Temporary Mistress

Chapter Fourteen

DERMOTT WOKE to find Emma Compton in his arms and silently groaned. Easing her head from his shoulder, he slowly slid away, hoping he could escape her bed without a scene. While Emma may have been tempting last night when he'd drunk enough to put most men under the table and wished retaliation against Isabella, in the cold light of day he cursed his stupidity.

"Ummmm…" She reached for him in her sleep.

He lay utterly still until she quieted again, then carefully rose from the bed and tiptoed away. After gathering his clothing scattered about the floor, he quickly dressed save for his shoes, which seemed to have disappeared. Surveying the overgilded room, he searched the boudoir without success.

Perhaps he'd go home in his stockings, he thought, his need to flee urgent. He didn't want to talk to Emma; he didn't want to be reminded of all they'd done the night before. He particularly didn't want her to ask when they'd meet again.

The activities of the previous night had left a sour taste in his mouth. Despite Emma's agility and ready talents, he'd not enjoyed himself. He felt as though he'd reached some distasteful level of surfeit. Tired of women or sex, perhaps only of Emma, he stood in the middle of her pink-and-white boudoir, shoeless and empty of feeling.

Then he softly swore, because he realized the true reason for his discontent.

And he had no intention of acting on that knowledge.

In the end, Emma woke up because he accidentally kicked over a bottle left on the floor, and it required a delicate politesse along with a promise to buy her a brooch she wanted to placate her demands for more of his time. The jewelry was a small enough concession in his current mood; he would have offered anything to make his escape. He finally discovered his shoes under the puddle of magenta tulle, and with an evasive promise to call on her soon, he left her perfumed boudoir.

A few moments later, he stood on the pavement outside, feeling like a man just let out of prison.

Dressed, coiffed, standing in the doorway to the drawing room, Isabella viewed the scores of bouquets with amazement.

"They began arriving at eight this morning," Mrs. Homer declared. "I think we'll have to move some of them to the other reception rooms, for each knock on the door brings more. You're the belle of the ball, my dear," she added with a smile. "And the billets-doux. I counted twenty-two already."

"Oh, dear." Isabella's soft exclamation was composed of both astonishment and dismay. While it was gratifying to be the recipient of so much attention, she wondered how she was going to politely elude her suitors' regard. None of the men attracted her in the least. In fact, she felt a poseur, for she couldn't possibly return any of their affection.

A strong inclination to bolt and run overcame her as she surveyed the vast array of flowers.

Although she couldn't, she knew.

Not after all Molly had done to see that she had a season. Not after having witnessed Dermott's shameless behavior with all the ladies at Lady Hertford's. Particularly not after her sleepless night, where unwanted images of the voluptuous Mrs. Compton smiled at her from beneath Dermott. Damn his unbridled philandering! Clenching her fists, she lifted her chin and prepared to face the day.

Dermott would see she could enjoy herself as well as he.

And to that purpose Isabella conscientiously read each enclosure sent with the flowers, each billet-doux. Should she meet any of her admirers at the Venetian breakfast, it would be necessary to properly thank them. She had every intention of taking part in the full gamut of society's pleasures with as much gusto as Dermott.

The Earl of Bathurst was absent from the Holland breakfast, for which she was grateful, she told herself. Although she periodically searched the crush of people-in some inner recess of her soul, hopeful of seeing him. But on the surface she performed well, accepting the role of belle as though she'd been born to the part. And perhaps she had, with a mother known for her flamboyant personality and a grandfather who had indulged her like a princess.

In the course of the festivities she found herself diverted at least, conversing with countless people, accepting flattery with grace and charm, amusing and entertaining with an easy fluency. Her unusual education allowed her to discuss feminine pursuits or business affairs with equal competence; she also understood the world of bluestocking women and was sensitive to the erudite issues they espoused. While her ready sense of humor amused without malice.

"You've introduced a most charming young lady into society," the Duchess of Kendale remarked to Lady Hertford as they surveyed the milling scene from comfortable chairs in a small flower-filled alcove.

"She's a darling, is she not?" Barbara smiled. "And quite in love with Dermott, I surmise."

The duchess lifted one brow. "A rather useless endeavor, from all accounts."

The marchioness shrugged faintly. "That remains to be seen. He was wooing her most assiduously last night until she gave him his conge."

"Is she so clever as to make him beg?"

"Apparently there is some discord in their relationship. But not so long ago, I understand, it was quite-shall we say… cozy."

"She's not a young gel, is she?"

"No. But an heiress of vast fortune."

"So she can afford to offer challenge."

"Or perhaps she's as prideful as he."

