Temporary Mistress

Chapter Ten

HE CARRIED HER from the bath sometime later, wrapped her in one of his robes, slipped on a dressing gown as well, and led her through the imposing crimson-bedecked bedchamber to another dressing room so large, she stood in the doorway, rapt.

"Is this your Roman bath?" The walls and floor were of green-veined marble, the high-domed ceiling a colorful mosaic depiction of fauna and flora, the light from numerous wall sconces reflected in dozens of gilt-framed mirrors lining the walls.

He shook his head. "That's on the ground floor. My great-grandfather apparently saw this room in a villa in Naples and brought back twenty Italian craftsmen to replicate it for him. I thought you might like to use the facilities."

"Thank you." Her blush deepened the pink on her cheeks.

"I could leave if you wish."

"If you would… although I suppose at this point-" A flaring bit of scarlet rouged her cheeks. "I mean, after what transpired…"

"I'll wait outside," he gently said. "The water closet is through those doors." Pointing at a trompe l'oeil woodland scene, he added, "Just push on the clump of primrose."

She stood for a moment after the door closed on him, in awe of the magnificence. Nothing in her past compared with the degree of luxury evident in Bathurst House. Although Dermott seemed not to notice-his small dressing apartment was almost ordinary in its plainness. A clock suddenly struck, and glancing around, she saw a tall case clock set between a freestanding marble tub and a silk-covered chaise. A large family could live comfortably in this chamber, she thought, smiling faintly, the warmth from the fireplace adding to the creature comforts of the room. Vases of flowers perfumed the air as well, and she wondered if one ever became blase about such splendor.

Not that she would have the opportunity to find out, she decided with the practicality she'd learned at her grandfather's knee. And on that pragmatic note, she moved toward the hidden doors and gently touched the primroses.

The doors swung open soundlessly on well-oiled hinges and another chamber decorated in marble met her gaze. Pink marble this time, with a water closet in the guise of a throne and a sink with faucets that implied Bathurst House was supplied with running water. She wished she had someone to describe these luxuries to, and incongruously, considering her reasons for being there, she wished her grandfather were available to listen.

Dermott was seated near the large boulle desk when she reentered the bedchamber, refreshed as well after using the simpler accommodations in his dressing room. Lounging in an outsized chair, he held a brandy glass in his hand. "Did you manage to make all the faucets work?"

"Yes, thank you. How beautiful, and ingenious as well. Grandpapa would have enjoyed seeing your plumbing." [5]

He smiled. "And I would have liked to see your grandfather again. He raised a very unusual woman." He rose as she approached and offered her a chair beside him.

"Do you think I'm unusual?" Sitting, she thought how gracious he was to charm after as well as before.

"Without doubt. Champagne? I had some more brought up." Which required waking the servants he'd dismissed.

"Yes, thank you." She took the proffered glass. "Unusual because of this-arrangement, you mean?"

He momentarily pursed his lips. "A consideration perhaps, but no-I think your lack of affectation most appeals."

"My lack of social graces, you mean," she noted with a smile.

"Hardly. You could grace Almack's with the best of them. I suppose I dislike coy women, and you are not that. What you are, darling, is the fascinating focus of my desires-in a most disturbing way. And there, I've said enough. I despise conversations about feelings."

"As do all men, in my experience."

"Your experience?" He cocked one dark brow.

"In my grandfather's business. If one ever broached a subject that even veered in the direction of how one felt-say about a shipwreck, for instance, or a spoiled cargo, or the plight of laborers on the plantations that supplied much of the cargo-they would invariably say 'And so life goes,' as though it were possible to avoid an emotional reaction. Even Grandpapa, darling that he was, rarely mentioned his love for me other than to say, 'You're my sun and moon, Izzy'-he called me that from childhood-'now tell me what you want and you may have it.' "

Dermott grinned. "A spoiled young lady-which accounts for your sexual demands. Not that I'm complaining."

"Nor I, Lord Bathurst. You've lived up to your reputation splendidly."

"We're not done yet."

"I should hope not."

His lazy smile was overtly sensual. "Wanton minx."

"Indeed." She winked at him over the rim of her glass. "And I never had the least idea."

"I should be grateful to your disreputable relatives."

"In a way I am. Because of you, of course."

His gaze went shuttered, wary of female flattery after years of avoiding entrapment.

Her trill of laughter drifted to the bacchantes overhead. "Do they all want to leg-shackle you?"

"Enough to make one cautious."

"I know better. No need for alarm. But I'm glad you were the first," she softly added.

