The Perfect Mistress by Betina Krahn Page B

be believed, he was a nobleman, a peer of the realm… wealthy and unmarried and thirty years old…
    He was exactly what her mother wanted for her.
    Her thoughts raced wildly as his hands began to roam her waist, rising up her sides, searching the shape of her beneath the damp layers of her clothes.
    Then he was sliding to a seat on the chair beside her, and the next instant, she was being lifted and dragged onto his lap.
    The heat of his body beneath her bottom and the feel of his hands gliding over her waist and up her back should have generated either panic or outrage in her. But just now, with her limbs aching from cold and tension and her thoughts fastened tenaciously on turning her predicament into an opportunity, she suppressed those alarming sensations. All she could think was that the libidinous earl could be the answer to her prayers.
    "Wealthy, handsome, and thirty," she whispered, pushing on his shoulders and managing to put a bit more space between them. "Tell me, your lordship… do you play polo? Are you simply mad about horses and racing?"
    "I've a respectable string of ponies." He overcame her resistance and resumed his intimate inventory of her neck and other ear.
    "And do you go to the theater often? How is your Shakespeare? I imagine you must have a whole raft of sonnets tucked away inside you." She bit her lip and quelled a massive urge to shiver as his hands slid up her sides.
    She thought he mumbled something like: "One or two."
    "And what about music, your lordship? You have such a lovely, deep voice… do you sing? Perhaps play a musical instrument?"

    She held her breath as he stilled, mid-nibble, and raised his head to look at her. His skin had taken on a ruddy cast and his eyes had a dark, luminous quality that, even to her novice's eye, spoke of dangerously aroused passions. He frowned, and she felt his hands tighten possessively on her waist. The moment of truth had come.
    "Polo ponies, Shakespeare, sonnets… now a singing voice?" he said, fighting to recall and make sense of that barrage of questions. "Inquisitive little thing, aren't you?"
    "You're perfect." She took a steadying breath. "Wealthy, knowledgeable, accomplished… undoubtedly an expert in all sorts of amorous matters."
    "Good of you to notice," he said dryly, mentally fanning the steam from his senses as he focused on her and caught the sense of purpose in her expression. "I wasn't certain you were paying attention."
    "Of course, it really would be better if you were married," she hurried on, mentally measuring and evaluating each line and feature of his face, tilting her head this way and that, trying to view him from her worldly mother's perspective.
    "It would?" He returned her scrutiny with a hint of incredulity.
    "Absolutely. It would demonstrate how settled, stable, and dependable you are. That, and… my mother says that a man who has to bear with a wife probably deserves a mistress."
    He gave a short, surprised laugh. "Your mother says that, does she? She sounds like a very interesting woman."
    "Men generally seem to think so," she said, squirming gingerly on his hard thighs and wondering what he would do if she bolted from his lap.
    "Uncomfortable?" He had noticed her movements. "So am I." Over her protests, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her to the divan.
    Dropping her unceremoniously among the pillows, he sank over her and pinned her on her back against the tufted velvet with the weight of his chest.
    She barely had time to bring her hands up between them. "Noooo—"
    "Come now, Gabrielle…" His voice was low and ragged.
    "I don't think this is at all wise, your lordship." Panicking at the determined glint in his eyes and the urgency of his body against hers, she pushed with all her might and turned her face away. "It's only fair to warn you that if you continue in this behavior, you're letting yourself in for a grave disappointment."
    "Nothing short of your turning out to be a longshoreman littered with