The Perfect Mistress by Betina Krahn

shoulders. It was a moment before she felt a nudge at the nape of her neck and realized that he was partly responsible for that unsettling reaction in her skin. Whirling to one side, she checked the buttons at the back of her dress and found the top two unfastened.
    "I thought you might like to step out of those wet clothes and let them dry," he said with a voice that was low and silky with concern. "I wouldn't want you to take your death of the grippe, in my company."

    He might be a good bit more handsome than the count, she thought darkly, but he wasn't much more subtle. This was the second time today a man had tried to divest her of her clothing in an attempt to drag her into some amorous entanglement or other. Two kidnappings, two seductions.
    What other torments would she have to suffer in pairs before the day was out?
    "I shall keep my clothes on, thank you," she insisted, trying to contain her anxiety. "And if I die of pneumonia, my death will be on your conscience."
    She met his gaze with narrowed eyes. "Assuming you have one."
    "Oh, I have one," he said, surprisingly unaffronted. "But, I haven't heard from it in years, and I do not intend to let you interfere with that perfectly splendid state of affairs. Here…"
    He brought a chair from the table to the hearth, pushed her down on it, and sank onto one knee beside her. When he pulled her skirts up to expose her shins and wet undergarments to the heat of the fire, she gasped, seized them, and they found themselves in a bizarre tug-of-war over her petticoats.
    He finally relinquished his hold on her skirts and snagged her wrists instead.
    "See here, Gabrielle—or whatever your real name is—don't be tiresome.
    It's not as if no man has ever seen your legs before."
    "Gabrielle is my real name," she declared with her face crimson. "And no man has ever seen my limbs before." Desperate circumstances called for desperate measures, the ultimate distraction, the truth . She summoned every bit of nerve she possessed.
    "If you must know what I was doing out in the Haymarket," she blurted out, "I had a fierce argument with my mother and ran out of the house to walk off my anger. I kept walking and walking… before I knew it, I was lost, caught in the rain, mistaken for a 'street woman,' forced into a carriage and then a kitchen, and finally escaped… only to be snatched off the streets a second time and accused of all manner of depraved indulgence." She squirmed slightly on her seat, feeling the warmth he radiated almost as strongly as she felt the fire. "It may sound ridiculous, even foolish, but that is exactly what happened. And now all I want is to go home."
    He caught her gaze in his, probing her startlingly blue eyes for the truth.

    There was something intriguing about the odd combination of tenuousness and self-possession in her. One minute she seemed a frightened young woman, the next a tart-tongued young chit with pretensions to gentility and a strong rebellious streak. Just as striking was the blend of freshness and sensuality she exuded. Every step, every sway of her hips, every twist of her shoulders and sweep of her lashes, carried the promise of carnal pleasures. And yet, if he were honest, those enticements seemed largely unintentional. Like the scent of biscuits on her hands… simple and real…
    impossible to counterfeit. On impulse, he raised her hand to his face again and breathed in, confirming his earlier perceptions. The scent was fainter, but still there. Biscuits.
    "You smell wonderful." His voice was like a purr as he began an olfactory exploration of her, skimming her wrist and following a trail of scents up her arm and across her shoulder, while murmuring descriptions of what he encountered. "There is a veritable cloud of roses about you… ummm … a clovelike scent to your neck… the hint of lemon rinse in your hair…"
    Gabrielle watched his romantic overtures with genuine horror. Of all the dangers she had faced this night, this was the