And perhaps the last, a rash, impulsive voice inside his head avowed. Which voice was instantly quashed by those brute impulses that had sustained him in recent years. "Thank you." He didn't know what else to say. He had no intention of becoming involved.

"You're very welcome. And when you're sufficiently rested, I was wondering-if you didn't think me too forward-"

His gaze came up, and he waited with interest.

"Whether we could have some of that chocolate dessert that we left on the tray in your dressing room."

He laughed. "I fear I'm losing my touch."

"Not in the least. In fact, I was trying to think of a way we could-do them both."

"Since I'm not particularly interested in chocolate dessert, perhaps something could be arranged," he murmured. "Although I have the perfect wine for your chocolate. Come," he said, rising and offering his hand.

He led her first to the dressing room, where he picked up the dessert plate she wished, and then, drawing her along, traveled through the large bedroom and drawing room, down the hall and staircase. Turning to his right, he ignored the hall porter dozing in his chair and walked down a lengthy corridor to a small door set oddly in a corner. "Watch your step now." Opening the door, he slowly led her down a narrow staircase, a coolness immediately apparent as they descended, and at the bottom of the stairs he opened a door into a well-lit wine cellar.

Obviously, he spent some time there, for a small anteroom entirely of brick was furnished with an elegant table and four upholstered chairs, a bow-fronted console, and a cupboard gleaming with glassware. Waving her into a chair, he set the dessert plate on the table, rummaged in a drawer for some flatware, produced an ornate fork and knife along with an embroidered napkin, and placing them beside the plate, bowed with an impudent grin. "If Mademoiselle will allow me a minute more, I can assure her a pleasant interlude."

"But of course," she playfully replied with a cheeky grin of her own. "So far I'm most impressed with your qualifications. All the gossip is quite accurate, my lord."

"As for you…" His voice was like velvet. "You've more than lived up to expectations."

"Perhaps you should thank Molly's tutelage."

He gently shook his head. "You're just a hot little puss."

"Then we're well matched." Her brows rose faintly. "And I mean it in the most specifically sexual way."

His smile would have dazzled from a furlong away. "We'll have to explore that sexual specificity."

"I was hoping you wouldn't mind, although," she gently added, glancing at his robe jutting outward rather than falling in silken folds to the floor, "it looks as though I needn't worry."

"The only thing you need worry about is stopping me. I seem to be obsessed tonight."

"Not so unusual, according to rumor. Haven't you set all the sexual records of late?" The girls at Molly's had delighted in telling her.

"Not that I know of." He never had sex for records, only for pleasure.

"So modest, Bathurst."

"Dermott."

"Dermott." For the briefest moment it felt as though his name on her tongue gave her claim to him. She savored the fleeting impression for an unrealistic second before coming to her senses.

Bending low, he brushed her mouth with a kiss, touched by that same dizzy sensation. "I'll be right back," he murmured against her lips, because his propensity for sexual adventuring was well established in contrast to his lesser-used sensibilities and he easily reverted to type. "And then I'll make you come."

Leaning back in the soft chair, Isabella luxuriated in pleasurable anticipation, giving thanks as well to the benevolent hand of fate that offered her such a delectable means of securing her inheritance. What good fortune that she'd run down that particular lane and caught sight of Molly's blue door. What glorious luck that Dermott had been there-had seen her… and wanted her. And instead of being chained forever to her hideous cousin, she was here tonight-blissfully enchanted.

When Dermott returned a moment later with a dusty wine bottle, she looked up. "Have you ever considered yourself in the role of savior? Because you definitely are forme."

He had been for hundreds of women but not exactly in the manner she was implying. "I'm pleased to be of service," he murmured with a well-bred smile. "But acquit me of such philanthropy. I'm self-indulgent in the extreme. And to that point, let me get this bottle open. You'll like it with your chocolate." He roguishly winked. "I'll like it with your chocolate." Lifting a towel from a rack on the wall, he wiped the bottle clean and deftly opened it, the strength in his wrists as he twisted the cork free sending a little frisson down Isabella's spine. He was utterly exquisite, tall, powerful, more beautiful than even Michelangelo's David, which had always been her ultimate measure for male beauty. He was perfection. In every way, she reflected, recalling his ravishing sexual expertise and the rapturous pleasure he bestowed. Lost in her reverie, she glanced up when his hands closed on her waist.

"Your dessert's ready for you," he whispered, lifting her from the chair, holding her with effortless strength as he took her place. Arranging her comfortably on his lap, he brushed a blond curl from her temple. "Would you like me to feed you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She spoke in a flirtatious contralto that made him conscious, however briefly, of the possibility of miracles. "Not at the moment," he softly enjoined. "Open your mouth."

