The Perfect Mistress (51 page)

Sandbourne is a fortunate man, indeed."

"And I will count myself most fortunate, as well"—Arundale put in—"if you will grant me the honor of leading you out for the first waltz." His handsome golden looks and stunning gray eyes were impossible to refuse.

With a glance at Beatrice, who maintained her silence and her staunchly neutral expression, Gabrielle accepted.

"And what of me? Will you promise me the first waltz after the intermission?" Shively entreated. He glowed with boyish pleasure when she agreed and penciled both their names onto the dance card dangling from her wrist.

When they parted, Beatrice finally vented her disgust. "I wonder that the duke would allow those two into his house," she whispered irritably. "There must be a desperate shortage of single men this season. Pedigreed scoundrels, the both of them. No better than they have to be at any given moment."

"They have been nothing but charming to me," Gabrielle said, studying her mother-in-law's forbidding countenance.

"Wretches… the lot of them." Beatrice snapped her fan open and nodded to an acquaintance as they strolled through the dining room. "Reckless and high-living and full of the-devil-take-me. 'Trouble on the hoof,' as your mother would say."

Pierce stepped into Albermarle Hall, handed the footman his invitation, and took a deep breath to prepare himself for what lay ahead. He was elegantly turned out: attired in black evening dress, freshly shaved, with his dark hair shining with attention. But on closer scrutiny, he showed signs of wear, especially in the lines strain had etched at the corners of his eyes.

For the last four days he had been haunted by the anguish in Gabrielle's face as he left her in the carriage. And for the last four days he had struggled with the choice she had given him.

Wife, lover, or friend? The beleaguered cynic in him scoffed at that offer, casting it in the most manipulative light possible. Clever of her to offer him a choice when she knew she already owned his passions and was rapidly establishing herself as his counterpart in society. "Lover" and "wife" were thus easily explained; she risked nothing in offering those. It was the

"friend" business that proved a sticking point in his thoughts. She could claim the right to a legal and social association and even engage his sexual passions, with or without his genuine agreement. But she could never be his friend, except by his free choice.

To make matters worse, yesterday he had found himself standing on Guilford Street, staring at a group of boys chasing an aged football around on the grounds of the Foundling Hospital. Something compelled him to take one step and then another down the drive toward those front doors. He had spent the rest of the afternoon in his shirtsleeves, with a whistle around his neck, yelling until he was hoarse and running to the point of exhaustion.

And when he was through and led the boys back inside, one looked up at him with a pair of enormous blue eyes, shining with trust, and paid him the compliment of his life: "I knew ye weren't no 'looker.' "

Those huge blue eyes. Joyful. Trusting. Suddenly he had go to the Albermarles' Ball. He had to see her and somehow settle his relationship to her once and for all.

Now he stood at the entrance to the duke's ballroom watching Gabrielle executing the figures of the opening quadrille, on the arm of Sir William Hartshorn. Dressed in elegant white trimmed with sinuous black embroidery, she seemed to shimmer in the candlelight. For a time Pierce could see no one else on the dance floor. She was a vision… filled with energy and grace, moving like a wave in sunlight.

When the dance ended and the old knight returned her to Lady Beatrice's side, Pierce resettled his vest, squared his shoulders, and headed for them.

But he was recognized and caught by Lady Morton, who hinted and cajoled until he asked to take the floor with her later. By the time he extricated himself, strains of the first waltz were already floating over the dance floor and he looked up to find Gabrielle being led out once again—by none other than Arundale.

The sight of her in the rake's arms sent a shock through him. She was smiling up at his erstwhile companion in debauch as if he were the worthiest of men. Both fair and blond, they made a stunning visual match as they spun in slow, mesmerizing circles around the floor. The sinuous embroidery of her swishing skirts merged with the black of Arundale's trousers, forging a sensual link between them that aroused Pierce's most possessive instincts.

By the time he came across Beatrice, he was roiling inside.

"No doubt, this is your fault," he said fiercely.

She turned with a start, then followed his gaze back to Gabrielle, before speaking. "I'm afraid this entire situation is your own doing. You pursued her and claimed her, and you got more than you bargained for. It serves you right."

The familiar annoyance he always felt with his mother was a welcome distraction from his misery. But before he could retort, Beatrice seized him by the arm and led him a few steps away, to a more secluded spot.

"I know you despise advice, but…" Quiet urgency filled her voice. "Don't let your silence toward Gabrielle go on too long or grow too deep, or you will have the rest of your life to regret the damage that is done." She caught his gaze in hers and softened, allowing him to see some of the pain and longing she carried inside. "Don't let pride or resentment or misguided notions of freedom ruin your chance to have a good life with her. What good will your precious freedom be to you when you're sixty years old and utterly alone… with only your regrets to keep you company?"

Pierce stiffened, angry with her out of habit. But for the first time in his adult life, he also found himself listening to her, sensing a softening in her, a genuine concern in her words.

"I want you to know," she said quietly, searching his face, "I've arranged to have a good bit of my inheritance placed in your name. I decided not to wait on the first grandchild. I shall just have to hope that you won't be selfish in that regard… that you will give that adorable girl the children she wants."

Pierce felt his world again shifting under his feet. For thirteen years she had conducted an all-out assault upon his freedom. And now she was releasing her frantic grip on him, granting him the independence and recognition he had spent a decade of rebellion trying to achieve.

"But—why?"

"Because…" She sighed and glanced toward the dance floor. "I believe I can trust you to do what is right." With a bittersweet smile, she pulled him down and kissed his cheek, then walked away.

