He laughed fondly to himself, while Gabrielle, her face livid with embarrassment, stood completely still by the window, amazed at his indifference.
“I suppose Melissa is another of your mistresses?” she inquired in a wooden voice that betrayed her anger.
His expression was once more overbearing, and she fought down the fury that he could bring so easily to the surface.
“Melissa is a friend, kitten. I don’t think we need to say more about her. You can stay in my room tonight. Pleasant dreams.”
After he had gone, closing the door behind him, on his way to God knew where, Gabrielle flung herself on the bed and burst into tears of reaction. How could he be so horrible? He was a selfish brute—she had been right the first time. She would not deny that he was capable of arousing her body to the highest pitch of excitement, but, somehow, she must find a way to keep her mind and heart as cool and unfeeling as his own. For them, it was only two bodies, one gratifying the other. The thought should have disgusted her, but it only made her sob harder.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Gabrielle struggled out of slumber when she felt a light caress on her shoulder, her eyes opening to stare into those same green ones that she had been dreaming about. “Good morning,” he greeted her casually. “It’s after eight o’clock, kitten. I don’t like my women to sleep too late, but in this case,” and he grinned wickedly, “I’ve made an exception.”
He eyed the fetching picture she made as she struggled from under the covers and stretched her arms above her head, causing her perfectly shaped breasts to lift up out of her bodice, the tips stiff and pointed. Slowly, he bent down and she felt his lips caressing her nipples. His hand sought her beneath the covers, and she shifted her legs so that his fingers caught only the stuff of her chemise.
“I’ve got the perfect way to wake you up,” he said lazily, aware of the rebellion in her violet eyes, “but, unfortunately, I’ve got to get you back to town.” He arose from the bed and walked over to where her gown lay still on the floor. He picked it up and tossed it carelessly on the bed. “I’ll give you thirty minutes.”
Gabrielle glared at the closed door and would have thrown something at it to vent her frustrations, but nothing was close to hand, and he had already gone. Sighing in vexation, she dressed in the gown, noticing that there was a large rip in the back of the bodice and that three of the buttons were missing, presumably scattered somewhere on the floor when he had pushed her dress down last night. Well, she wasn’t going to look for them now, she thought, slipping into the silk stockings and embroidered garters that had been a gift from Bernard. She used the tortoiseshell comb to tidy her hair and searched beneath the bed for her other slipper.
When he returned, freshly shaved and smelling pleasantly of mint, she was ready to accompany him downstairs and outside to the carriage. “Solomon,” he said to the butler, “should Miss Lawrence arrive before I return from town, please ask her to wait in the library. I may be late, so have Milly serve her coffee while she’s waiting.”
“Yes, Mr. St. Claire.” The tall black closed the heavy oak doors, and Rafe jumped into the carriage beside Gabrielle.
“I’m going to leave you at Renée’s for now, kitten. I’ve written down the name of a woman who rents apartments on the south side of Toulouse Street. Mrs. MacKenzie is completely trustworthy and will take good care of your needs. Tell her who you are, and assure her that I will be by tomorrow morning to take care of the financial arrangements.”
Caught completely off balance, Gabrielle could only listen to his curt instructions in bewilderment. She wondered if all men treated their mistresses like business obligations, in the same quick, concise way that this man was treating her.
“I—I'm sure—I can manage,” she said in a low voice, “but I hope you will allow me a servant, since I—”
“All right, whatever you want,” he interrupted her impatiently, his mind already on other matters.
Gabrielle leaned back in her seat, feeling unaccountably depressed at being so abruptly dismissed. When they arrived back in town, St. Claire escorted her to Renée’s door, then kissed her swiftly and hurried back to the carriage.
In a surge of temper, Gabrielle stamped her foot and barged into the house, making straight for Renée’s office, without thinking to knock. An “oh” of surprise escaped her lips as she came face to face with Bernard de Marigny. Her startled expression caused a fleeting smile of grim amusement to cross his mouth.
