Temporary Mistress

Chapter Fifteen

DERMOTT HAD GONE into hermitage with Helene Kristos, a young mother who lived with her son in Chelsea. They were friends and lovers, as were many of the women Dermott fancied. But he particularly liked Helene's company, and after leaving Emma Compton's, he'd knocked on her door, claiming he'd given up women for good.

Helene had only smiled and said, "Do come in, Dermott. You look like you haven't slept." And over the breakfast she made for him, she heard of his unsuccessful wooing of Isabella at the ball as well as a highly edited account of his unsatisfying night with Mrs. Compton.

She commiserated with him, and when her two-year-old son woke, Dermott played with the young boy and forgot for a time about ladyloves and unrequited passion. Tommy was a great favorite of Dermott's, reminding him of his own son, of happier times, and he always felt a level of comfort at Helene's.

He fell into a lazy domesticity the next few days, going with Helene to the market in the morning, accompanying her to the park with Tommy in the afternoon, helping her rehearse her new part for the play scheduled to open in Covent Garden. He didn't make love to her and she didn't question his mood, aware of his feelings for the woman who'd spurned him at Lady Hertford's ball-even if he wouldn't admit to them.

Dermott didn't drink in the evenings, when in the past he'd always emptied at least two bottles a night. He read instead, which unusual pastime piqued Helene's curiosity about the young lady he'd taken to Richmond. What had this Miss Leslie done to so powerfully change Dermott's profligate ways?

In the meantime, Isabella's schedule continued apace, and she moved from one entertainment to another with willful determination, falling into bed exhausted after dancing all night, invariably dreaming of Dermott, waking up each day to the frustration of finding herself alone in bed. While the men who wooed her with flowers and flattery didn't ignite even the smallest spark of interest.

By the end of the week, she was wishing she could change her mind and chuck it all.

And if it weren't for Molly, she would have.

But Molly was living vicariously in a world she'd seen only from the fringes, and Isabella couldn't think of denying her the pleasure.

Isabella ordered coffee with her breakfast chocolate that morning, intent on recharging her sense of purpose and vanquishing her fatigue. For she faced another grueling day of social activities, beginning with yet another breakfast party, followed by an afternoon musicale with Italian singers at the Duchess of Kendale's.

Late that afternoon, when Dermott walked into the duchess's music room, heads turned and a flurry of whispers spread across the room like a cresting wave. Even the soprano performing a solo paused infinitesimally in the midst of a soaring high note, at which point anyone not aware of his presence immediately turned to look.

He stood at the back of the room, framed by a rococo panel depicting the Shower of Danaë, and more than one guest considered the background highly appropriate for a man of his wealth and profligacy. Isabella found the juxtaposition irritating-as if she needed any reminders of his infamy. But even as she resented his reputation, she experienced a small, wistful yearning that he might have come for her. A feeling she forcibly brushed aside a moment later, reminding herself instead that Dermott Ramsay had no interest in her other than sex And even that was of the most transient nature.

Forcing herself to concentrate on the splendid voice of the soprano, she focused her gaze on the performers arrayed before a magnificent display of lilies.

Dermott had seen her immediately he'd entered the room, the gold of Isabella's hair instantly recognizable even in a crowd. And for a brief second he debated walking out again, not sure why he'd come, more unsure of what he intended to do now that he was there. Was he like some callow youth, content to view her from afar? Did he intend to make a scene? Would she rebuff him if he approached her? How much did he care if she did? He seriously felt like a brandy; he'd not imbibed for almost a week now. Glancing about the sumptuous room filled with sunlight, he took in the colorfully gowned women, the occasional male escort, and then he spied the liquor table.

But before he'd decided whether he'd actually succumb to his urge, the aria came to a close and a number of women suddenly surrounded him-Emma Compton in the lead. Slipping her arm through his, she leaned into him and purred, "Now that you're here, darling, the tedium has suddenly lifted. I've missed you."

"We all have," the Countess of Goodemont murmured, smiling up at him. "You've been avoiding society, you inconsiderate rogue."