She did with such languor, his erection surged, and her gentian eyes held his for a highly seductive moment as he placed the forkful of chocolate torte into her mouth. She gently sighed as the flavors tantalized her taste buds and Dermott's erection pressed into her bottom.

"I think I'll fatten you up with chocolate," he whispered. "And keep you filled with cock as well."

"You must read minds," she breathed, licking a fragment of chocolate from her plump bottom lip. "I do adore chocolate and you," she murmured, shifting gently, rubbing against his arousal.

"Then we'll have to accommodate you."

"And you?" Her smile was lush with suggestion.

He grinned. "I'm there… except for the chocolate." Setting the fork aside, he lifted her slightly and turned her so she was facing him, straddling his thighs. "Up," he softly ordered, lightly touching her bottom, and as she rested her hands on his shoulders and raised herself on her knees, he pulled open the skirt of her robe and his. "Now then…" His voice was velvety. "How much do you want it?"

She smiled into his dark eyes. "About as much as you."

His soft chuckle vibrated under her palms.

"No sense in waiting, then," he whispered, guiding his erection into place. And before he had time to adjust himself, she slid downward, more impatient in her tyro state.

"There now," she whispered, her mouth only inches from his, her eyes shadowed in the candlelight. "That's a very good fit."

He thrust upward fractionally, impaling her that last distance more, and they both sighed in unison. "Tailor made," he murmured when next he caught his breath.

"You'll have to come and see me sometime-later when I'm back home," she breathed, undulating gently so she felt him on every sleek bit of tissue. "So I can feel this…"

He had no intention of sending her back anytime soon. "Maybe I'll keep you."

"And add me to your legions of lovers? I don't think so."

"Maybe I'm not asking." Grasping her around the waist, he raised her until she was balanced on the crest of his erection.

"Don't…" She squirmed, trying to lower herself, bereft of the ravishing pleasure.

"What do you say to my keeping you?" He resisted her struggles, holding her aloft without exertion, the powerful muscles in his arms flexing under her weight.

"You're cruel," she protested, her mouth set in a pouty moue.

"Just selfish. Answer me and you can have it."

"Yes, yes, yes… whatever you want."

"You don't mean it."

"I do at the moment."

"Not good enough, darling."

She shut her eyes against the aching urgency, and when she opened them again, she gazed at him with smoldering ire. "I'm going to send you to the Sandwich Islands on one of my ships and leave you there if you don't-"

"I never respond to orders." He was smiling.

"Oh, very well, have your way. I capitulate."

He didn't believe her, but it really didn't matter, game or no game, because he would have her when and if and for however long he wanted her. With or without her permission. "Now, there's a sweet puss," he murmured, releasing his grip, allowing her to slip downward, enjoying the exquisite ecstasy as much as she. And he matched her rhythm as she braced her hands on his shoulders and rode him. Gloried in the feel of her, in the fevered eagerness of her passion. Waited and watched and met her as she climaxed, the sound of her exultant, panting screams muffled by the solid brick walls.

Moments later, she lay replete in his arms, a sleepy novice, a lush beauty, and his, he uncharacteristically mused, captivated when he never was, charmed by her sweetness, by her gratifying propensity for sex. He kissed her cheek as she rested her head on his shoulder. "Would you like to go upstairs and sleep?" he whispered.

She moved her head in negation, the warmth and strength of his body, her sated senses, heavenly.

"A sip of wine?" Oddly, he wished to care for her, when he was the least likely person to experience such feelings. When he'd cared only for himself since his return from India.

"Will you make love to me again?"

"Now?" He moved inside her, his arousal still in full fledge.

She shook her head and softly groaned. "Later…" She wanted to know she could hold him, touch him, feel what she was feeling again.

"You tell me when," he softly said, gently stroking her back.

They made love twice more before he carried her upstairs, lay her on his narrow bed, and tucked her in. She fell asleep almost instantly, fatigued by excess, unfamiliar with such sustained intensity. And he sat beside the bed, his feet up on the coverlet, a brandy in his hand, his gaze resting on her.

He should take her back to Molly's instead of gazing at her like some love-struck moonling. But he wouldn't. Draining his glass, he reached for the liquor bottle placed conveniently on the floor beside his chair and poured himself another drink, at a loss to explain his motives or her outrageous appeal. And as the bottle emptied, he debated Miss Leslie's place in his life. But no palatable answers came to mind, no easy resolution disentangled his muddled feelings.