"Either way, their courtship should offer an interesting piece of drama."

Lady Hertford shook her head. "Surely not a courtship with Bathurst. Although, I admit, I find it amusing that at last he's found a lady who refuses to succumb to his enormous charm."

"Perhaps it's time. He's been untroubled by female rejection his entire life."

"And Isabella may decide to favor one of her many suitors instead. Who knows how practical her motives."

"A practical woman would never waste time on Dermott."

Barbara flicked her fan open with a snap of her wrist. "And he's not likely to change."

"A rake rarely reforms," the duchess pronounced softly.

Barbara sniffed. "Really, Clarissa, be sensible. They never do."

"Mama!" Caroline Leslie cried, her plump cheeks quivering with the intensity of her feelings. "It's the most ghastly thing ever! Her name is in almost every paragraph of the society columns! I can't bear it!"

Seated with her daughters at the breakfast table, Abigail Leslie clutched a copy of another news sheet, her thin lips tightly pursed, twin spots of red coloring her sharp cheekbones. "Somehow Isabella has managed to show herself to advantage," she grimly murmured.

"The Prince of Wales, Mama!" Amelia wailed. "How vexatious and provoking! The little bitch knows the Prince of Wales!"

"Mind your tongue, my dear. I doesn't suit a young lady of fashion."

"As if we even are, Mama," Amelia crossly replied. "The only parties we're invited to are ones given by mushrooms or arrivistes. There hasn't been one viscount or baron or even a knight at any of them. And that little bitch" she furiously added, looking daggers at her mother as if daring she reprove her, "is not only invited to a party given by the Prince of Wales's mistress but is the belle of the ball! Papa must do something about it, Mama! He must!" She reached for a piece of plum cake, her fourth.

"You know very well, your papa has been warned off by the Earl of Bathurst. Would you wish him killed in a duel?"

Both daughters stared at their mother without speaking, their selfishness curtailing an immediate reply. And then Caroline begrudgingly said, "I suppose not."

"Why does Bathurst have a say in our lives anyway?" Amelia petulantly inquired. "Can't Papa just tell him to mind his own business?"

"Would he really, actually, shoot Papa?" Caroline queried, a hopeful note in her voice.

"I don't think your papa cares to find out whether he will or not," Abigail snapped.

"We're never going to get husbands," Amelia cried. "And next season we'll be old goods. It's not fair, Mama!"

"What if stupid Isabella fell down the stairs? That would end her season." Caroline had pushed her governess down the stairs years before and the lady had directly left the household in fear for her life.

"I won't have you even thinking of such a thing," her mother warned. "You would never receive another invitation should you be so unwise." It had taken a considerable sum to still the governess's gossiping tongue those years earlier, and Abigail didn't wish to have any old stories revived should Isabella meet with an accident on the stairs.

"She'd be out of our way though," Amelia murmured, directing a sly smile at her sister. "And we could go to more parties."

"That's enough!" Abigail chided. "I forbid you to talk of such things as pushing anyone down the stairs."

"We could poison her," Caroline suggested, her mother's warnings always lacking penalties. "That's what happened to the heroine in Lady Blair."

"If you recall, the hero saved her," her sister pointed out. "And stupid Isabella has any number of suitors, according to the gossip column, so she would be saved anyway."

"I can't imagine where you girls get such preposterous notions. No one will be poisoning anyone. Do you understand?" Abigail cast them a pointed look.

"And we'll just mold away at all the rubbishy parties while Isabella dances with the Prince and probably marries a duke." On which sour note Caroline stuffed an entire muffin into her mouth.

"And we'll be forced to live with Mama and Papa for the rest of our lives," Amelia said with a dramatic sigh cut short by a forkful of glazed ham.

After breakfast, impelled by motherly impulse and the ridicule of her friends if she couldn't marry off her daughters with ten thousand apiece, Abigail sought out her husband in his study. "I don't suppose you saw the society columns this morning," she curtly pronounced as she entered the room, displeasure in every syllable of her statement.

Herbert looked up from his desk. "Now, why would I look at the society columns?"

"To see if your daughters might be in them?"

"Not likely that." He was realistic about his daughters' prospects, understanding they would find themselves husbands only because of the generous dowries he provided.

"Well," Abigail pithily said, plunking herself down in a chair near the desk, her brows drawn together in a black scowl, "if you had, you would have seen that Miss Isabella Leslie has flown very high indeed."

His wife had his attention. "Meaning?"

"None other than Lady Hertford sponsored Isabella at a ball last evening. Which really means the Prince of Wales is her sponsor, as you well know. Our daughters are beside themselves with grief and rage."

