The Perfect Mistress (18 page)

Suddenly Gabrielle's idea of marriage as a cold, passionless contract made perfect sense. It was her mother's outlook, a courtesan's view of the world—

a woman could have either passion or security, not both—and Gabrielle had adopted it.

For the first time he thought of the women of the demimonde as persons, not just sexually eager sports, attainable beauties, or agents of male pleasure. Over the years he had known mistresses to pass from man to man, and it had never occurred to him that they might worry or suffer from such a change, or that they might have to work hard at the elegance and sensuality that seemed so effortless for them. Pleasure had always been easy for him, and he didn't want to think about whether it had been easy for the women who had pleasured him.

"So you intend to trade the treacherous glories of passion for the dull security of marriage, do you?" he said, not realizing that he had voiced his observation aloud until she answered him.

"I do," she said, forcing her chin and her spirits up. "I intend to make a nice, ordinary life with a decent, ordinary sort of fellow who will go about his business and leave me to mine."

"Sounds just like a few marriages I have known," he said dryly. Then he fixed her with a suggestive look. "Have you considered that if he
truly
leaves you alone, you may never have your 'dozen' children?"

Her face heated. "Play, your lordship. It's your move."

They played another game of chess, which she also won, and then Gunther arrived to summon them downstairs to tea. She told the majordomo that they would be along presently and closed the door.

Pierce surveyed her as he strolled toward both her and the door. Every hair was in place, her face was still properly pale, and every ruffle was still as pert as it had been when he was admitted to the chamber. One look at her and her mother would realize—as he did too clearly—just how far his intended seduction had missed the mark.

She noticed the scowl on his face as he stared at her. "What is it? Am I a mess?" Her hands flew over her hair and swept anxiously down her bodice and skirt.

"Not at all." He crossed his arms and stroked his lip, studying her with a rueful eye. Amorous impulses that had been waylaid somewhere between flower arranging and chess were beginning to reassert themselves. "Indeed, you look positively untouched… a fact your mother is sure to hold against me." He smiled rakishly. "After all, I am supposed to be introducing you to the delights of love."

"Oh. I see. That could be a problem." She tried to think of an out, but found her mind strangely sluggish. Moments ticked by and still she had no ready answer. She frowned uneasily. "Then, I suppose you'd better 'touch'

me."

He savored the response that registered in her as he settled close to her and ran his knuckle down the side of her cheek. It was soft and cool. He could feel the tension in her, sensed her awareness of him, and felt the sweet essence of her curling through him on every breath he took. He reached for a lock of her hair and rubbed the silky strand between his thumb and forefinger. When he gave a tug, the curl popped free and dangled just above her shoulder.

Guided by instinct, he removed one hairpin and then another, loosening curls. The feel of that silk gliding through his fingers sent a curl of heat through his blood. He was seized by a powerful urge to pull it all down around her shoulders and plunge his hands into it. Resisting that impulse, he turned his attentions to her ruffles; crumpling her puffed sleeves, trapping her bodice frills and wilting them with the warmth of his touch.

Gabrielle was skittish, tensing at every motion, holding her breath each time he brushed her skin. Her heart was beating steadily faster, hammering against her ribs. Suddenly, there was a strange, empty feeling in the middle of her, and she was having a devil of a time swallowing. All she could see was his hands, stroking her face gently, caressing strands of her hair, devastating her girlish ruffles with a touch so whisper light that it was maddening.

She found herself drawn to lean into him, wanting to fulfill the promise of those delicious little nudges and tantalizing brushes with a more direct and purposeful contact. And when he dragged his hands over the ruffles that flowed over her breasts, she knew she should protest, but couldn't summon a single word. When his hands withdrew, she blinked and looked up to find him gazing down at her with warm, inviting eyes… dark, flattering eyes…

eyes she had been avoiding for the past two hours.

"Are you through?" she managed in a dry whisper.

"Not quite." He surveyed her with those worldly eyes. "I think you need something more." A soft smile appeared. "Oh, yes. One thing more."

His head lowered toward hers, which took a moment to register. She managed to bring her hands up between them.

"Are you certain this is necessary?" She braced against his chest, staring helplessly at his mouth, knowing what he intended.

"Ah, yes, Gabrielle," he murmured, continuing his descent. "This is very, very necessary."

Slowly, sweetly, with more restraint than he thought possible, he kissed her. It was like sinking into a field of sweet clover on a warm summer's day, soft, fragrant, and awash in unexpected warmth. He fitted his lips to hers, feeling a tantalizing hum of sensation in his lips, something just less than a tingle but tantalizingly more than just the pressure of skin on skin. He'd never felt anything like it. And it seemed that the longer the kiss went on, the stronger the sensation became…

She was drowning in sensation… firm, supple lips… no longer dry… no longer still. Her lips parted as her head sank to one side, accommodating his mouth… yielding, exploring the stunning new sensations he created by moving his mouth over hers. It was nothing like the last time or like the time before that with the count. This was delicious, so unexpectedly pleasant. And as her perceptions widened, she realized that her entire body, from her racing heart to her watery knees, was responding in some way to that oral caress. Then his tongue raked slowly across her lips, and she held her breath… waiting and wanting… wanting what, she did not know.

Without warning, it was over. His head lifted, his mouth abandoned hers, and she came to her senses feeling boneless and disoriented. She was standing in the circle of his arms, pressed hard against him, scarcely able to focus her eyes.

