Temporary Mistress

Chapter Thirteen

THE EARL OF MOIRA had given Isabella's schedule to him out of roguish sport, Dermott didn't doubt. But he wasn't about to rise to the bait.

In fact, he made a point of having plans the night of her coming-out ball. But in the course of Lord Falworth's revel that evening, he was more aware than he would have wished of the special event transpiring at Hertford House. At midnight, with the bacchanalia in full swing, Dermott looked up from the chaise where he lay with a beautiful cyprian-one of several Falworth had brought in for the occasion-and glanced at the clock chiming the hour.

The lovely woman lying beneath him regained his attention in a particularly arousing way, bringing his perceptions back to amorous play, and he renewed his gratifying rhythm. The private room in the tavern was furnished with a number of chaises-all occupied by young lords and their fair companions, and the consumption of liquor had had its effect on the guests. The level of dissipation had reached an unbridled state of orgy.

From which Dermott felt oddly detached.

Not that the lady beneath him had any reason for complaint. He operated automatically after so many years, instinct and skill taking over when his attention was otherwise engaged. Although, after bringing her to climax once again, he disengaged himself with well-bred courtesy-the phrases second nature to a man who never stayed long-excused himself and rose from the chaise.

Prompted by rash impulse, he swiftly dressed, making himself presentable with an adeptness acquired from countless hasty departures. And after leaving his companion a sizable purse and a gracious smile, he exited the debauch.

With a pronounced feeling of relief.

Twenty minutes later, he was mounting the stairs to Hertford House.

Standing on the threshold of the ballroom a few moments later, he was announced by the marchioness's august majordomo. A great number of guests turned their heads to stare. Not that he was overlate, for balls rarely began before eleven.

But, rather, that he was there at all.

And, they noted, in a state of mild dishevelment.

Even from a distance it was evident he'd not just come from his valet. Although the earl had a certain cachet that drew the eye regardless of the state of his dress. He wore a black swallowtail coat, an elegant waistcoat of embroidered silk, and knee breeches, the required dress for balls. And while his neckcloth might be a shade wrinkled, the beauty of his face and form eclipsed even that most reprehensible of sins. He ran his hand through his hair in a casual gesture as he stood in the doorway, the cynosure of so many eyes, and surveyed the guests with a raking gaze.

His appearances were rare at society functions, although he was known to make the exception when he was intent on making a new conquest or charming a current one.

It had to be a woman.

Who was she? everyone wondered.

And then his gaze came to rest on Lady Hertford's honored guest, and the conjecture ceased.

The earl strolled forward.

Isabella had seen Dermott the minute he'd stepped through the doorway, before he'd been announced, before he'd seen her, and her heart was racing.

His progress across the large room engaged everyone's attention, although he seemed not to notice. And when the men surrounding Isabella moved aside enough to allow him access to her and he saw her fully, his mouth curved into a smile.

An intimate smile that suggested he and Miss Leslie were well acquainted.

That made it clear to those who knew him best.

"Miss Leslie, I understand," he said, his voice deep and low, his salutation careful not to openly acknowledge their prior friendship. "Lord Bathurst at your service." He bowed with exceptional grace.

And while protocol demanded he wait to be presented to her, no one was surprised at his audacity.

She should take offense at his insolence, but he looked so beautiful, she could scarcely breathe.

But then she smelled the heavy fragrance-a woman's scent that rose from his hair and clothes-and an inexpressible rage filled her senses.

"How dare you," she murmured, aware of the attention his appearance had evoked but unable to suppress her anger.

"I didn't realize you were such a stickler for convention, Miss Leslie. Should I find someone to introduce us?"

"Don't let me keep you, my lord. You perhaps wish to return to your lady friend."

"Not in the least. I apologize for my unkempt state. It was unavoidable."

"As is my next engagement. Excuse me, gentlemen. I've promised Lady Hertford a moment of my time." She made to walk away.

Dermott stepped in her path, his half-smile offering challenge. "Barbara won't mind waiting. Dance with me, Miss Leslie."

All eyes were on their exchange, and even those on the opposite side of the ballroom recognized a contretemps.