"Come sit with us, Ram," a recently married marchioness coaxed, her husband too old to enjoy anything but his money. "My sister and I still remember the holiday at Larchly."

"Fishing is so much fun with you," her sister interposed in a low, suggestive tone. Taking his free hand, she gently squeezed it. "We're sitting up front."

"I should give my compliments to Mariana. Her voice is superb, as usual." As though he'd come for the music and not Isabella-her schedule etched in his brain. Dermott eased his fingers free, slipped from Emma's grasp as well with skillful grace. "I haven't heard Mariana sing since Milan. If you'll excuse me, ladies." His bow was well mannered, his smile polite, and he strode away, leaving discontent in his wake.

Isabella had tried not to take notice of the swarm of admirers that descended on Dermott. She'd turned to her companion and discussed with seeming interest the particulars of the musical program. But she saw him in her peripheral vision, was aware of Mrs. Compton's closeness, couldn't help but recognize the expressions of longing on all the ladies' faces.

How was she going to deal with her hurt and anger when she couldn't even be in the same room as he without being filled with resentment?

And when Dermott approached the beautiful Italian soprano a few moments later and she enfolded him in a warm, intimate embrace, Isabella felt her teeth clench in indignation. Apparently, he wasn't content with making love to all the women in England; his amorous exploits included the Continent as well. Abruptly excusing herself, she apologized to the ladies seated on her either side for taking such hasty leave. She'd just remembered a previous commitment, she mendaciously explained, and brushing past the row of guests, she escaped the room.

Her driver was waiting down the street, sixth in line before the duchess's residence. The sun was warm and bright, the spring day balmy, scented with blooming flowers-in a word, perfect, if not for the galling presence of one man. Her heels made a brisk tattoo down the pavement as she hurried to her carriage.

"You're early, miss," her groom said as he held the landau door open for her.

"I'm tired, Sam. And more than ready to go home."

"You been rushing around, miss. Anyone'd be tired," he commiserated as he handed her into the open carriage. "We'll be home in no time." Giving directions to the driver, he jumped onto his back perch and the carriage moved away from the curb.

The vehicle gained the street, the matched team just beginning to canter, when Dermott appeared on the duchess's porch.

"Faster!" Isabella ordered.

Dermott leaped down the short bank of stairs and ran in pursuit.

"Hurry!" Averting her gaze, she stared straight ahead.

For only brief moments more.

And then Dermott jumped onto the carriage step, swung over the low-slung side of the landau, and dropped into the seat opposite her. "Were you bored with Mariana's singing?" he lazily inquired as though his sudden appearance didn't warrant comment.

"Get out." Her voice was unutterably chill.

"Not likely." He spoke without a scintilla of ire.

"I'll have you thrown out."

He glanced at the young groom and old driver. "Not by them," he calmly replied, making himself comfortable. "So tell me, what have you been doing?"

"Forgetting you," she rudely said.

"A shame," he murmured, "when I recall our friendship with the greatest of pleasure."

"That's because your friendships, as you call them, are always suited to your particular interest and schedule."

He smiled. "I could endeavor to be more accommodating if you wish."

"I don't wish, Bathurst."

"Might I persuade you to change your mind?" Mocking insinuation warmed his eyes.

"Tired of Mrs. Compton, are we?"

"Have you been enjoying your various suitors?" he blandly inquired.

"You seemed very friendly with the duchess's soprano," she countered.

"I hear Lonsdale's about to propose."

"Then you know more than I," she crisply remarked. "I haven't seen Lord Lonsdale for days."

"Perhaps he's rehearsing his proposal to make it suitably sincere when he asks for your hand and fortune."

"While you have no need of money? Is that what you're not so subtly implying?"

"What I need from you, Miss Leslie," he murmured, "is without price."

"And also not available to you."

"We'll see."

His smile was gratingly assured. "No, we won't," she ascerbically noted. "And I'd thank you to leave me in peace."

"Do I disturb you?" he asked with unctuous good humor.

"Not in the least. I'm busy, that's all." She leaned forward to speak to her driver. "John, Bond Street, please." She had no intention of going home if he was to follow her in. Better a public venue.

