The Perfect Mistress (43 page)

He smiled as genially as he could, telling himself that considering the stories circulating about him, it was a stroke of good fortune to be singled out as a dinner partner by the toast of London society.

In the dining room two long ranks of tables had been erected to accommodate the large number of guests. When their hostess was seated, the ladies followed suit, then the host and the gentlemen took their seats and the conversation quickly began all along the tables.

Pierce located Gabrielle several chairs down on the opposite side of the table. The sight of his unpredictable wife engaged in conversation with old Sir William, who was known to be as insufferably narrow-minded as he was influential in the Treasury, sent a wave of horror through him. He strained to catch bits of what they were saying.

"How long were you in Venice, Sir William?" Gabrielle was smiling.

Travels. A fairly safe topic, Pierce told himself.

"A week, thank God," the old fellow responded. "Blamedest climate.

Foggy as old Blighty. Might just as well have stayed home. Endless rain.

Wet everywhere."

"Then you must have been there in late autumn or winter." She looked up and caught Pierce staring at her. She looked directly into his eyes. "Most people don't like the
wet
. But I find rain marvelously
stimulating"
A smile curled her mouth into a womanly bow, and her posture softened with subtle allure. "After a time, you learn to accommodate the climate… move more slowly and dress for comfort. Heavy silks are quite out of the question.

Cottons are so much better against the skin."

Something in the way she let her tongue linger over the words "wet" and

"stimulating" sent a guilty shiver of excitement through Pierce. He had a brief, vivid vision of cotton underthings drawing back to expose soft, silky skin… then shook it off, appalled.

"Venice is a favorite of mine," he heard her say, with a voice warm enough to melt polar ice. He glanced their way. Old Sir William was being reduced to puddles. Pierce's throat tightened; he knew that feeling. "I spent nearly two months there and left feeling there was still so much more to explore. Tell me, did you have the chance to attend an opera at Teatro La Fenice?"

Pierce suddenly realized that the eyes of his own dining partners were trained on him, as if awaiting his comment or answer. Coloring, he smiled as winningly as possible. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that…"

Moments later, his attention stole back to Gabrielle as Lady Chilton and Lord Rosebery, seated across from Gabrielle, began to ask her questions. He held his breath as they tossed out what they knew of Venice and she responded with lively comments on each cathedral, historical site, and restaurant they named.

"So much water everywhere made me quite nervous," Lady Chilton opined.

"To make peace with the water you must understand its gifts," she responded. "The riches and the pleasures it brings. But, I confess…" Pierce could see her audience leaning forward to catch whatever such a charming creature might have to confess, and found himself leaning her direction as well. "My favorite part is the way it laps at the feet of the beautiful old houses, splashes against the docks, and washes against the boats that glide through the moonlit waters, creating an enchanting night music for the city."

Her voice had taken on a seductive music of its own. He found himself thinking of the darkness, of the sound of water lapping, of enfolding her like that night music… gliding… rhythmic…

The sound of Lady Morton's voice brought him crashing back to reality, and he realized that she and everyone else along the table between them and Gabrielle had ceased talking to listen to Gabrielle.

"What a lovely way to put it, Lady Gabrielle," Lady Morton said with a sidelong glance at Pierce. "Since you love it so, I am surprised you are not there now… on your wedding trip."

A bolt of anxiety shot through Pierce as the others turned to look at him.

Gabrielle gave him a blatantly adoring smile that, combined with her words, contained a wealth of private meaning.

"Oh, Pierce let me know from the evening we met that he does not travel when Parliament is in session. He is utterly devoted to his public duties and responsibilities." The warmth of her gaze suggested that she was equally devoted… to him. "I am quite content to postpone our wedding trip for a while. You see, I went to school in France and have been home only a short while. To me,
London
is new and fascinating. I am looking forward to exploring"—another warm glance his direction—"my new home."

That unleashed a storm of questions, comments, and suggestions that left Pierce gripping the arms of his chair with whitened hands. It seemed everyone had a view or a monument or a restaurant to recommend. And everyone had a question for her about her background or her surprisingly broad travels.

The expressive shadings of her voice, the enchanting motion of her slender hands, and the luscious sight of her all-too-bare shoulders slowly tightened the coil of tension in Pierce's stomach. His face felt hot, his collar grew tight, and his fingertips began to tingle. Her extravagant education and experiences in travel were being put to stunning use. It annoyed him beyond all bounds that she was so perfectly at ease while he was balancing on a razor's edge.

Gabrielle felt his gaze on her and read his thoughts in his face. But there was no doubt that she was holding her own among London's elite, and she knew that fact couldn't have entirely escaped his notice. Glancing around the table, she began to see that the discussion she had begun was so lively that Lady Morton's wonderful meal was in danger of being neglected. Adroitly, she recalled the others' attention to the marvelous cuisine at their fingertips by savoring and complimenting the delicate cold vichyssoise… thereby securing her hostess's goodwill, once and for all.

Pierce's goodwill, however, continued to elude her. She caught him staring fixedly at her between the fish and fowl courses, as she spooned the minted ice intended to cleanse her palate into her mouth. His continuing vigilance, as if he expected disaster to come crashing down on her at any moment, meant that he wasn't seeing her at all, but some commodity labeled "wife" that had to be stuffed back into its proper box. The thought rankled. Let him stare, she thought irritably. Let him worry.

She licked her lips, slowly, with luxuriant defiance… just for him.

Instantly, his face reddened, and she had a delicious new game.

With each drink from her wine goblet, she surreptitiously licked the rim of her glass. With each comment by Sir William, she leaned in Pierce's direction, making the most of her low, tight bodice. By the time the glazed fruit and almonds and cheese were served, she had Pierce on the edge of his seat, roused and frantic that she was about to do something outrageous.