Isabella smiled tightly. "The musicians aren't playing, my lord. Perhaps some other time."

"An oversight, I'm sure." Gripping her hand, he stepped out onto the floor enough so the resting musicians saw him, and signaled for them to begin. They were separated from the other guests by a small distance now, their words not as likely to be heard.

"You're annoying me," Isabella snapped.

"Strangely, I feel the same way."

"Then I'll thank you to unhand me."

"I don't care to. Are you willing to make a scene at your coming-out party?" he softly jibed, drawing her into his arms as the strains of a danse à deux began. "Think of what you have to lose. Ail those potential suitors. A position as reigning belle. You're dazzling in that lavender gown, darling," he murmured. "I'm sure you know that." Pulling her closer, he gazed down at her with a cheeky grin.

"How kind of you to notice, my lord," she replied sarcastically, trying to ease backward.

"Kindness has nothing to do with it." His grip tightened as he smoothly moved them into a turn. "Your breasts are quite magnificent mounded in plump display above that very risque neckline."

"Low décolletage is the fashion, my lord. As you well know, I'm sure, considering your major source of interest."

"As I recall, it was yours as well."

"People change. Although I see you're still in form. Who was your lover tonight? She uses perfume liberally."

"Actually, I forget."

He didn't even have the decency to deny it, she hotly reflected. "But then, you make a point of forgetting your light o'loves, don't you."

"Not always. I'm here tonight."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?" How beautifully he danced, damn him, effortlessly.

"You should be."

"You arrogant bastard!" she hissed, his cool nonchalance galling. "Is this where I'm supposed to fall into your arms and offer myself to you?"

He smiled. "You're already in my arms." With a cordial nod he acknowledged an acquaintance dancing by. "Although I'm getting the distinct impression you won't be offering yourself in the next few minutes," he murmured, his attention returned to her.

"How astute. It must come from your vast experience with women. For your information, I won't be offering myself at all."

"Really."

Another nod, a smile. He seemed to know everyone. "Yes, really," she said in a pettish tone that took issue with both the public display of adulation directed at him and his casual acceptance of it. "You're too assured, my lord. You've had your way too long."

"And you haven't?"

"Not with such selfish abandon." Most pertinently, she refused to be number two hundred and ten or one thousand fifty or whatever the sum of his conquests. The female fragrance on him tonight forcefully reminded her of his reputation for inconstancy.

"Do you wish to be courted? Is that what you want?"

"What I want, my lord, isn't within your power to give."

"You never complained before-about my giving," he dryly murmured.

Her cheeks turned red. "I have some pride, Dermott. Consider-how long would you keep me if I returned? A week, two weeks? When would you tire of the game? Because it's only a game with you. And I no longer care to play."

"Are you angling for a husband?" His voice had taken on an edge. "Is that what this is all about? This season and your newly found virtue?"

"What difference does it make."

"Tell me," he brusquely ordered, no longer nonchalant, the thought of her married to someone else insupportable.

"Unless you're thinking of proposing, I don't see how it can possibly matter what my plans are."

"So you are on the market." His grip on her hand hardened.

"Whether I am or not has nothing to do with you."

"I could take you away. You couldn't stop me. No one could."

"To what purpose?" Her brows rose infinitesimally.

He didn't answer.

"You see," she whispered. "Back to square one. Now, if you would stop acting like some spoiled young boy, I'd be grateful if you'd return me to Lady Hertford."

"Fine," he curtly said. Twirling them in grim-mouthed silence and flawless pirouettes through the numerous dancing couples, he came to rest directly before Lady Hertford.

"It was a pleasure, Miss Leslie," Dermott pronounced in silken accents. "I wish you a pleasant evening."

"And you as well, my lord," she murmured, as capable as he of feigned civility.

"Your party is a great success, Barbara," the earl remarked, smiling at their hostess. "Everyone of consequence is here."

"So nice of you to come, Dermott. I'm sure Miss Leslie is appreciative."

"Bathurst!" The Prince of Wales appeared in the doorway of the card room and waved as he approached. "I see you've been introduced to Miss Leslie," he said with a sly smile as he came to rest beside the marchioness.

