by Amelia Grey
She swallowed hard. “Please don’t feel you have to spare my feelings, my lord.”
He smiled. “I don’t have to. You knew exactly what you were doing, just as I’m more than willing right now to take my chances on another scandal.”
Suddenly Gabrielle craved to feel his lips on hers. Brent must have felt the same, because his eyes darkened and his lips parted slightly. He bent his head so close to hers she felt his breath. Gabrielle’s breathing became short and rapid in anticipation.
Instead of kissing her, he gently placed the tips of his fingers on her forehead and let them trickle down the bridge of her nose, over her lips and chin, and then down the slender column of her throat, to stop where her bosom heaved beneath her dress. He watched the trail of his light touch. His lace cuff tickled her skin, and she smelled the clean scent of shaving soap on his hand. His intense gaze moved back up to her eyes. He then flattened his hand, pressing hard as his hand slid between her breasts, down her midriff, past her stomach to rest at that most intimate spot between her legs.
Gabrielle gasped at the thrill of desire that shot through her. Her heart was beating so fast she thought she might faint.
She knew she should slap his hand away, yet she didn’t want to. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted to feel the delicious tingles she was feeling. His palm cupped her and pressed against her. She gasped again as she lifted her lower body to him, straining to get closer to his warmth. Their eyes searched. Their breath mingled. She didn’t know what he was doing to her, but it was making her knees weak, her breaths jerky, and her body moving in rhythm to the pressing of his hand. He moved his face even closer to hers. She parted her lips to accept his kiss.
Loud laughter sounded from the corridor, and Brent spun away from her, putting distance between them. Gabrielle straightened and tried to control her breathing.
They both stared at the doorway, but no one came into the room.
Finally Brent looked at her and said, “I won’t be staying for the buffet.”
She cleared her throat and huskily whispered, “Why?”
“Lord Waldo asked me and my brothers to go hunting with him and some other men later tonight. I need to go home and change for that.”
“Lord Waldo?” she questioned.
“Yes. We have one thing in common, remember? Our dogs are missing. We’ll search the parks.”
“Oh, I see.”
She wanted to ask when she would see him again, but knew that was the last thing she needed to say.
“I’ll walk out first,” he said. “You can follow me in a few minutes. You need to give the blush time to leave your cheeks.”
Brent turned and walked out. Gabrielle’s hands flew to her face. Her cheeks were hot, and no wonder! Whatever it was he was doing to her had her completely in his control. She was failing miserably at her vow to be an unacceptable bride and resisting his charm.
A few minutes later, Gabrielle walked into the drawing room and was surprised to see Brent still there and that Lord Snellingly had arrived. The earl was talking excitedly to the small group that surrounded him.
She walked up beside Brent and said, “What is going on?”
Without looking at her, he said, “Lord Snellingly found Josephine.”
“No!” she whispered in surprise. “I mean, oh, how wonderful for him that he found her. Where was she?”
“He’s not sure. He said a young man brought her to his door late this afternoon, and that’s why he’s just now getting here. He had to spend some time with Josephine before coming over.”
She touched his arm, and he turned to her. “I’m thrilled for Lord Snellingly, but I’m also sorry it wasn’t Prissy who was found. Will you still go on the hunt tonight?”
His gaze brushed down her face, and she had the feeling he was telling her he wanted to kiss her.
“I’ve told you I’ve settled my mind about Prissy, but if I can help find the other dogs, I’m willing to do what I can.” He nodded to her and turned away.
Gabrielle watched Brent walk out, and her hands tightened into fists as her heart broke for him. She would give anything if he could find Prissy.
“Gabby,” Auntie Bethie said, taking her arm and ushering her away from the crowd. “That was the longest and the worst performed piano recital I have ever been to.”
“I know.”
Her aunt’s brow wrinkled. “Did you know that several people didn’t even stay for a drink? The Brentwood twins, Count Vigone, and Lord Waldo have already left, and I just saw Lord Brentwood walking out the door, too. I think they were afraid you would call them back into the music room for an encore. You don’t plan to do that, do you? For if you do, I’ll take my leave now as well.”
“No, of course not, Auntie.” Gabrielle smiled. “Mr. Murray played quite enough for one evening.”
Her aunt tilted her head and inquired, “So do you think your attempt to give the worst party of the year was a smashing success?”
“Yes,” Gabrielle said somberly, wishing she’d never attempted the ill-fated party, because while the viscount was quite bored along with everyone else, he seemed to be once again willing to overlook her shortcomings. She was beginning to think she would have to give up on Lord Brentwood and accept that her hope rested in changing her father’s mind when he returned.
As if finally sensing her mood, Auntie Bethie said, “What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy the evening went as you’d planned. There’s hardly anyone left here but the members of the Royal Poets Society and some chaperones for those young ladies, who are over there in the corner giggling because they drank their champagne too fast. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Yes, I’m pleased the evening went so very well.” She stopped and gave a sad smile. “That is I’m glad it was as boring as I planned. It’s just that I feel so sorry for Lord Brentwood because Lord Snellingly has found his dog, Josephine, and Brent’s dog, Prissy, is still missing.”