"There." He thrust her back an arm's length and looked at her. She looked exactly the way he had imagined she would after being thoroughly kissed: her skin glowing, her hair faintly tousled, her eyes dark as midnight. Her expression was filled with softness, vulnerability, and, unless he was mistaken, a sense of discovery. She had just learned the pleasure and the power of a kiss.

"Perfect," he pronounced her.

She felt perfect. And not even coming back to her senses could dispel the warmth suffusing her skin and collecting into a pool in the middle of her.

She floated down the stairs on his arm, wrapped in a pleasant haze, aware of the stares of her mother and her mother's friends, but too absorbed in the revolution going on inside her to care what they might think. When he left, she drifted up the stairs, still under the powerful influence of his presence.

From the drawing room, Rosalind watched her floating up the steps with a dreamy look that signified something momentous had occurred. She resettled herself on her chair with a maternal "
tsk
."

"Her hair, it was mussed," Genevieve declared wistfully.

" 'E give her a good kiss an' a tousle, that's what." Clementine chuckled.

"A pawing is more like it," Ariadne said with a sniff.

They looked to Rosalind, and there was a moment's pause before she announced her opinion of the day's wooing. It was cautiously optimistic.

"Well, at least this time she wasn't sick."

Upstairs, as she sat on the foot bench at the end of her bed, Gabrielle fingered her startlingly sensitive lips and wondered at the strange lethargy that lingered in her. She had never imagined that such an intimacy—mouth to mouth, lips to lips—could be so pleasurable. It certainly explained the attention given to the glories of "the kiss" in poetry, plays, and romantic stories.

She shook herself to dispel that sensory fog and made herself think critically about it. After examining the evidence, she decided that her reaction was probably the result of a sense of intimacy created by their shared pretense. He was her partner in deception, and a heightened air of excitement always surrounded the clandestine. No doubt that was what made it seem so enthralling. And prolonged exposure to his worldly charm, at such close range, must certainly have an effect after a while.

Further, it wasn't as if she was totally incapable of feeling pleasure. She positively adored a long steamy bath of an evening, followed by the caress of a soft silk nightdress and the slide of cool satin sheets against her bare limbs. And at times she got the most intense cravings for almonds and chocolate, or the taste of raspberries with clotted cream. Thinking of food inspired the insight that kissing might be something one had to acquire a taste for… like horseradish or escargot.

Yes. Well. That certainly put it all in better perspective, she decided.

There were several perfectly logical and understandable reasons for her reaction to his kiss. It was nothing to worry about, really… as long as she made sure it didn't happen again.

8

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T
aking a virgin mistress was proving to be every bit as arduous and involved a process as taking a virgin bride. That annoying conclusion occurred to Pierce on the third day of his bizarre courtship as he stalked up and down Regent Street, going from shop to shop, searching for a gift suitable for his mistress-to-be.

The gift had to be something feminine, expensive, and highly personal…

indicative of the deepening level of intimacy between them. But it also had to be in keeping with his appreciation of Gabrielle's freshness and innocence.

And harder still, it would have to meet the approval of her worldly, refined, and highly critical mother. After two interminable hours stalking around Liberty's, Dickins and Jones's, Hamely's, and half a dozen smaller shops, he was still empty-handed and growing testier by the minute. Everything seemed either too explicit or too subtle, too ordinary or too much the grand demonstration.

Gabrielle was right, he realized. The wooing, the gifts, the thought and energy involved in exalted gestures, and the constant, all-encompassing scrutiny—this romance business was nothing short of exhausting. He wouldn't have to expend this much effort in applying to marry the prime peach of this season's crop of debutantes!

In respectable society, there would be a few dances at cotillions, a stolen kiss, a whispered query and a blush of response, and then it would be off to the study with the old man for brandy and cigars and the ritualized blessing. He would see his name linked to the peach's in newsprint, then on invitations, and from then on, everyone would leave them alone in the parlor, in darkened corners, and on the bridle paths in the park. No questions asked. Nobody would demand to know his amorous history or call into question his motives. And certainly no one would dare inquire about or pass judgment on his erotic tastes and passionate sensibilities.

There would be no expectations of soaring romance or desperate, feverish, soul-rending…

Hold on. He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, realizing Gabrielle was right again; marriage
would
be easier, especially for a man of his rank and station. And respectable marriage would be a hell of a lot less intrusive into his private character, personal habits, and manly dignity.

What in hell was he doing, putting up with this charade? Who knew how long it would be before he could take Gabrielle out and dangle her before Gladstone's eyes? Sooner or later the old man would seek out another tart, probably one a good bit more eager to earn a fast "fiver." If Pierce had the sense God gave a turnip, he would just turn around and walk away from the entire scheme. He turned on his heel and at that moment found himself facing a shop window containing outrageously expensive French shoes.

And there in the window—in exquisite white silk brocade, adorned with a blue satin bow and rosettes—was a pair of party slippers with dainty spool heels. The fires of discontent in him died as he stared at those shoes.

White like her dresses. Blue like the ribbons she wore in her hair.

He strode into the shop and bought them on the spot.

Promptly at three, he arrived at Gabrielle's house, with the tissue-wrapped package under his arm. After standing inspection for her mother in the hall—and feeling a certain vengeful satisfaction at the way she eyed the box he was carrying—he was shown up the stairs to Gabrielle's boudoir. He found her seated on the window seat, staring down into the tea garden below. She rose and greeted him with a beaming smile… which lasted only until the door shut.

"I've brought you something." He held out the box to her.

"Does my mother know?"

"She saw the box as I came up." He put it into her hands and folded his arms, waiting for her to open it.