Instead, she licked the sugary glaze from a grape and began to peel the skin from it with her teeth, strip by delicate strip, letting the juice bathe her lips in glistening sweetness. His nostrils flared as he jerked his face away and shifted in his chair. She smiled and popped the fruit into her mouth.

By the time Lady Morton finally rose and led the ladies out, Pierce was roiling, molten inside. All through the brandy and cigars in the dining room, he kept glancing at the doors. How was it that in the midst of London's political and social elite, with him desperate to repair the damage she had done to his reputation, she still managed to reduce him to a heaving, mindless tangle of desires? Peeling grapes with her teeth… tracing the rim of her glass with her tongue… all while charming the socks off the likes of old Hartshorn and Lord Rosebery…

And she did charm them. He had to admit that. By the end of the meal, old Sir William was all wine-warmed smiles and bluff good humor. Lord Rosebery was waxing poetic about the plight of the poor and various children's charities, glowing with delight at having found a kindred spirit in Gabrielle. And she had Lady Chilton openly regretting that she had never taken advantage of her seaside holidays to learn to swim.

When the two groups merged later in the drawing room for music and conversation, Pierce felt once again in control and determined not to let Gabrielle interfere further with his own plans for the evening. He managed to catch the eye of the speaker of the House of Commons and to have a moment with him before the dowager marchioness of Queensberry and the current earl of Devonshire descended on him to lobby for a "Charities" bill that would soon come before the House of Lords. Then, just as they were parting, Lord Rosebery, a notorious Liberal and a close friend of Gladstone's, loomed up before Pierce to exchange pleasantries and to inquire whether or not he had selected a favorite charity among those represented. When he said he had not, Rosebery proposed his own favorites, both children's institutions, for Pierce's consideration, and indicated that Lady Sandbourne seemed most enthusiastic about them.

Through it all, Pierce kept an eye on Gabrielle and gradually worked his way about the room toward her. In the company of his mother and their host and hostess, she was leaving a wide swath of admiration in her wake as she made her way through the jovial crowd. As he approached, his mother was saying: "… is really quite a pianist, you know."

"How lovely," Lady Morton responded, turning to Gabrielle. "Perhaps you would favor us with a sample of your music, Lady Gabrielle."

To Pierce's dismay his mother and their hostess bundled Gabrielle toward the piano in the adjoining parlor. Pierce went after them, intent on keeping Gabrielle from embarrassing herself.

"Really, Gabrielle…" He threaded his way through the group collecting about the piano. "I think it is time we were going."

"Surely not, Lord Sandbourne," Lady Morton said, putting her arm through his. "The night is young. You cannot deprive us of her company just yet, nor of the chance to hear her play."

Captive in his hostess's grasp, Pierce could only watch with ill-disguised tension as Gabrielle adjusted her distance from the keyboard, removed her long gloves, and began to play.

A melody began to build and thread around and through accompaniment, and soon Tchaikovsky rose like candle smoke, filling the great room. The music lapped around and through him, sweet and majestic, but with a hint of melancholy that resonated in his blood. He had heard her play and knew she was a capable pianist, but he also knew that in such an elite gathering, merely "capable" would be woefully inadequate. He hadn't guessed she possessed such skill at the keyboard. Suddenly his fears of being embarrassed by her performance were replaced by his private embarrassment at his ignorance of her.

She finished with Tchaikovsky and went on to selections by Liszt and Schumann, playing with increasing joy and intensity. Glancing around him at the admiring faces, Pierce realized that they were coming to share his appreciation of just how unique and talented his Gabrielle was. A possessive impulse surged through him as he mentally claimed those agile fingers, those lips drawn into a pout of concentration, that curvaceous form tensed and overflowing with artistic passion. When she finished, Pierce joined in the enthusiastic applause, perversely feeling quite pleased.

Lady Morton coaxed Gabrielle into playing just one more selection. She considered it a moment, then with demure smiles at Lady Beatrice's beaming face and at Pierce's unreadable one, she complied.

Beginning with a burst of elaborate fingerings that built to a dramatic flourish, she settled into a sonatalike piece built around a surprisingly infectious motif. The notes of that theme ran around and around in Pierce's head, familiar, teasing his recall but eluding recognition… until she looked up at him, her eyes bright with what he would have sworn was mischief.

She was playing as if every note was meant for him and him alone. He remembered that look… Suddenly he recalled that melody and knew the words that accompanied it.

Whoops, Alice!… the ladder is bending…

Good God—she was playing "Whoops, Alice!" in front of London's most elite society! He looked around frantically at her audience but, thankfully, no one seemed to recognize the beer hall drinking song.

She played determinedly on, adding runs and soaring crescendos that turned an indecent ditty into a veritable work of art. Her gaze drew his, holding it, speaking to him as surely as the music did. What it said, he was stunned to realize, was that she wanted him to recognize it, to remember.

In spite of himself, he did remember. Quiet confidences. Shared laughter.

Sweet rebellion. Suddenly there was a fullness in his chest and a constriction in his throat. Deep within him, her overwhelming allure and her enduring passion for him began curling through him, invading his will, softening his resistance, capturing his—

Invading? Capturing?

Damn and double damn. Even knowing she had come here tonight to force her way into his life, to claim his name and status as her own, he found himself strangely unable to resist her. With a story and a laugh and a bone-melting, smile she had conquered society's skeptics and established herself as his lovely and gracious bride. And with a sultry look, the bite of a grape, and a beer hall song, she was perilously close to conquering his soul as well.