And introduced into Miss Leslie as well-as he would be again, Dermott firmly resolved. "She granted me the privilege of a dance, Your Highness," he replied, honey-tongued and insolent. "I'm overcome with gratitude."

"And so you should be, Bathurst. Miss Leslie is a jewel of the first water, a rare beauty we're all grateful to have in our midst. Is that not true, Barbara, my dear?"

"Without a doubt, Your Highness. Why not join us for supper, Dermott. I'm sure Miss Leslie would enjoy your company."

"Thank you. I will." The smirk he turned on Isabella was one of brazen-faced impudence.

"We still have plenty of time before supper to test our competence in the card room," the Prince of Wales cheerfully declared. "Come, Bathurst. You always bring me luck."

In the interim before supper, Isabella danced with any number of the horde of men intent on claiming her company. She gaily accepted their compliments and requests to visit on the morrow, hoping to diminish the impact of Dermott's appearance tonight by welcoming their attentions, thinking she could forget his rudeness in the arms of other men.

Adoring men.

Flattering men.

Men who wanted her for more than sex.

She smiled and laughed and flirted outrageously, wanting to pretend Dermott didn't matter, wanting to obliterate the image of his smug smile, thinking if she played at amour as shamelessly as he, she might feel a spark of interest in one of the many men who wooed her.

But no matter how handsome or charming the men, no matter their dancing skills, regardless of their title or flowery blandishments, her feelings remained sadly untouched.

She might have been made of stone.

But she steeled herself against the counterfeit joy that Dermott offered, reminding herself that all was only transient pleasure with him and the sense of loss at his leaving was too unbearable to repeat. If she were sensible-and prior to meeting Dermott she'd prided herself on her reason-she'd take advantage of her miraculous entree into society and concentrate on the amusements of a London season with single-minded purpose.

Not an easy task with Dermott so much on her mind. But the sheer number of entertainments together with her numerous gallant and enthusiastic admirers should keep her busy from morning to night. And in her present peevish mood she welcomed distraction above all else.

Gazing up into the handsome face of the Marquis of Lonsdale, she said with feigned warmth, "I'd very much like to take the ribbons of your high-perch phaeton. Say early next week? Monday?"

"Delighted, Miss Leslie," the young lord suavely replied.

"Perhaps four o'clock?"

"Four o'clock it is." His smile had charmed from a very young age. "I consider myself most fortunate, Miss Leslie."

"Au contraire, Lord Lonsdale. The pleasure is mine."

Dermott won at the gaming tables, of course, which didn't help her annoyance. Did he ever fail at anything? The Prince had won as well, and both men were in good spirits when they escorted the ladies into supper.

"Do you gamble, Miss Leslie?" Dermott inquired, his eyes asking something else entirely as he sat down beside her.

"I did once, to my chagrin," she pointedly replied.

"A shame. Perhaps it's like being thrown from a horse. It's best to simply try again."

"In this case, my lord, I doubt the horse has learned any better manners."

"How would you know without riding him again?"

The double entendre brought a flush to her cheeks, but her voice, when she spoke, was chill. "Some rogue horses can't be broken of their bad habits."

"What horses?" the Prince of Wales inquired in a jovial tone. "Did you buy yourself some new prime horseflesh, Dermott?"

"Miss Leslie and I were speaking metaphorically, Your Highness."

"Oh, ho! Poetry already, Bathurst. You don't waste any time. I'll drink to that, eh, Barbara, my dear. To love and romance, hear, hear!"

And there was nothing for it, but that they must join him in his toast.

Isabella tried to ignore Dermott as they were served their food by a phalanx of footmen, the menu gargantuan-like the Prince of Wales's appetite. But Dermott insinuated himself into the proceedings, indicating to the flunkies what to serve her, having her wineglass refilled as she emptied it, watching her eat each course with approval as though he had a proprietary right, touching her hand on occasion and her leg under the table with great frequency.

She tried to distance herself, but there was little room to physically move with the other guests at the table and the eyes of the Prince and Lady Hertford often trained on them. She didn't dare make a scene on her first night in society.