The motion and the music on the dance floor ended. Pierce scanned the dancers and located Arundale escorting Gabrielle to the far side of the ballroom. Above the crowd, he had a perfect view of his wife being steered into a pack of randy young blue bloods. From forty feet away he could see the speculation in their eyes and the indecent appreciation in their smiles and knew exactly what they were thinking. He knew, because little more than two months before he had been one of them… lustful, calculating, cynical, on the prowl for the slightest whiff of carnal opportunity. And the thought that they might consider Gabrielle an "opportunity" positively gored him.

He struck off furiously, intent on retrieving her.

"There you are," he called out, before he quite reached the group. Only Arundale held his ground—and Gabrielle's hand; the others discreetly melted away.

"Pierce," she said. "There you are."

At close range, her dress was even more provocative than he had realized; a narrow waist that came to a seductive point, embroidery that curled slyly over her breasts, and scarcely a scrap of cloth on her from her nipples up.

"Sandbourne, old man." Arundale smiled pleasantly under Pierce's scathing look. "Trust you to find not only the beauty of the year, but also one who dances like a goddess."

Pierce ignored Arundale and took Gabrielle by the elbow. "Come, Gabrielle."

"Until next time, Lady Sandbourne." Arundale gave her hand a gallant kiss.

"Until the next time, sir," she answered with a forced smile.

Pierce imprisoned her hand on his arm as they circled the ballroom, heading for Lady Beatrice. "May I have my hand, please?" she whispered tightly. "I need to check my dance card."

"No, you don't," he declared grimly. "J have the next dance."

The orchestra was striking up the next waltz, and he led her out to the edge of the floor. As they began to dance, he felt her moving gracefully under his hand at her waist, looked down, and found himself treated to a breathtaking view of her décolletage… the same view Arundale had undoubtedly enjoyed minutes earlier.

"That damnable dress," he growled. "Whatever possessed you to wear such a thing?"

Her face flamed. "Good Lord, Pierce, look around you. My gown is entirely proper—perfectly within keeping for a young married woman without children. Your
mother
helped me choose it, and heaven knows, there is no one more proper than she is."

"It's indecent. Arundale and his lot were salivating."

"They were not. They were charming and respectful," she protested.

"I know that group—hell, I used to
be
that group. They want only one thing from a woman. And they'll
not
have that from you."

Hurt washed through her, dissolving some of the starch from her, leaving her trembling. When they swirled near the ballroom doors, she summoned enough force to break from his grasp, and she headed straight for the doors.

She didn't stop until she reached the terrace, hoping that the darkness would hide her tears and allow her to regain enough control to find Lady Beatrice and leave

Pierce saw her disappear onto the dimly lit terrace and thought about going after her. But what would he say to her? He was churning inside; his emotions, his thoughts, his very soul, were in turmoil.

He stalked back along the gallery and into the parlor, so absorbed in his own thoughts that he didn't see Arundale and Shively at the far end of the gallery, watching him. They had kept the newlywed couple under close scrutiny.

"Well, well," Arundale's voice was heavy with sardonic pleasure. "Trouble in paradise, it would seem. Lady Sandbourne probably could use a 'friend'

just now." He laid the back of a languid hand against Shively's lapel. "Give me ten minutes with her, then join us in the gardens. By then she will have forgotten all about her little tiff with Sandbourne and will be occupied with more pleasurable matters. And I would guess she will prove quite…

entertaining."

With a conspiring wink, Shively strode off, and Arundale strolled toward the terrace doors with a carefully calibrated smile.

There wasn't a dry thread left on Gabrielle's handkerchief, and the tears were still burning down her cheeks. She sat on a stone bench at the side of the terrace, cloaked in shadows, staring out at the moonlit garden and struggling to recover her emotions.

"Gabrielle?"

She turned with a start to find Lord Arundale standing behind her, silhouetted in the golden light streaming from the gallery windows.

"I thought it was you," he said with surprise. "Are those tears? Heaven—

what is wrong?" He sat on the bench beside her and gently turned her face toward his, scowling at the sight of her tears. Immediately, he offered her his handkerchief, and as she accepted it, a sob escaped her. "Come. You cannot stay here… someone may see you." He put an arm around her and urged her to her feet, cradling her gently against his chest as he led her down the terrace steps and along the garden path.

He found them a bench that was sheltered from the terrace by hedges and shrubbery and sat down with her, still holding her against his side.

When she made to move away, he held her back, drawing her head down against his shoulder and stroking her hair. "There, there," he said, letting his hand glide down her back and linger warmly at her waist. "Tell me what happened. Was it Pierce?" When she didn't speak, he drew back and lifted her chin, dipping his head to look into her eyes. "What did the wretch do this time?"

She stared into his pale eyes, finding them luminous with concern. She was so confused, so hurt, and he was being so very kind…

"Well, it doesn't take a genius to know that he's not treating you right," he said, his voice so soft and sincere and reasonable. "Moving out of the house, abandoning you, refusing to accompany you into society… He's an idiot, pure and simple."

"I don't know what to do," she whispered. "He's always hated the very idea of marriage. And here he is, stuck in the middle of a marriage with me.

One minute he wants me, the next he can't abide being in the same room with me."

"Then he's a bigger fool that I thought," he said with quiet vehemence.

He raked his hand up her back in a way that sent a shiver up her spine with it. "If I had a beautiful and sensual wife like you, I would consider myself the luckiest man alive. I would honor and cherish you. And I would certainly never abandon you in my bed."

He ran his free hand along her cheek and let his fingertips linger along her lips.

"P-please, Lord Arundale," she said, feeling a rustle of uneasiness at those sensations, but not quite able to pull away from the comfort he offered.