With dawn breaking, he was no further along in solving his dilemma.

He softly swore.

He should send her back. It was as simple as that.

He inhaled deeply. If he could.

Suddenly she rolled over, opened her eyes, and catching sight of him, smiled.

And it seemed as though the sun had suddenly risen.

He didn't return Miss Leslie that morning, nor the following day. In fact, late on the afternoon of their third day together, as they rested in the marble tub amid the decorative fauna and flora, he said, "Come down to Richmond with me. I have a small home there with no neighbors."

"I'll go wherever you want."

She always surprised him with her directness. A reaction, perhaps, to all the other women he knew who never said what they meant.

"I'll have Molly pack your things. We'll leave in a closed carriage in the event your relatives are on the outlook for you."

"Tell Molly I'll thank her properly when my problems are resolved and I can travel about undisturbed. Tell her too," Isabella added with a smile, "I owe her a portion of my pleasure."

"We both do."

"And I'm learning so much," she murmured, a teasing light in her eyes.

He was as well-about unsatisfied desire and continuous rut. And in his infrequent cooler moments, he'd berate himself for his susceptibility.

Out of courtesy, he went himself to fetch Isabella's belongings. "We shouldn't be in Richmond long," he explained to Molly. "But at the moment, I find myself unwilling to relinquish her. So if you'd see that some of Isabella's things are packed…" He shrugged. "Not much, I wouldn't think."

He went on to deliver Isabella's message and an edited account of their activities as Molly began assembling a number of gowns and other necessities, his conversation desultory, fractured, the focus of his thoughts obviously elsewhere as he paced the room.

Once the two valises were ready, Molly snapped the latches shut and faced Dermott from across the bed Isabella had used. "You should bring her back instead. Clearly, you're unsettled about this, wondering, I surmise, why the customary boredom hasn't set in."

Dermott came to a standstill and offered her a tight smile. "You know me too well."

"I know what most men of your class want. Pleasure without attachment. But you shouldn't lead her on. She's going to be hurt when you decide you've had your fill."

"If I could let her go, I would." He shifted uncomfortably. "But right now that's not possible. I felt I should at least give you notice before I take her away."

Molly looked at him with displeasure. "You're being utterly selfish, of course. She already adores you, doesn't she?"

He moved back a step, as though avoiding the significance of her words.

"And the longer you keep her, the more attached she'll become." Her gaze took on a critical assessment. "What if Isabella were to become pregnant? I don't suppose you care to consider that either?"

"Lord, Molly, give me some credit. I wouldn't do that to her."

"At least you haven't lost all reason."

"Not quite." He raked his hand through his dark hair. "She's not at all what I expected."

"You saw her here. You knew she was innocent."

"You're wrong. That she's not."

"And your lust has found a kindred spirit?" She spoke with a nice degree of cynicism.

He gently shook his head. "If it were only that simple. Lust I understand. It's sustained me for the last few years. But she's more than carnal sport. She talks of business like a merchant banker, and her knowledge of maps-" He smiled. "We've been working on my additions to the maps of northern India. She has a sure hand and an artist's eye. And she likes many of the books I do. And of course-"

"She makes love exactly to your liking," Molly astutely affirmed. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you're falling in love. And I mention the word with the greatest reservation, knowing you as well as I do."

"It's not love." His voice was crisp.

"But you can't let her go."

"I don't wish to yet."

"Look, Dermott, I just don't want you to leave her heartbroken. She doesn't have your experience or toughness." Her gaze was direct. "It's not an even contest."

"It's not a contest. She's enjoying herself." His mouth twitched into a faint smile. "Really."

"Ultimately, she'll lose you. And she has no one in the world to turn to, to care for her. I would if I could, but my situation would be an embarrassment to her. I can't openly offer her aid. Which means you're not allowed to deal with her in a cavalier way. I don't mean that as a warning." Her mouth set into a firm line. "Actually, I do."

"When it's over, I promise she'll be fine."

"She doesn't need your money. You're not going to be able to buy her off like all the others with an expensive piece of jewelry or a small house in Chelsea. You've thought of that, I presume."

"Of course. I've thought about every conceivable thing, dammit. Do you think I want to feel this way? I know what I'm doing isn't right, but you know," he harshly said, "she doesn't care either."

"So she says. You could do the honorable thing and marry her."

"Out of the question."

"She needs protection from her relatives."

"That I can do."

Molly glared at him. "I'm angry and I don't want to be angry with you."

