The Perfect Mistress (44 page)

As applause and admiration swirled around Gabrielle, he stepped back, meaning to withdraw and work his way to the door. But Lady Morton seized his hand and put Gabrielle's in it, ushering the pair of them into the drawing room. He was trapped.

Gabrielle looked up at him and found him watching her with conflicting traces of annoyance and pleasure. She responded with a warm smile and felt his arm tighten beneath her hand.

Side by side, they weathered the accolades of well-wishers, the pointed questions of curiosity seekers, and the cold stares of society's propriety-mongers. She sensed his tension as questions and comments tested both her background and her composure. When the influential old marchioness of Queensberry cackled at one of her observations and patted her on the arm, an unmistakable gesture of acceptance, Pierce's eyes were full of relief and pride.

Thus, she was dismayed, moments later, when he turned to their hostess and offered his excuses, preparing to depart. "Oh, but you cannot leave so early… just when we were getting to know dear Gabrielle," Lady Morton declared.

He turned and met Gabrielle's gaze. "I wouldn't dream of depriving you of her company. By all means, she must stay and enjoy the party." Before she could object, he gave her hand a brief kiss and was gone.

"Where is Pierce?" Lady Beatrice asked a short while later, as Gabrielle joined her in the dining room for refreshments.

"He left," she answered, looking crestfallen. "He made excuses about a lot of wretched paperwork to do before tomorrow's session of the Lords. I had no chance to go with him… He insisted that I stay and enjoy the party."

"He did?" Absorbing the implications of that, Beatrice leaned close and patted Gabrielle's hand. "Don't fret, my girl. Don't you see what that means?" She looked like the cat that had gotten the cream. "It's a clear victory."

"It is?"

"But of course. You've faced him down, demanded your place as his wife,
and he ceded it to you
. Our evening has been a brilliant success! As far as both he and society are concerned, you are indisputably the new Lady Sandbourne."

Gabrielle's smile dawned as she realized that Lady Beatrice was right. It was indeed a victory. Thanks to her mother-in-law's cleverness, the generosity of her hostess, and her own much-practiced graces, she was now Pierce's wife in public. Lifting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she turned back to the rest of the guests, wondering how long it would be before she would be his wife in private as well.

Rosalind was waiting for them in the drawing room when they arrived home. She hurried out into the hall and paused to give Gabrielle a thorough looking over.

"Well, I see he wasn't of an amorous mood," she said as she approached, noting her daughter's pristine condition.

"He was, however, impressed with the way she enchanted the lot of them," Beatrice said, giving Rosalind a superior look. "She is totally accepted as his wife. Apparently I didn't need a full week, after all."

Rosalind bristled. "Nor, it seems, will I." She turned back to Gabrielle with a devious glint in her eye and squeezed her daughter's hands. "Tomorrow, my dearest, you will spend the night in your Sandbourne's arms… or my name isn't Rosalind LeCoeur."

By the next afternoon, it was clear that Rosalind indeed intended to make good on her promise. The Clarendon, one of the more fashionable hotels on New Bond Street, had a well-deserved reputation for service and discretion, but a bit of coin, judiciously placed, could still buy any bit of information in the place. By discreetly silvering a few palms, Rosalind had managed to learn that for the last several nights, Lord Sandbourne had come from his club at about ten, had a drink in the bar below, and then retired to his suite by eleven.

His schedule the next evening followed that same predictable pattern. He discreetly took dinner at Brooks's, spent a while in the Subscription Room, and then walked down the street to the Clarendon as night was falling.

When Gunther returned to Sandbourne House with that information, the plan Rosalind had taken several days to assemble was set into motion.

In the bar of his hotel, Pierce had a drink at a table in the corner and read one of the late papers. He was just about to go upstairs to his rooms, when into the bar stepped three of his fellow Conservatives, including young Lord Catton, who was a rather decent fellow when not under the influence of the less-than-scrupulous Arundale. Before Pierce could slip away, the group hailed him and called him over for a drink. It proved to be an amicable encounter, the most enjoyable he had had in days. He was loath to see it end and suggested a friendly game of cards in a room upstairs. Being gambling men and without wives or families to put constraints on their time, they accepted.

On the way up, Pierce arranged with the head porter for food, chips, and fresh decks of cards to be delivered. Once in the small suite, the gentlemen shared a drink and news of the recent developments in governmental postings and preferments. In a short time, the cards and food arrived and they sat down to play a few gentlemanly rounds.

"And how is that bride of yours faring, Sandbourne?" Sir John Messing, KG, asked with a smile. "I say… is she a stunner? When do we get a look at her?"

Pierce stilled and gave the ruddy-faced old knight a dangerously calm look. But it seemed to be an innocent enough question. "She is quite well, thank you."

"And quite a stunner," Catton said, beaming with good-natured mischief.

"I've met the lady, you know. At the Savoy one night. Dashed inconsiderate of you, Sandbourne, snapping her up before any of the rest of us got the chance."

Pierce took a quiet breath and tried to deflect their interest from the subject of his wife. "I had no idea you were so matrimonially minded, Catton. We shall have to see what we can do about finding you a wife of your own… to honor and obey."

"Three cards. I'll have three," Bennett England, MP, declared, surfacing from an immersion in the intricacies of the cards in his hands. "Now, what was that about Catton getting hitched up? Ye gods—am I the last to know everything?"

Pierce laughed and felt himself truly relaxing for the first time in days.

"Three weeks from Saturday, at St. Paul's. The invitation is in the mail."

Catton sputtered for a moment, then laughed. "Curse you, Sandbourne…

Do you want cards, or do you stand?"