“Good morning, Gabrielle,” he greeted her, casually enough. He would have taken her hand, but she kept it carefully within the folds of her cloak.
“Bernard! What—what are you doing—here?” she managed, with difficulty keeping her voice from breaking.
He shrugged. “I had a few debts to clear up with the madam. I do hate to keep creditors waiting for their money, you know.”
She swallowed nervously and scanned the room for Renée. “But where is—where is Renée?” she asked in a small voice.
“She’ll be down directly. I’ve just arrived myself,” he answered as smoothly as though they were talking in the Place d’Armes.
She sat down in a chair, her eyes jumping from one object in the room to another, anything to avoid those blue eyes that bore down on her with such accusing intensity. Finally, when the silence became oppressive, she took a deep breath.
“Bernard, I—I want to explain—about last night. I—”
“There’s no need for any explanation,” he said bitterly. “I have heard all about it from at least six ‘sympathetic’ friends already this morning. Unless you have a different version, I’d rather not talk about it now.”
“But, Bernard, I swear the thing—just happened. You know, yourself, I’d never met Mr. St. Claire before last night, but—but I knew him in Paris—as someone else. . . She was floundering helplessly, aware of the difficulty of trying to make him understand.
“Gabrielle, there is absolutely no heed to lie to me, or even to try to explain. You were taken in by the man’s devilish charm. It’s no crime to own up to it—many women are. I only wish you had had the decency not to make the transaction quite so spectacular.
“Bernard, please listen to me. You know I—I never played false with you. I never told you that I—that I cared for you in any other way except as a friend and companion. I realize now that the fact that you have a wife—”
“And will it make so much difference then, when your current protector is married to his Miss Lawrence?” he sneered relentlessly. “I suppose you will, in the interests of a pure conscience, leave him and move on to someone else.”
Gabrielle clenched her fingers. “You wound me deeply with your words, Bernard. Why must you be so cruel?”
“I am only repaying you for your kindness to me!” he cried bitterly.
She bit her lip and raised her eyes to meet his. “It—it makes no difference to you then, that I care for this man,” she said in a low voice.
“You care for him!” he laughed unpleasantly. “How could you fall in love with a man you’ve only known a day?” he questioned, and then as she started to speak, “Oh, yes, I forgot—you knew him in Paris too.” He gazed at her for a long moment. “Let me tell you something, little sparrow. You don’t care for a man like St. Claire without falling headlong into something you’re not capable of handling. A man like that is not looking for a woman who might entangle him in a mesh of emotions that he has no use for. He cannot be trapped. He must be free to enjoy whatever pleasures most please him. If he had an inkling that you felt anything other than healthy lust for him, he would boot you out of his life quicker than you booted me out of yours.”
He raised his hand to silence her protests. “Please tell Renée that I’ll return later this week to transact my business with her,” he said abruptly. “I’m afraid that, if I stay any longer with you, I just might. . . .” He stopped himself with an effort and caught her hand forcibly now. “Good-bye, Gabrielle—and should you find yourself once mo
re alone—always remember me.”
He shrugged wryly as though laughing at his own foolishness, then tilted her chin and kissed her softly on the mouth. He was out of the door before Gabrielle could think what to say to him.
She put her face in her hands. Bernard must think her truly heartless, and she supposed he had every right to have that opinion. She wiped her eyes with a corner of her skirt as Renée came briskly through the door.
“Gabrielle!” Her mouth dropped in surprise. “Child, what are you doing here?” She sat down abruptly in a chair and stared at her. “Why, I’d heard that—”
“It seems that news travels particularly fast when it involves things of such a personal nature,” Gabrielle said ironically. “Yes, Renée, I lost at cards to Rafe St. Claire last night, and now I’m his mistress—or, perhaps, one of several would be more correct.”
“Oh, my poor darling. You know I wouldn’t judge you, child. I only want your happiness.”