And Dermott knew it.

When the purgatory of supper was finally over, Dermott took her hand in his and drew her from her chair. "Miss Leslie has asked me to dance again." His smile to the table at large was sunny. "How can I refuse?"

And after the courtesies of taking their leave were complete, she was led away.

"You missed your calling," Isabella snapped, finally able to speak her mind. "You should have been on the stage."

"While you could have played the part of a sulky miss," he sportively replied. "How do you hope to bring a suitor up to scratch if you don't put yourself forward in a more flattering way?"

She cast him a steely glance. "Are you a suitor?"

"Acquit me, darling. I was speaking in an advisory capacity."

"Advice from you on courtship, my lord? I would think advice on seduction more your style."

"You don't need any advice on that, puss. You seduce in the most blatant way."

"I'll take that as a compliment, coming from a man of your repute."

"I'd rather have you take something else from me."

"Acquit me, darling," she mocked, repeating his phrase. "I've given up making love to faithless rakes."

"You knew what I was when you agreed to dispense with your virginity, so don't take on the airs of an affronted maid," he said with disagreeable calm. "I never promised you anything."

"Of course. How stupid of me to have overlooked the facts of our"-her brows rose-"agreement. Forgive me."

"Happily." Content with the lady's clearer understanding, his soft murmur turned indulgent. "Now, tell me, darling, how I can make you happy?"

It was the most tempting of questions but not one she cared to answer honestly. "If only you could," she sweetly drawled, abruptly coming to a halt just short of the ballroom, resisting the tugging of his hand. "Unfortunately, I have no intention of changing my mind."

He looked at her from under drawn brows, his gaze highly charged, examining. And when he spoke, his voice was unutterably soft. "You're sure?"

"Very."

Releasing her hand, he stepped away. "Then there's no point in wasting our time. Good evening, Miss Leslie," he murmured with the ceremonial courtesy of a stranger. And he walked away without a backward glance.

The earl danced the rest of the evening with women of every description, dispensing his charm with democratic conviviality, flirting shamelessly with the crowd of ladies that hovered around him between dances, ignoring Isabella. And when the guests were beginning to take their leave, he followed suit, coming to pay his respects to his hostess with a lovely raven-haired woman on his arm.

Lady Hertford and her guest of honor were seated with several others, indulging in champagne ices after a lively mazurka. The ladies were fanning themselves, the men wiping their brows with their handkerchiefs, and at Dermott's approach conversation trailed off. He and his companion were a stunning couple, both dark, tall, the stylish woman sumptuously provocative. She was dressed in a revealing magenta tulle gown that showed off her pale skin and black hair to perfection, and the manner in which she clung to Dermott flaunted their intimacy. Every man there envied him his night of entertainment. Mrs. Compton's beautiful mouth was reputedly one of her greatest assets.

On reaching the seated group, Dermott smiled and bowed to his hostess. "You've outdone yourself again, Barbara. The party was a veritable crush." He winked at her. "Your usual triumph."

"Thank you, darling. So nice of you to come." Her glance was amused. "You always add a bit of drama to any assembly."

"I live to entertain you, marchioness," he lazily drawled, a teasing gleam in his eye.

"And a good many others as well, you sweet man."

Ignoring her drollery, Dermott turned to Isabella. "Much success in your season, Miss Leslie." He bowed faintly. "I wish you every happiness."

With the lady on his arm fairly melting into his side, Isabella found it difficult to subdue her jealousy, and she kept her voice steady only with effort. "Thank you, my lord."

Dermott's gaze turned from her and swept the group. "We'll say our adieus, then. I'm sure we'll all see one another again-at some other crush." He turned to his companion. "Are you ready, darling?"

The resplendent beauty answered with a breathy, soft response that brought a smile to every man's lips and a disapproving severity to each woman's mouth. Isabella felt as though she were suffocating.

As the couple walked away, Lady Blandford sniffed. "How fortunate for her, Mr. Compton prefers his little bit of fluff in Half Moon Street."