"Ah, a lady's major entertainment. Shopping."

"Unlike yours, my lord." She settled back in her seat, her raking gaze as insolent as his. "You prefer more personal amusements."

"I wouldn't discount the personal nature of some ladies' shopping experiences," he drawled.

She blushed, recalling the illustrations in Molly's book. "I'm sure I don't know what you're alluding to."

"I could show you if you like," he silkily offered.

"No, thank you."

"Why don't I tag along anyway." His grin was cheeky. "In the event you change your mind."

"You may disabuse yourself of that notion. Under no circumstances will I change my mind." Her voice, intended to be sharp, wavered minutely at the end when Dermott recrossed his legs, and for a fraction of a second his arousal was evident.

An irrepressible heat flared inside her, a flutter rippled through her vagina as though her body automatically responded to the sight of his erection. Clasping her hands tightly together in her lap, she steeled herself against the sudden turbulent desire.

A few moments later, when the carriage came to rest midway down Bond Street, ignoring her protests Dermott helped her descend, the warmth of his hand, the firmness of his grip, heightening her agitation.

Fully aware of her response, practiced at gauging female arousal, he tucked her hand under his arm, and holding it securely, began strolling with her down the busy street.

In desperation, she entered the first shop they passed, needing to separate herself from his searing closeness, distance herself from the familiarity of his powerful body and all it provoked in terms of heated memory. Once inside, however, she found herself disastrously in a shop awash with lingerie. Every conceivable style of chemise and petticoat, nightgown and robe, was displayed, the silken garments, the intimate implications of the apparel, bringing a blush to her cheeks.

"May I help you?"

She looked up into the handsome face of a young, virile man, and recall of Molly's erotic book came shockingly to life. "I'm… that is-I'm just… looking at the moment." Were there no female employees in the shop? Quickly glancing around, she found none and turned to leave.

Dermott's grip tightened. "Show us some petticoats. Lace ones," he said with a quiet authority. Turning to Isabella, he pleasantly smiled, as though he weren't holding her captive. "White lace becomes you."

Under the clerk's regard, Isabella curtailed her impulse to scream at him. "Perhaps we could do this some other time," she replied coolly.

"No time like the present, darling." Dermott's grasp was unyielding.

"But, darling," she returned, oversweet and pointed, "we don't have time with Auntie's party at five."

"You know I'm her favorite." His grin held a distinct impudence. "She'll overlook our late arrival. That one, I think," he added, indicating with a nod to the clerk a frothy confection of chantilly lace. "And the pink one over there."

Disregarding her resistance, he drew her toward a bank of curtained alcoves. "You can try them on in here." Apparently familiar with the layout of the store, he pulled back an elegant drapery and stepped aside so the clerk could set the two garments on a small table. "This shouldn't take long." Directing a nod at the young man, he pulled Isabella inside and closed the curtain.

"How dare you!" she heatedly whispered, jerking her hand away from his relaxed hold, wondering if she dared run.

"I wouldn't suggest it," he murmured as though he could read her mind. "You wouldn't make it to the door."

"The clerk is an accomplice?" she hissed, her gaze hot with resentment.

"Let's just say he knows how best to earn his living." [7]

"From you?"

He shrugged. "Try on a petticoat," he suggested as though she weren't bristling with umbrage. Dropping onto a convenient chaise, he offered her a sweet smile. "I'll buy them for you; I'll buy out the store for you."

"You can't mean to go through with this!" Her voice was deliberately muted, but her rage was unmistakable.

"With what?" His expression was innocent.

"I'm not in the mood for your games, damn you!"

"What are you in the mood for? Honestly."

She drew in a steadying breath, his query uncomfortably relevant. "You just have to appear and I'm supposed to immediately succumb to your charm?"

"I don't think either one of us is much interested in charm right now." He lounged in a lazy sprawl, his erection blatant even in the subdued light. "Are we?"

She wondered if he could hear the powerful throbbing between her legs.

"You're flushed," he said, his voice exquisitely mild.

He knew. "What do you have in mind?" she snapped. "Five minutes and then we'll be on our way?"