The rug was new and full of the scent of dyes and the superfluous lint common to new pile. The smell and the tickling in Gabrielle's nose tormented her, and her wretched costume—harem pants and a silk chiffon blouse—was so thin that she was itching all over. Compounding her misery were the erratic thumps and bumps, as she was hoisted out of the lorry and carried through the side door of the hotel. Then she was propped at an angle on some stairs; she could feel the ridges of the steps digging into her side, while the sounds of muffled voices in contention swirled around her. She suffered a moment of panic when the rug was lifted once more and tilted, and she began to slide inside it. But after a moment, she managed to catch and brace herself, and she realized with relief that they were carrying her upstairs.

In the darkness of the rolled rug, fighting a sneeze and wishing with all her heart she could have a good scratch, she tried to comfort herself with thoughts of Pierce and to concentrate on what she was supposed to do when she was unrolled. She was supposed to sit up and shake out her long, dark hair, an "Egyptian" wig, and smile at him. The smile was the key—her overture, her peace offering. From there, she would have to get as physically close to him as possible and take her cue from his reaction.

Sit up, shake, and smile… She repeated it over and over as Gunther and Traxall, her mother's coachman, huffed and puffed their way up several flights of stairs, bouncing and jostling her all the way. At last she was level again—presumably on the proper floor. Her heart was thumping wildly as she heard the muffled sound of a knock at a door. When there was no immediate response, she held her breath, wondering if Pierce had unexpectedly gone out for the evening.

Then a faint creak of hinges and the sound of voices, one of which might have been Pierce's, reassured her. She was moving again, then shifted, probably being lowered. Battling back frantic second thoughts, she set her mind on Pierce.

"A gift for your lordship," she heard Gunther say.

"What the— A
rug?
" Pierce's voice was now perfectly clear. "Wait a minute—I know you," he declared as Gunther began to unroll the carpet.

"Good God, it's—"

Suddenly everything was spinning as the carpet unrolled across the floor… Then air and light burst over her. For an instant she lay catching her breath and her balance. Then she sat up, flipped her long, exotic wig back over her shoulder, and promptly sneezed… straight into four incredulous male faces.

20

«
^
»

S
he froze, taking in the sight of the sitting room: the table with Pierce and three other men seated around it in shirtsleeves… the cards in their hands…

the haze of cigar smoke and the redolence of aged whisky… and the horror dawning on Pierce's face.

"What in the hell?" He shot to his feet, toppling his chair back onto the floor.

He blinked, staring down at her, taking in her revealing garments and long dark hair. It looked like Gabrielle's face… Gabrielle's tempting body beneath those layers of sheer white chiffon and falling out of that corsetlike velvet vest… It was Gabrielle!

He grabbed his coat and rushed to throw it over her, wondering wildly, desperately, what to do. His first impulse was to shove her straight out the door. But how could he with her in
those
clothes? Inserting himself between Gabrielle and his friends, he saw Catton rising with widened eyes and realized he had to get rid of
them!
"This is obviously someone's pathetic idea of a joke, gentlemen," he declared furiously. "I'm afraid I shall have to ask that we continue this game at another time."

They were on their feet in a flash, donning their coats and reaching for their hats. If any of them were tempted to comment on the delectable charms or the desirability of his "gift," the heat in his face stopped them. As they stumbled over each other in their eagerness to get out the door, only Catton dared to pause and look back at Gabrielle… with a grin of recognition spreading from ear to ear.

Pierce stood staring at the door after it closed. When he turned, he found Gabrielle had thrown his coat aside and sat once again in that shocking garb that somehow made her seem more naked than if she were wearing no clothes at all.

"Have you taken complete leave of your senses? What in God's name do you think you're doing… coming here… like
that?
"

He raked his gaze down the veiled taper of her arms and the tantalizingly explicit curve of her hip. The diaphanous silk of her blouse was fitted to a tight jeweled collar at her throat, gathered onto pearl and sequin cuffs at her wrists and ankles. Her midsection was bounded by a velvet vestlike garment that pushed her breasts up, making it seem as if she were barely being contained in her garments. Around her hips, the legs of the trousers were gathered onto a tight-fitting yoke that was covered with the same gold braid, jeweled sequins, and pearls. She looked shamefully sleek and exotic, like something out of an erotic Arabian night.

"I'm sorry if I embarrassed you," she was saying when he managed to jerk his gaze from her voluptuously displayed body. "But—"

"Embarrassed me?" he roared. "Now why would you think that? My wife dons clothes fit only for a damned brothel… rolls up in a rug… and unrolls in my hotel room, in full view of a group of men…"

"They might not know I'm your wife. I'm wearing a dark wig."

"One of those men was Edward Dimsdell, Lord Catton—who has seen you before and only tonight was commenting on—" On how stunning and memorable she was. He paced away with two volcanic steps, then jerked back to stand over her. "Even if he didn't recognize you, it will be noised about that exotic tarts have been sending themselves to me rolled up in rugs! Dammit, Gabrielle!"—he punched a finger at her—"This is the last straw. I'll not be made a laughingstock by my wife, do you hear?"

He snatched up his coat, shoved his arms into it, and looked around for something to cover her with. "Stand up and put this on," he ordered, holding up his caped evening cloak. "I'm taking you straight back to Thorndike. Now."

"I will not." With desperate determination filling every particle of her body, she stretched out on the rug, on her back, and looked up at him with hot defiance.

"That won't work this time, sweetheart." When she just looked away, he snarled something unintelligible and knelt on one knee to pick her up.

She went limp. He found it impossible to insert his arms beneath her with her body so slack. Dropping to both knees, he worked one arm beneath her maddeningly pliant shoulders. She was soft and fragrant. Her breasts jutted above the edge of the vest as he lifted her… the silky fabric snared his hands… but he willed himself to ignore those erotic perceptions.