Auntie Bethie sighed. “Oh, my, yes. That would put a damp cloth on anything. But maybe after he’s had time to think about it, he’ll feel encouraged that since Lord Snellingly’s dog was found, his will be too.”
“Maybe,” Gabrielle said.
“What’s wrong, dearie? There’s something more wrong than the missing dog, isn’t there?”
Gabrielle looked at her aunt, who had such concern in her features. “Yes, Auntie,” Gabrielle said, realizing she wanted to speak the truth. “I think I’ve fallen in love with Lord Brentwood. And I’m so afraid that, because of my feelings for him, I will weaken my resolve, give in, and let my father arrange a marriage to Lord Brentwood.”
A look of compassion settled on her aunt’s features and she asked, “Why would that make you sad? I should think you would welcome these feelings, since your father wants you to marry him.”
Gabrielle felt an ache in her heart. “He doesn’t want to marry me, Auntie. My father is forcing him. How could I ever find any happiness living with a man my father forced to marry me?”
Seventeen
A great wind is blowing, and that gives you either imagination or a headache.
—Catherine the Great
It was a seldom-seen, beautiful, late November afternoon in London. Gabrielle stood in front of her father’s book-room window, looking out over the barren garden. Auntie Bethie had talked Rosabelle into joining her to look at town homes, so the house was quiet. All but two servants had the afternoon off, and Gabrielle was thrilled to have some undisturbed time to think, to daydream, and to paint. She would have at least two, or if she were lucky, maybe three hours before the house became busy again.
Petra had set up Gabrielle’s easel, canvas, and paints before she left. The double set of windows in the book room faced west, and the bright sunshine made that area of the house a perfect place to paint. Gabrielle had covered her hair with a white scarf and donned a freshly pressed but paint-stained apron over her simple pale blue day dress.
Earlier that day, Gabrielle h
ad received a letter from her father stating he would be returning to London within the week. That meant she had some serious thinking to do about Brent.
When she thought about the way he made her feel when he kissed her, the way he was constantly in her thoughts, the way she yearned to see him again, she knew it would be so easy to simply marry him. But every time that crossed her mind, she remembered he was being forced to marry her to save her reputation, and to save his brothers’ business. How could he ever come to love her or even fully accept her as his wife, thinking she had tricked him that morning in the park? She didn’t want the man she loved feeling trapped.
But what else could she do? She’d tried everything she could think of to make him say no to her father’s demands. Well, there was one thing she hadn’t done. She could let Brent catch her kissing another man. But the thought of that was so distasteful to her she cringed inside. Besides, if she did that, she would only be doing to another man what she’d already done to Brent.
That idea was definitely out.
The possibility of joining a convent had entered her mind. Her father would never give his permission for that, so she would have to slip away from the house without anyone knowing. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to spend the rest of her life never being kissed again. She had enjoyed Brent’s kisses and caresses. Gabrielle gently closed her eyes and continued to stand at the window, letting the warm sunshine melt against her face. She remembered Brent’s smile, his touch, his laughter, and his passionate embraces, and knew for certain a convent wasn’t the right plan for her either. A nun was not supposed to dream about kissing a gentleman or to think herself in love with a man.
She opened her eyes and turned away from the window. Maybe if she submerged herself in her painting, she could keep thoughts of Brent at bay. She looked at the blank canvas. What should she paint this lovely afternoon? Landscapes, flowers, fruit, or Brent—she smiled to herself. She wasn’t good with portraits, or she might be tempted to paint him.
Gabrielle walked behind her father’s desk to look over his bookshelf in hopes of seeing something that might spark an interest of what to paint. Her fingers sailed along the spines as she read titles from history, science, plants, and poetry, but nothing she saw gave her any new ideas. A three-drawer mahogany chest covered about three feet of the last four rows of books. Gabrielle looked at the chest and realized she had no idea what was behind it. Curiosity got the best of her, and with great effort she pulled it away from the shelving and pushed it aside. The hidden shelves were stacked with books covered in what must be years of dust.
She lifted her skirts, dropped to her knees, and continued her search of the book titles. One of the first books she looked at was on botany. She took it off the shelf, blew the dust off it, and thumbed through the pages, hoping to discover the sketch of a rare plant or flower, but found nothing. She coughed from the dust and fanned the air in front of her nose before putting the book back in its place. Another book showed diagrams of the constellations and for a moment she thought about the possibility of painting the night sky and filling it with stars. She laid that book on her father’s desk as a possibility and continued her search.
Gabrielle skimmed every title until she made it to the very last book on the bottom shelf. There was no title on the spine. That seemed odd. She took it off the shelf and opened it. The cover had been wrapped with some type of heavy canvas. Thinking it must be a very old and rare book, she carefully opened it to the first page and read, The Art of Being a Most Pleasing Mistress.
“Hmm,” she said aloud. “A book that could be beneficial when I become mistress of my own house.” She laid it on her father’s desk beside the constellation book and rose, leaving the chest where it was so the housekeeper could have the area cleaned.