"I doubt you'll be satisfied with five minutes," he gently said. "As I recall, you always wanted more… and more"-he smiled-"and more."

"And you're available," she gibed, trying not to look at the tempting dimensions of his erection.

"Always for you," he said.

"This is all for me?"

His mouth quirked in a faint smile. "I wish I were so unselfish."

"And then what? I mean-what exactly happens after this interesting encounter?"

"Do you want a signed contract?" he sardonically asked.

"Would I get one if I wished?" Equally sarcastic, she gazed at him.

"We both want the same thing. I don't understand your equivocation."

"Surely a man of your finesse knows better than to so bluntly propose intercourse."

"I'm sorry." He grimaced. "I find myself unable to deal with you casually."

"And if you could, I'd be better wooed?"

He pushed himself upright and his gaze was suddenly stripped bare of indolence. "If I didn't want you so," he gruffly said, "I could say anything you wished to hear."

"And if I didn't want you so," she countered, as hindered and buffeted as he, "I wouldn't care what you said."

He sighed and sprawled back again. "I'm at a complete loss. Nothing glib comes to mind."

"You might try 'I missed you.' "

A low growl escaped him. And then another sigh. "I did."

The two words were so reluctantly uttered, Isabella found herself smiling. "Then I might indulge you after all."

His gaze slowly came up and met hers. A moment passed, two, the hush of indecision palpable. And then without speaking, he opened his arms.

Standing in the middle of the room, she understood and didn't understand and at base, perhaps, was as selfish as he because she wanted what he wanted. "I suppose I should take off my bonnet," she said because the words were safe and innocuous and the truth would never do.

"Let me," he softly replied, coming to his feet.

They made love that afternoon with a suppressed desperation, as though they both knew their fleeting moments together might be all they had, that the world and the past and their uncompromising sensibilities precluded a perfect future. They were at once selfish and generous, indulgent and self-indulgent, caught up in a frantic sense of wonder and fevered exaltation. And when at last Isabella took note of the time, or the clerk did, or she'd just imagined the knock on the woodwork, Dermott reluctantly kissed her adieu.

But later, dressed once again, standing outside the shop, neither knew what to say.

He offered her his thanks and a number of graceful phrases of leave-taking. Although even as he spoke, he was assailed with an uncustomary sadness.

"I understand," she said, capable of pretext as well, when nothing made sense at the moment, when it felt as though she were falling off the edge of the world into nothingness.

He nodded, words failing him, his emotions in chaos.

And then he walked away.

Isabella returned home and canceled the rest of her engagements for the day. Self-pity overwhelmed her, and even Molly knew better than to interfere after talking to Sam and John. Retiring to her room, Isabella locked her door, lay on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried to bring her feelings into some semblance of order. She loved Dermott-an appalling, wretched fact. Like a dozen other women, no doubt-or hundreds. And there wasn't a hope in the world that he would reciprocate her feelings. That he was even capable of loving someone again.

So the question was-how best to overcome her unrequited love and get on with her life? Ever practical, she understood the pathetic liabilities in loving him. And in the course of her hermitage that evening, she considered a great number of options, none of which, unfortunately, soothed her current misery. Although there was comfort in knowing Dermott cared for her at some level other than sex. Of that she was certain. It was small recompense for her sadness, but a degree of solace, however minute, that she desperately needed.

It was a shame he had so many demons in his past, she reflected at least a thousand times that night.

In a more perfect world, she might have met him sooner.

In a more perfect world, neither would have suffered loss.

In a more perfect world, he would have returned her love.

And unalloyed bliss could have been theirs.

By morning, Isabella had reconciled fact and fantasy and had sensibly put what had passed between herself and Dermott into perspective. He wasn't about to change his life-nor should she. There was no purpose in wishful dreams. When dealing with Dermott Ramsay, cold practicality was not only critical but essential.

For her part, considering the circumstances in which she found herself, she'd decided diversion would best serve her purposes.

And so she conducted herself that weekend as though frivolous society offered her the greatest delight, as though flirtation were her raison d'etre and there weren't enough hours in the day to satisfy her penchant for pleasure.