“This morning he brushed me off as neat as you please,” Gabrielle said, “as though I were some bothersome detail that must be taken care of. I must find suitable apartments so that I can receive him without distractions and in complete privacy. Oh, I don’t doubt but that he will settle a worthy sum on me, and I shall want for nothing—as long as I am good and satisfy him and—and everything is conducted on a very businesslike level. Oh, Renée, what should I do?”
Renée frowned to herself and rubbed her temples. “Do? Why, you’ll do just as you have said, my dear. You will secure lodgings for yourself—where shall you be set up?”
“On Toulouse Street. He asked me to see a Mrs. MacKenzie.”
“Well! Toulouse Street! That’s a fine neighborhood. Didn’t you know that Claiborne House is on Toulouse Street, my dear? The governor himself and his lady live there! St. Claire is not doing ill by you!”
Gabrielle shrugged. “I suppose that this is his idea of a joke—installing his mistress under the governor’s nose.”
“You mustn’t let yourself think anything of the kind. I am familiar enough with St. Claire’s reputation to know that he takes women when he wants, married or single, rich or poor, and doesn’t bother to make everything so private. No, I think your handsome Mr. St. Claire may feel something more for you than you think—or perhaps even he realizes.”
“It’ll be large enough for all of you,” Mrs. MacKenzie said with evident assurance as she unlocked the door to the two-story house she was showing to Gabrielle. Gabrielle had brought along a servant from Renee’s house, Jane Dell, who was more than happy to come with her.
The door of the house opened onto a spacious hall that offered a staircase to the right, leading up to the bedrooms. In the back of the house were the kitchens and a large sitting room, furnished with tasteful appointments and luxurious carpeting that sported a lively pattern of pink and gold roses.
Alice MacKenzie was not a woman to doubt, Gabrielle had decided upon meeting the tall, raven-haired woman who spoke with the slightest Scottish burr and walked with a definite swing to her wide hips. Her very blue eyes had regarded the piece of paper Gabrielle handed her and then swung round to inspect Gabrielle’s own person with evident curiosity.
“So, Mr. St. Claire’s wanting a house for you?” she asked unnecessarily. “I’ll be damned if that stallion’s not the one for surprises.” She chuckled throatily, and Gabrielle couldn’t help wondering in exactly what capacity Alice MacKenzie knew Rafe St. Claire.
She hadn’t dared to question her though, but followed with all appearance of meekness, Jane tagging along at her heels, as the woman had walked down the street four doors to the very house where they now found themselves. Gabrielle especially liked the cool inner courtyard, a must in New Orleans for everyone who craved privacy. She knew she was going to like the place and promptly told Mrs. MacKenzie as much.
The older woman raised her black brows and laughed deeply again. “I guess I’d love it, too, if I had a man paying for it, missy,” she responded brassily. “I’ll warrant you couldn’t afford it otherwise. But, mind you, I’ll not hold that against you. Any female who can get anything but a swollen belly from St. Claire deserves my admiration.” She winked and seemed amused by the slow flush that crept up Gabrielle’s cheeks.
“When can I move in?” Gabrielle went on briskly. “Oh, right now, if you like, my dear. You’d best send your girl there to market for provisions and tell her to buy some beeswax and good, strong soap. It’ll need a little cleaning up since it’s been empty for a few months, but it’s liveable now.”
“Then I think I shall stay here, Mrs. MacKenzie, if you can lend us some bed linens. I’m anxious to get settled. My key, if you please?”
The woman smiled. “It’s all yours, my dear. I have an extra key that I’ll give to Mr. St. Claire when he comes by in the morning. Save you the trouble—and embarrassment.” She winked broadly again and leaned over towards the girl in a confidential attitude. “I know these things must be handled a trifle delicately. You say he’ll be visiting you often?”
Gabrielle tightened her lips. “I didn’t say, Mrs. MacKenzie—but of course that’s entirely up to Mr. St. Claire.” She took the key proffered by the other woman. “Now, if you will excuse me, as you say, there is some cleaning to be done, and I would like to get started right away. I’ll send Jane down to pick up the bed linens later this afternoon.”