"Don't look at me like that. I could no more get them an invitation to Lady Hertford's than I could jump over the moon." Isabella had indeed landed on her feet, he thought, Bathurst's interest in her suddenly personalized, the tidbits of gossip apparently true. His close relationship with the Prince of Wales was well known.

"You will do something, Herbert," Abigail's thin shoulders were rigid with anger. "Need I remind you what the influence of my father's firm meant when you were first gaining clients?"

"No, you need not remind me," he grumbled, "since I've heard it anytime you were vexed these last twenty years. But you didn't see Bathurst when he threatened me. He was serious."

"Surely a man of his ilk rarely appears at the deb balls. The girls wish to meet the aristocracy, not the sons of City merchants."

"Unfortunately, we don't know when he may appear, and I have no intention of meeting him on the dueling field."

"I understand, Herbert." She offered him a thin smile. "But surely there's some way around it. A means of offering the girls entree into some of the fashionable balls. Bathurst's defense of Isabella certainly can't be of much moment. He's known for the fickleness of his interests."

"Let's hope you're right. I don't relish his anger. Nor do any of our male relatives."

"You must find out when and where he will be and simply avoid those entertainments. There will be plenty enough parties left over. With the girls' dowries we can reach high, Herbert, and don't tell me you wouldn't wish a quartering or two added to our family name."

"You ask a good deal, Abigail."

"But not the impossible when every night sees a dozen balls."

"Very well. I'll see what I can do."

"That's all I want."

By one of those fortuitous freaks of fortune that occur from time to time, Herbert Leslie found himself meeting with the Marquis of Lonsdale the following day. It seemed the marquis had lost rather heavily at White's the night before, and he needed funds to pay his gambling debts. Since Herbert already held a number of the marquis's notes, he was just about to ask a favor of him in regard to invitations for his daughters, when Lonsdale asked, "Is the beautiful Miss Isabella Leslie any relation to you? She's quite charmed the ton."

It was a moment of pure opportunity.

Invitations be damned.

Since George Leslie's death, the Leslie males had been trying to find a way to separate Isabella from her fortune, and now Lonsdale had suddenly appeared in his office as though by the hand of God. Not that Herbert had a Christian bone in his body, but he recognized a miracle when he saw one.

"As a matter of fact, she is. She's my niece."

"And very wealthy, I hear." After dissipating his inheritance in five short years, the marquis was on the lookout for a profitable marriage. "She's agreed to go driving with me next week."

"Has she now?"

At Herbert's tone, the marquis looked at his banker with a speculative gaze. "She has," he softly said.

"How much do you owe me?" Herbert asked.

One of the marquis's brows rose in contemptuous regard. "How should I know. Do I look like a grubby clerk?"

"Fifty thousand."

The marquis smiled. "And you want something from me for this new loan?"

"How would you like to marry my niece?"

"I and a hundred other bucks. Do you have a suggestion on how I might accomplish that feat?"

"Possibly. But if I do, I want my fifty thousand and the running of her businesses."

"Where you'd steal me blind." It was a time when women had few rights to their fortunes after marriage. The marquis's interest in Isabella's wealth was as keen as his interest in her.

"There's more than enough for everyone," Herbert calmly said. "And need I remind you, you're near bankrupt. So a percentage of Isabella's fortune is more than you have or could possibly contemplate. You're not a great catch, Lonsdale, with your estates in ruin."

The marquis scowled at him for a moment and then said, "What do you want me to do?"

"Take her driving as planned."

"And?"

"Drive her to your little hideaway in Chelsea, where you can see that she's thoroughly compromised. We will see that there are witnesses and a minister waiting." This time Herbert planned on taking no chances. He'd see that Isabella was married to the marquis. Bathurst would be less likely to threaten one of his own kind. And should he, Lonsdale's skill with a pistol was formidable.

"Tempting." The marquis leaned back in his chair and contemplated some distant view outside the windows.

"You'd be very rich."

Lonsdale refocused his gaze on Herbert. "I could take her away to the Continent." He smiled. "For a honeymoon."

"Until the scandal dies down."

"Until I see that she's with child. Insurance, as it were."

"Very wise."

The marquis abruptly came to his feet. "I'm going to need contracts for my lawyers to review. Soon. I take her driving Monday."

"I'll have them delivered to your home."

"Send them to Jackson Hewlett. I'll stop by to see him now and give him a brief overview."

"Only of our terms."

"Of course."

"The matter of Isabella will remain private."

"Naturally."

"I'll see that your debts at White's are taken care of."

Lonsdale dipped his head. "And I'll see that Miss Leslie enjoys her drive."