The Perfect Mistress (42 page)

"Part of it is choosing the right thing to say, part of it is saying it properly.

If you can work in the mention of sensory things—textures or colors with vivid description, scents and aromas that are alluring, or the mention of

'warm' or 'wet' or 'slow' or 'sleek,' things that evoke the senses—then you're halfway to a seduction."

They had her try it. "What a nice,
wet
rain," she said. Ariadne coughed and she tried again. "
Ummm
… Do I smell a
tender, juicy
leg of lamb?"

Clementine choked back a giggle. Gabrielle's face flushed with color. This wasn't her wretched idea in the first place! "My, I can never resist a lovely"

—she couldn't think of an appropriately seductive description and seized—"

plump
strawberry." The women broke out in laughter.

Rosalind dabbed her moist face with a handkerchief. "You see, Gabrielle, there is nothing more irresistible to a man than the fact that a woman wants him enough to let him know it. But if you let him know you want him too much, there will be no challenge in it. So you have to be careful to avoid the obvious."

"A man like your Sandbourne, he knows well the game," Genevieve asserted. "But with you, he cannot resist playing, eh?"

"Ye mus' keep him off balance," Clementine added. "Never sure whether yer beckonin' or just smilin'… whether yer ready to struggle or surrender."

They moved on to "touches." Incidental and purposeful. And they identified places for more explicit erotic contact: window nooks, behind doors, beneath dinner tables, and—Clementine's favorite—carriages.

"Carriage love's a whole study in itself," she declared. "There's somethin'

about a dark carriage that brings out th' beast in a man. Ye start by sittin'

close, without lookin' at 'im. Then ye remove yer gloves an' let yer fingers stray a bit… up 'is thigh, over 'is loins, an' inside the buttons of 'is shirt.

Next thing ye know, yer skirts is up and yer riding postilion!"

The sense of what she meant sank in, and Gabrielle blushed violently.

"Yes, well… I think I need a breath of air," she said. "And I'm certain we could all use a bit of tea. I'll have Parnell bring some."

When she had darted out the door, Rosalind sighed as she led her fellow tutors downstairs to the drawing room. "It was so much easier for all of us.

We always had someone to practice on."

After refreshments, during which Lady Beatrice tactfully stayed in her rooms to work on a bit of correspondence, the women whisked Gabrielle up to Pierce's chambers and tried again to help her walk, talk, and move seductively. The more they scrutinized and offered advice, the worse her performance became.

"Please," Gabrielle finally said, halting in the midst of an exercise that soon had her nerves in knots. "I know you all mean well, but I'm not sure I can do this."

"Don't be silly, Gabrielle," Rosalind said emphatically. "You have just as many juices as anyone in this room."

"That's not what I meant. Lord knows when I'll have the chance to tease and lure Pierce across crowded rooms. Who knows if he'll even
look
at me?"

Rosalind tapped her chin, scowling, thinking. "She has a point. Perhaps we need something more direct… something that can command his attention and rouse his passions quickly."

"This may be true,
non?
" Genevieve nodded to the others. "Perhaps she needs just to plunge into the middle of his life… his world… his heart."

"What? A grand gesture?" Clementine warmed to the idea with a broadening grin. "A great romantic boot to 'is stubborn backside."

"It would have to be something stunning." Ariadne threw herself into the contemplation of it. "Something unique. Something boldly provocative.

Wait! There is one gambit I always meant to try. I never got around to it before my Gerald died. It is a bit exotic, but"—she glanced around at the paintings and the objets d'art in the chamber—"his lordship obviously has a weakness for the exotic. All right. Here it is."

Gabrielle braced for something outrageous. She wasn't disappointed.

"Cleopatra and Caesar."

There was a moment of bewildered silence. Ariadne expelled a disgusted breath. "Philistines! You know the story, surely. Cleopatra—that would be your part, Gabrielle—had herself rolled up in a fine carpet and carried to Julius Caesar—his lordship, of course—as a gift. Clever woman, Cleopatra, bypassing all those messy and tiresome diplomatic channels, going straight for the man himself. The rest, of course, is history. They fell madly in love.

It was one of the great romantic gambits of all times. And it's perfect for Gabrielle." She enumerated the advantages on her fingers. "She would have surprise, seduction, and the piquancy of the clandestine, all in one."

"It's brilliant," Rosalind said, catching fire. "He's removed himself to that wretched hotel and Gabby needs a way to get in to see him. What better way than to be carried there in disguise and unrolled at his feet?"

"Think of it,
mes chéries
—" Genevieve painted the picture for them with her elegant hands. "The rug unrolls. Reclining there, in delectable dishabille, are the sultry eyes, the soft shoulders, the shapely limbs he has dreamt of seeing again."

" 'E'd be on 'er like wool on a sheep's back!" Clementine crowed.

Gabrielle was trying to work it out in her mind. They were proposing she dress up in some costume, roll herself up in a rug, and have herself carried to him at his hotel suite? "But once I was there, what would I do? I mean…

is there more?"

Chuckling, they looked at each other, then at her.

"You'll talk with him, of course. Say what is on your mind," Rosalind said, watching her indulgently. "Tell him how you feel and what you want."

" 'Specially what ye
want
, love."

"And things will happen as they will happen,
oui?
"

"Whatever happens afterward," Ariadne observed with a wisdom born of experience, "he will know you want him. And he will have one more memory of searing passion to deal with in the long nights ahead."

It was a perfectly ingenious plan, Gabrielle had to admit. Once she was there, in his suite, she could make it quite difficult indeed for him to get rid of her. He would have to listen to her, to look at her, to deal with her as a person and a woman. It shouldn't be too difficult to get him to put his hands on her again, and when he did, she wouldn't allow him to take them away until they had given her exactly what she wanted. Afterward, with passions sated and pride barriers melted between them, she would talk to him, tell him about his mother's plan to introduce her to society, persuade him to come back to his house and give their marriage a chance. It would be an opportunity to let passion work for her instead of against her, for a change.