There was very little inspiration from her father’s bookshelves, but a night sky filled with stars was something she’d never thought about painting. She would do that. She walked over to the window and picked up a small box of paints. Making the entire backdrop midnight sky was the first thing she needed to do. While that dried, she would look at the sketches and decide which constellations she wanted to put in her sky. She found the jar of dark blue oil and spread it on her palate. She swirled her brush in the paint and then started making wide, sweeping strokes across the beige canvas. But it wasn’t long before Brent’s face came to her mind, and she smiled as she brushed.
Thoughts of him always made her stomach tingle. She wanted to remember and recapture what she felt every time he kissed her, caressed her, or breathed against her skin. Softly she laughed to herself and turned to look out the window to the clear blue sky. How could she want to paint anything dark on one of the warmest and most beautiful afternoons she’d seen in weeks?
Gabrielle laid the brush back on the easel and walked over to her father’s desk. She picked up the book about being the mistress of a home. Maybe if she curled up in the settee and read about running a kitchen and keeping housewares in good order, she could keep her mind off the viscount.
She opened to the first page and read:
Being a mistress is not for every woman, but it can be very satisfying, yes, even quite rewarding for the few elite women who choose to become one. There were no books, no friends, no one to offer help to me when I became a mistress, so I write this book in hopes that someday I will find a company brave enough to publish this valuable guide, bookshops brave enough to sell it, and ladies or gentlemen brave enough to buy it and use it.
Having been a successful mistress for more than thirty years, I am well qualified to write this compendium of most useful and even helpful hints. It is my honor, and I believe it is my duty, to pass on the knowledge I have acquired in the art of pleasing and satisfying a man. No well-heeled gentleman of any station in life should be without a mistress to take care of his bedchamber desires. Every well-bred gentleman knows, duly expects, and deserves to have a wife who is too sheltered, too delicate, and too timid to master the art of sexually pleasing him, and he would, of course, never have the inclination to teach or force her into doing what a well-trained mistress already knows how to do.
Gabrielle looked up from the book. Sexually pleasing? She felt hot and cold all at the same time, and her heart started to beat faster than it should. Surely this sort of pleasing didn’t mean what she thought it did. Could it?
She looked down and continued reading.
The first thing a mistress must do is to make herself pleasing to the eye of the gentleman. At all times she must be enticing. A gentleman always desires a woman of beauty. She should keep her hair styled, her lips and cheeks rosy, her skin sprinkled with perfume, and dress in the latest fashionable clothing.
Gabrielle’s gaze was riveted to the pages as she continued to read. Suddenly it dawned on her. This book wasn’t about being the mistress of the house. This book was about being a kept mistress!
A courtesan!
She glanced guiltily around the room to make sure no one witnessed what she was reading.
“Oh, my,” she whispered and slammed the book shut. Dust flew into her face, and she sneezed.
Her mind whirled. Her breaths came short and quick.
“I can’t read this,” she said to herself.
What was this book doing on her father’s bookshelf? What was it doing in his house? Did he even know it was there? Perhaps it belonged to her grandfather or someone else. Who could have hidden it there? Clearly the book hadn’t been touched in many years.
Gabrielle worried her lower lip. What she had read sparked her curiosity. She had no idea what mistresses could do that was too difficult and too delicate for wives. And should a properly brought-up young lady like herself even know?
Without further thought, she bent down to the bottom shelf and stuffed the book back in its slot. She leaned her weight against the chest and quickly shoved it back in place. She hurried from behind the desk to the center of the room and stood there, looking from the chest to the door.
; Would anyone ever know she’d found the book? Would anyone ever know if she had read it?
Of course not! How could they?
Her aunt and sister were out for the afternoon. The servants knew not to bother her when she was painting.
So…
She could read the book and no one would ever know. But did she want to?
“Heavens yes!” she exclaimed.
Gabrielle ran over to the chest again, pushed it out of the way, and grabbed the book. She walked over to the broad-striped settee that stood in front of the lit fireplace and settled down onto the cushion. She opened the book and continued to read about the things a mistress should do for a man but a wife was not supposed to do or even know about.
As she read, a thought niggled at her mind, but each time she shook it away. She wouldn’t even think of that possibility.
Soon everything was forgotten except the hypnotic words written on the pages. She kept reading page after page, sometimes scanning the details because she was simply too embarrassed to let her eyes read the words.
“Lady Gabrielle.”
Gabrielle slammed the book together so hard and fast as she jolted up from the settee that dust rose in a puff.
“Yes, Mrs. Lathbury?” she said breathlessly, her heart beating so fast she thought she might faint.
“Lord Brentwood is here to see you and insisted I tell you he is here.”
The idea she had tried to keep at bay sprang back to mind with the speed of lightning and the fury of a fierce wind. And just when she thought her heartbeat might settle down, it started thudding crazily again.
“Lord Brentwood? Here?” she asked, trying to calm the storm that had so suddenly erupted inside her. “Are you sure?”