eyes was all that was required to know what sort of women they were.

"These, are my 'amorous experts.' " Rosalind gestured proudly to her friends. "They have been retired for some time now. But between them, they have a combined total of sixty-two years of amorous experience."

Beatrice steadied herself on the back of a nearby chair. The tension in the room was palpable as Rosalind made introductions… and one by one, Genevieve, Ariadne, and Clementine tactfully announced that they had never, ever made the acquaintance of the old Lord Sandbourne. Though her unspoken concern that she might be greeting one of her late husband's dalliances in her own drawing room was quickly put to rest, Beatrice was still clearly appalled by their presence. It was a relief to all when she excused herself and sailed out the door, leaving Gabrielle in their hands.

"Gabby!"

"Gabrielle!" and "
Chérie!
" The trio of retired courtesans crowded around Gabrielle as soon as Beatrice was out of sight and gave her enthusiastic hugs.

"Your
maman
has told us of your… how do you say… predicament,"

Genevieve declared with a "
tsk"
of dismay.

"A bloody outrage, it is," Clementine put in, giving Gabrielle's cheek a pat.

"But not to worry," Ariadne assured her. "By the time we're finished, hell be eating out of your hand."

The foursome bundled her straight upstairs and into Pierce's chambers, intent on seeing his most intimate environs in order to glean clues that might help in a seduction.

He was a man's man, they concluded from the massive, heavily carved furnishings. From the fine satin wall coverings, artful layering of bed drapes, and the breathtaking carpets, they deduced that he appreciated the ornate and intricate, the lush and the complex… most definitely a sensual and complicated man. And from the paintings and "Egyptian" artifacts here and there, they concluded that he had a taste for the exotic.

With their survey completed, they sat Gabrielle on the bench at the foot of the bed and began to expound.

"Walking, talking, laughing, nearly anything a woman does—short of blowing her nose—can be made into a seductive act." Rosalind began the tutorial.

"The old French saying 'Looks breed love'—it is very true,
oui?
"

Genevieve took over. "The eyes speak but one language, everywhere.
Alors
, the best start for the seduction, is to catch the gentleman's eye and hold it.

For a long moment. He must know this look is meant for him and him alone. And while you look at him, you say in your mind so that it shows in your eyes: '
Come and love me. '
And then you look away."

They stood her before a mirror and told her to imagine Pierce and to make her eyes say "come and love me." She blushed and shrank, but was finally coaxed to try it. Her expression looked more like a myopic squint than come-hither glance. Genevieve cleared her throat and offered to demonstrate. Gabrielle watched in wonder as the petite woman was transformed into a smoldering temptress, by just a look. Once, twice, three more times, Gabrielle tried, feeling awkward and self-conscious. The foursome exchanged covert glances of dismay and quickly moved on.

"Once ye got a gentleman's eye"—Clementine introduced the next part with a demonstration—"you make each movement just for him. Make 'im think they're created just for 'im… offered up for 'is pleasure." She dropped a handkerchief and stooped to pick it up in a graceful glide that fairly heated the air around her. Then she walked across the floor, swaying slightly, silk swishing in a way that suggested movement beneath her skirts. For a middle-aged woman a full two stones over what she had been in her active days as a
haute courtisane
, she radiated a sultry confidence that any man would recognize as sexual accomplishment. When she demonstrated sitting, turning, and the simple act of taking a hand, Gabrielle was amazed by the change in her.

Next, they had Gabrielle try walking, sitting, curtsying. After a strained silence, the women nodded to each other, agreeing that she still had time to practice and that a small waist and a well-fitted dress could make up for many deficits in sensual grace.

Then Ariadne took the floor. "Words, conversation must take on new meaning. Every comment must be spoken as if it contains a hidden message just for him. And glances will help punctuate each sentence. Like this: 'Most people don't like the
wet
, but I find rain marvelously
stimulating
, your lordship.' Or: 'I adore asparagus… when it is
hot
and
tender
and
well prepared

.' " The inflection she gave each example and the accompanying dip of her lashes made both statements seem the most suggestive comments in the world.