The woman’s wide mouth turned down petulantly. “Well, of course you must be anxious to fix everything up,” she muttered.
When she had gone, Gabrielle leaned against the door and swallowed, glad to be rid of the obtrusive landlady. She looked around—her entire situation might not be ideal, but at least she had a pretty home.
Chapter Thirty
A week had passed, and the house was definitely taking shape, Gabrielle thought, with an inner satisfaction. Rafe had insisted that she hire a sturdy middle-aged woman to help set the kitchen to rights and two strong young men who were able to clear all the debris from the rooms and bring in new pieces of furniture as well as fresh bedding.
Rafe had not demanded anything from her except that she take his advice on certain suggestions he made for the house and, of course, that she surrender her body to his masculine demands whenever he wished. Their sessions together in the large bed upstairs were torrid and intense, and Gabrielle would find herself afterwards panting and dripping with sweat.
She found herself strangely angry that he never spent the night with her, but always left, presumably to go to the gambling halls, or, perhaps, to another lady. The thought aroused her suspicious jealousy.
His days were filled with business, and if she were to ask him about his affairs, he would shrug, and she would realize that he considered such questions not within the realm of a mistress’s duties. It was humiliating in a way, and she tried to lose her anger in reading or sewing.
By the first of May, Gabrielle felt that the house was completely presentable, and she dismissed the extra servants.
Rafe had stopped by in the morning, but he seemed exceptionally preoccupied, and, although Gabrielle was wearing a new dress that beautifully accented her fair coloring, he hardly noticed her. He drank a glass of wine, inquired about commonplace things, and promptly left in a hurry as though this were a social call and she nothing more than an unpleasant distant cousin.
Striving to keep back the tears of hurt and anger, Gabrielle stayed in her room the rest of the day. She lay curled up on her bed, wondering if she had done something wrong or if he simply did not find her interesting any more. Would he soon be telling her he’d made a mistake and ask her politely to leave and return to Renée’s?
At Jane’s summons to supper, Gabrielle pretended to be asleep, closing her eyes tight. Certainly she wasn’t hungry—all she felt was confusion and shame at her longings.
She woke up much later, realizing that she had truly fallen asleep and it was well into the evening. Yawning, she got up from bed, not bothering to fight a candle, and proceeded to tak
e off her robe. She went downstairs, checking Jane’s room to make sure she was in bed and fast asleep. She hurried to the kitchen where she realized she was ravenously hungry and filched a bright red apple from the table to take upstairs with her.
Back on the upper floor, she entered her room, stubbing her toe on the doorsill and muttering an exclamation, and she bent down to rub the offended appendage. An owl hooted in the branches outside her window, then screeched abusively at the answering howl from the cat in the courtyard. Gabrielle walked to the window to shut it against the night noises, but before she could do so, something moved quickly behind her and a rough hand grabbed around her mouth.
Startled, she dropped the apple and reached up to try to pull the hand away, but another hand came out to grasp her left arm and pull it tightly behind her back so that she gasped in pain.
“Quiet!” a voice hissed behind her.
Gabrielle nodded, afraid that her arm would be broken. The intruder promptly released her, and she took in great gulps of air. Two hands on her shoulders swung her around and she tried to make out the features of the man who stood close to her, looking back at her.
“You’re Gabrielle de Beauvoir?” he asked finally, dragging her towards the light of the window.
Gabrielle rubbed her arm and glared up at him, more angry than fearful now.
“I hardly think that’s any of your business, whoever you are!”
He seemed temporarily at a loss. “But I thought you were Rafe’s mistress. I was pretty sure this was the house.”
Gabrielle ignored his words. “I don’t know how you know my name, but this is my house, and, if you’re not out of here in ten minutes, I’ll scream loud enough to bring the watch. I might remind you that we’re not too far from the governor’s house, and I’m sure there are plenty of guards about!”
He laughed suddenly, startling her so that she jumped. “And I might remind you that you promised to be quiet!”
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