"For access to the Prince of Wales's circle, Compton is more than willing to allow his wife her freedom," one of the men remarked. "That connection has nicely profited his financial firm."

"She's a bit fast even for the Prince of Wales's set," a young matron chided. "And I hardly think her dress suitable for a ball."

"More suitable to the boudoir," another woman taunted, "with her bosom so blatantly exposed."

"Come, come, Caro, your son has had his fill of her now," a gentleman noted.

"And the lady must feather her nest while she may. Her dark, sultry looks will soon fade."

"Mrs. Count'em has feathered her nest quite well, rumor has it." The sobriquet distinguished Mrs. Compton's habit of extracting expensive gifts from her lovers. "Bathurst has given more than his share to her. Recently, a necklace of pigeon-egg pearls, I hear."

"They're friends of long standing, are they not?" a man observed.

"Because they suit each other," an elderly lady calmly said, having seen enough of the world to be inured to its peccadillos. "Bathurst wishes no attachments. And Mrs. Compton likes his money."

"Enough of this tittle-tattle," Lady Hertford interposed, cognizant of Isabella's discomfort. "And if we don't all find our beds, we won't be up in time for Cecilia's Venetian breakfast tomorrow."

A small groan arose at the reminder of the morning's event.

"I for one am for my bed," Lady Hertford declared, rising from her chair.

Molly was waiting up when Isabella returned, eager for news of the evening. "Did you enjoy yourself?" she asked as Isabella entered her bedchamber.

"It was very grand, Molly. And yes, I enjoyed myself immensely."

"He was there, wasn't he?" Molly said, the reserve in Isabella's tone obvious.

Isabella smiled ruefully. "In all his glory."

"And?"

"After his very public pursuit, I told him I wasn't interested in renewing our relationship. After which he danced with virtually every woman in the room and then left with a Mrs. Compton, who was very beautiful and seductive and apparently one of his many lovers."

"He's going to be visible during the season," Molly gently noted. "Will you manage?"

Isabella kicked off her slippers and sank into a chair near Molly's. "Yes, Molly," she quietly replied. "I shall manage. In fact, I've accepted an invitation to drive Lord Lonsdale's phaeton next week when my schedule is less busy. And several other men have expressed their intentions to call."

"I'll warn Mrs. Homer of possible visitors, but you sleep as late as you may." Isabella's housekeeper had been brought to Grosvenor Place in the role of a country aunt to Isabella. A suitable chaperone was a requirement for an unmarried young lady. And Homie was capable of presenting an image of respectability.

"The Holland breakfast is scheduled for noon."

"Do you wish to attend? After so little sleep?"

Isabella smiled. "Of course, Molly. I intend to divert myself with each and every entertainment offered to me this season."

"Good for you. I wouldn't wish for you to pine over something-"

"Unattainable?"

"I was going to say something too problematical. Dermott hasn't come to terms with his life or himself since his return." She didn't admit to her bit of matchmaking after the fiasco of Richmond. "He's not ready to admit to love again. And any woman who thinks to change or reform him is bound for disappointment."

"So I've come to realize. So I shall enjoy myself in the exhilarating pace of activities. And not expect anything more than amusement."

"Exactly. Do you want a warm drink to help you sleep?"

Isabella laughed. "The moment my head hits the pillow I shall be sleeping. And thank you, Molly… from the bottom of my heart. For all you've given me."

But once Molly left and Isabella was in bed, she found sleep elusive. What was Dermott doing right now? she jealously reflected. Was the lovely Mrs. Compton giving him pleasure? Was she making him smile? Was she making him happy? How easy it was to mouth the words-to declare her indifference to him and express her intentions to enjoy the season. But to achieve that level of stoicism was much more difficult. He was in her every waking thought and his image haunted her dreams. Would it be possible to find pleasure with other men? Could she even seriously contemplate such an event? Or did loving Dermott Ramsay spoil one forever?

Jealousy ate at her, ruined her sleep, peopled her dreams, made her toss and turn until nearly morning. She finally fell asleep near dawn, exhausted, and when she was wakened at eleven for the hairdresser, she groggily opened her eyes and wondered how she could possibly smile today.