"Let me make amends," he offered. "I'll see that her relatives are restrained."

"Permanently."

"Yes, of course."

Molly allowed him the smallest smile. "Thank you."

"I'm sorry, Molly, truly I am. I can't marry her. But I will at least see that she can return to her home when she wishes and live her life unmolested." He quickly glanced at the clock on Molly's desk. "I'll talk to Mathison before I leave for Richmond and have him look into these Leslies. And once I'm back in town, I'll go to see them myself and make them fully aware of the consequences should they coerce or frighten Isabella."

"They have to be warned off before she returns to town."

"I understand. You have my word. I won't allow them to touch her."

She didn't immediately reply, vexed and saddened by the harsh realities.

"She reminds you in some ways of yourself, doesn't she?"

"Of my ill-starred past." Molly grimaced. "I suppose I can't blame you for that." She sighed. "Take care of her and give me warning when you're returning. I want to be there for her if I can."

"I'll send you notice."

"She brings you joy, doesn't she?" Molly's gaze was piercing.

"Every minute." Moving to the bed, he picked up the valises. "It might be a fortnight or so, in case you don't hear from me. Don't take alarm."

"I'll trust you to act the gentleman. You're one of the few around."

"I'll take care of her. I promise."

When the door closed on him, Molly allowed her tears to flow. She hadn't cried in years, and she wondered for a moment if she was becoming dotty. Sniffling, she moved toward her desk, intent on doing something to help Isabella herself. Long ago, she'd learned that action forestalled her moments of self-pity. Picking up her pen, she sat down to write a note to her lawyer. She would see that the Leslies were investigated by her own team of attorneys. She had plenty of money and a considerable amount of influence as well. Albeit covert. At least she'd be prepared once Isabella returned to London. Having the upper hand had always been her favorite means of doing business.

Isabella waited for Dermott in his suite of rooms, pacing at times, trying to read, unable to sit for more than a few minutes at a time. Dressed in one of his robes, she wandered the large rooms, examining the portraits and landscapes on the walls, trying to place the ancestors chronologically by dress, wondering which of them had purchased the landscapes from the past century. A traveling Ramsey, no doubt, the majority of the works depicting continental locales. In her perambulations, she was reminded of the great difference in their stations in life-regardless her mother had been a viscountess in her own right. But the Leslies were not of the first water, nor had she any contact with her mother's relatives. Although, she thought with a small smile, heiresses at least were looked upon with a degree of approval. Now, if only Dermott were a poor earl, she whimsically noted, perhaps she could contemplate something more than a brief liaison.

She'd warned herself countless times in the previous days not to wish for the stars, not to allow herself to dream the impossible. But he was so very easy to love… Abruptly setting aside the book she'd been attempting to read again, she rose from her chair, needing distraction from her hopeless fantasies.

But she understood for the first time why all the millions of tomes on love and romance had been written. To remind one of the inexplicable wonder. To exalt and rejoice. To revel in the astonishing pleasure.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, she silently implored, because I need you beside me.

Standing in the middle of the immense drawing room, surrounded by miles of gilding, countless yards of turquoise damask, furniture fit for kings, she listened for the footfall that would bring her joy.

And when he opened the door almost two hours later, she turned from the windows overlooking the gardens, her eyes filled with tears.

"I thought you weren't coming back."

"How could I not." Dropping her valises, he opened his arms.

She ran to him across the great expanse of Aubusson carpet, and he felt as though he'd returned to paradise.

"I shouldn't feel this way," she sobbed as he held her close.

"I'm glad you do," he whispered, wondering how she'd completely altered his world in so short a time.

"I should be blasé and sophisticated and charming so you don't tire of me."

"I don't want that, puss." Slipping his finger under her chin, he gently lifted her face. "I like you exactly the way you are."

"You don't mind taking a crybaby to Richmond?" She sniffled and smiled and looked so utterly adorable, he forgot to be sensible.

"You're my sun and moon, Izzy," he whispered.

And her heart filled with joy.

He played lady's maid for her, which delayed their departure for some time, but eventually Isabella was properly attired in addition to being deliciously sated, and leaving Dermott's suite, she walked on air.

The servants were decorous and polite regardless the awkward status of their employer's guest. Dermott's orders had been unequivocal. And Pomeroy wished them good journey as they walked from Bathurst House into the courtyard, where a closed carriage waited. Dermott helped Isabella into the green-lacquered conveyance, and after giving instruction to the driver, climbed in, shut the door, and took his place beside her.

"You'll like Strawberry Hill," he said with a smile.

"I know I will."