"All right," she said with a determined look. "I'll do it."

19

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C
harity was the farthest thing from Pierce's mood as he arrived at Lord and Lady Morton's gala that Saturday evening. He dreaded encountering the dragons of society and the power brokers of politics under one roof. Of late his reputation had taken a drubbing in both circles. But, this was the one major social event of the season that promoted humanitarian concerns.

It was the place where members of the upper crust mingled with the mavens of charity and demonstrated their depth of character by their largesse. Putting in an appearance was critical if he was to counter some of the speculation attached to his name.

He stepped down out of his carriage onto the paved walk and mounted the steps to the fashionable Georgian brick mansion on Grosvenor Square.

As he presented his card to the liveried houseman and waited to be announced, he surveyed the spacious, marble-floored entry and the lively crowd of guests. In short order, he spotted Lord Calvert, Dr. Richard Epperly, Sir William Hartshorn, and the staid but influential old marchioness of Queensberry—persons whose goodwill might prove helpful in salvaging his political reputation. By the time he was greeted by his hostess, Lady Morton, his mind was so set on mapping out a strategy of contacts that it took a moment for him to catch her unexpected question.

"Is she not with you?" She glanced past his shoulder. "We met, you know.

Three days ago, at the dressmaker's." With a twinkle in her eye, she gave his hand a squeeze. "I can scarcely wait to introduce her—she'll be a sensation."

Pierce stared blankly at her for a moment. She had met—Gabrielle?

Expected Gabrielle to arrive with him? He forced a smile, scrambling for a noncommittal reply.

"I… I came directly from another engagement."

"Ah." She inserted her arm through his, smiling. "Well, until she arrives, I shall have the pleasure of your company myself. I'm sure you know many of my guests, but there are several people I especially want you to meet…"

In roiling confusion, he escorted his hostess around the great hall and into the drawing room, greeting with distraction the very people that only a minute before he had been intent on impressing.

Gabrielle. Here. As they progressed through the gathering, dread of a different sort began creeping up his spine. Each and every one of London's philanthropic and political elite seemed to know that he was newly wedded and expressed interest in meeting his bride. Clearly, they had heard the gossip about him and his ill-gotten marriage and were eager to verify it firsthand. And he couldn't begin to imagine what sort of debacle lay in store for him if—
when
—Gabrielle arrived.

At length, Lady Morton was forced to relinquish him in order to return to her duties. Relieved, he made the circuit from drawing room to family parlor to conservatory to music room to dining room, drawing both murmurs of congratulations and silent stares. Periodically he raised his head above the crowd to watch the doors, but when he heard her announced, it took a moment to register that the Countess of Sandbourne was indeed Gabrielle.

Hurrying back to the hall, he spotted her with their hostess, smiling and exchanging pleasantries under the vigilant eye of his mother.

As they turned to greet another middle-aged lady, he caught a full glimpse of Gabrielle, and for a moment was struck motionless. She wore a gown of lush emerald moiré. The low-scooped bodice was rimmed with velvet and a silk chiffon overskirt was swept back with a second overskirt into an elaborate bustle trimmed with a cascade of white silk camellias. At her shoulder, several real camellias vied for the eye with her creamy skin, and her upswept hair was accented by those same fragrant blossoms. With her deep green gown, pale breast, and golden hair, she looked like an exotic flower just coming into bloom. He caught himself inhaling, anticipating her scent, and furiously stanched that response.

Groaning inwardly he headed for her. It was going to be a very long night.

It was a tribute to Madame Marchand's instruction that Gabrielle appeared gracious, even glowing, as she greeted her hostess. Her mouth was dry, and inside her long kid gloves, her hands were icy. When Lady Morton mentioned that Pierce had already arrived, Gabrielle smiled with what she hoped would pass for wifely pleasure.

Then, through the swirl of bright silk gowns, sparkling champagne, and animated faces, she saw him coming across the drawing room, and her heart lost a beat. In his fitted black tailcoat and vest, and pristine collar and pearl white tie, he was without a doubt the most handsome man present. Heads turned and both fans and lashes fluttered as he passed. But in his eyes, fixed on her alone, there was a heated glint that sent a shiver through her.

He used the hand she extended to him to draw her closer to his side, while chatting with their hostess and giving his mother a nod of acknowledgment. Then murmuring an excuse, he spirited her through the adjoining parlor and into the conservatory, where he found a relatively empty area among some giant ferns.

"What the devil are you doing here?"

"Making new acquaintances… enjoying a gala party, I believe—"

"The hell you are," he said. "You've just come down with an agonizing headache. And I shall have to take you straight home." His hand tightened on her arm as if he was ready to drag her from the house.

"I have no such headache," she declared in a furious whisper. "And the only place I am going is in to dinner with the rest of the guests." Wresting her wrist from him, she gave her train a furious kick and headed for the doors.

The dinner bell kept him from going after her. As he followed the crowd toward the dining room, he prepared himself to minimize whatever damage she might inflict on his already battered reputation.

Lady Morton was gliding about the rooms, pairing gentlemen and ladies according to some cannily prearranged plan. Pierce quickly made his way through the other guests, intending to partner his bride himself. But before he could reach Gabrielle, Lady Morton had seized her hand and placed it in gruff old Sir William Hartshorn's, sending them off to the dining room together. When the hostess turned and saw his bereft look, she laughed.

"Poor Lord Sandbourne—I've just given your bride away." She took his arm. "I have other plans for you, sir. I have reserved you for
myself
."