Temporary Mistress

Chapter One

April 1802

THE STEADY DRIZZLE had turned to a downpour ten minutes earlier and the lady clinging to Dermott Ramsay on the high-lurching seat of his racing phaeton was not only thoroughly drenched but furious. Which meant he'd have to set her down at the next inn, practically ensuring Hilton a win in their race to London. Damn Olivia anyway. He'd not wanted to bring her along, but she'd coaxed with such enticing fervor as they lay naked in her absent husband's bed that morning, he'd found his better judgment overruled by lust.

Again.

Damn.

He squinted into the driving rain, the road barely visible through the deluge, but his Thoroughbreds were running strongly despite the rough going, and if his racing phaeton didn't snap an axle, by the grace of God and some damned fine driving he would have won the race.

"Ram!" the countess screamed, her nails biting through the fine wool of his coat as the carriage hit a pothole and tilted crazily. "Put me down this instant!"

For a fleeting moment he was tempted to do just that, but he was a gentleman for all his faults and couldn't indulge his wishes and leave her in the middle of the muddy road. He raised his voice enough to be heard against the storm. "I'll set you down at The Swan in Chaldon."

"It's too far!"

While he agreed, it wasn't as though he had another option. Forcing himself to a politesse he was far from feeling with his chance of winning virtually destroyed, he shouted, "Just ten minutes more and you'll be dry!"

"I should never have let you talk me into coming along! Look at my bonnet and gown!" she cried. "And the state of my…" Her voice died away, the glance he shot her way chill enough to silence even the overweening vanity of London's most celebrated beauty.

The rest of the wet, miserable journey to Chaldon passed in silence.

Bringing his matched pair to a plunging stop outside the entrance to The Swan, the Earl of Bathurst tossed his reins to an ostler and leaped to the ground. He was around to the countess's side in a few racing strides, his arms lifted to catch her. Carrying her inside, he bespoke a room, set her down, paid the innkeeper a generous sum over and above the required amount to assure his companion would have every comfort, and bowed to the lady who had cost him not only the race but a ten-thousand-guinea wager. "I'll send my carriage for you in the morning." Without waiting for a reply, he strode back outside.

Hilton had passed him, of course. He'd been close on his heels since Red Hill. Dermott didn't need the ostler's report to know he'd been bested. Softly cursing, he tossed the man a guinea, vaulted back onto the phaeton seat, and snatched up the reins.

It wasn't as though he'd not been behind in a race before, he thought, taking heart from the instant response of his powerful grays. Their will to win matched his, and his Thoroughbreds and custom-made phaeton had garnered more than their share of racing wagers in the past few years. "Come on, sweethearts," he crooned, leaning forward on the high-perched seat, knowing they recognized not only his voice but his urgency. "Let's see if we can catch them."

Their ears pricked forward, then twitched as though signaling their acknowledgment, and their strides lengthened.

A half hour later, Hilton's phaeton rose out of the gray mist, the outline faint in the distance. Dermott's nostrils flared as though catching the scented hint of victory. He'd raised his grays from foals and knew them as well as he knew his own family. Better, his mother would complain on occasion. "Here we go now, darlings," he murmured, letting the reins slide through his gloved fingers, giving his racers their heads.

It was a slow, laborious undertaking with Hilton's horses renowned for their speed. But Dermott's team slowly gained ground, and when they were within passing range, Hilton did what any driver who wanted to win would do. He moved squarely into the center of the road.

Boldness was required now, perhaps a rash tempting of providence as well with the possibility of an approaching carriage ever present. Not to mention the threat of a hidden pothole lying in wait to snap a horse's leg, or the critical question of passing space. But long celebrated for his audacity, the young Earl of Bathurst had been recklessly testing the limits of self-destruction for over a decade.

He began easing his grays to the left, the surface quagmire looking a modicum better on that side.

Hilton moved left as well.

The earl countered by directing his team to the right.

After a quick glance over his shoulder, the Duke of Hilton immediately blocked Dermott's attempt to pass on the right, and a continuing shift from left to right and back again ensued for the next several miles-at tearing speeds. Dermott watched Hilton's Yorkshire chestnuts for signs of fatigue, aware of Hilton's rough hands, his habit of hauling on the reins playing havoc with his horses' mouths and confidence. He could see Hilton's team jostle against each other several times, their momentary distress evident. And then suddenly Dermott saw his chance, the shoulder of the road ahead widening for perhaps a hundred yards. With boldness he swung his team over, forcing them into the meager space.

At times like this, nerve alone prevailed. Either Hilton or Dermott would have to give way. Dermott's grays valiantly obeyed his command, plunging forward as if they had the open downs before them instead of an impossibly narrow passage.

When the duke realized Dermott's intent, he held his ground, although his gloved hands nervously tightened on the reins and his mouth narrowed into a grim line.

"Get out of the way!" Exhilaration resonated in Dermott's cry, and a madcap triumph that overlooked all but the thrill of winning. The grays responded with a surge of power, mud flying from their pounding hooves, their courage and heart surmounting the foul weather and wicked footing.

The phaeton wheels inched closer and closer as Dermott began drawing even with the duke, disaster only a hairbreadth away now, the possibility of slipping sideways in the treacherous mire not only real but likely. It was a moment when a prudent man might contemplate whether such a race was worth one's life.

A second passed, two, then three, the racing horses neck and neck, the phaeton wheels slicing through the soft roadbed, the drivers so close, they could have touched whips.

The vehicles careened over the crest of a hill and the dangerous, infamous Danner curve suddenly loomed.

Death faced them head-on.

Hilton hauled on his reins.

Dermott smiled and shot past.

An hour later the earl dropped into a sprawl at one of the gaming tables in Molly Crocker's opulent brothel, said "Hilton just lost ten thousand on our race from Crawley," and accepted the congratulations of his friends. He was soaked to the skin, his dark hair falling in damp, windswept curls to the limp linen of his shirt collar, his powerful body blatantly obvious beneath his wet, clinging clothing, his broad smile evidence of his high good spirits.

"So Hilton owes you ten thousand," a young man drawled.

"He does indeed." Dermott's grin was infectious. "He pulled off."

Another man looked up from perusing his cards. "He never did have your nerve."

Dermott shrugged. "Danner Curve changed his mind."

"You could have been killed!" one of the lovely ladies surrounding the gaming table cried out. The earl was a great favorite at Molly's, and the dangers of that section of road were well known.

"Now, why would I take a chance on being killed with you to come back to, darling Kate," Dermott replied with a smile. Catching a servant's eye, he signaled for a drink.

"Hilton's going to want a rematch." Everyone knew of the rivalry between the two men.

"As long as he pays, I'm willing."

"He don't like to pay."

"Too bad." Dermott had a habit of seducing the ladies Hilton fancied, although their dislike of each other had begun long before at Eton. "His papa left him plenty."

Kate had moved to Dermott's side. "You're going to be wanting a bath." Her voice had taken on a huskiness and, leaning over, she brushed his cheek with a kiss.

Lazily lifting his arm, Dermott gently cupped the back of her head and, turning his face, kissed her back. "Give me a half hour, darling, to drink some of Molly's fine brandy," he murmured a moment later, his breath warm against her mouth.

"I'll be waiting," she purred, sliding from his grasp, standing upright in a stirring of cerise silk muslin that set off her pale skin and dark hair to perfection.

"Pleasant thought," Dermott murmured, lifting his glass to her. "I won't be late."

"She doesn't even see anyone else," a young noble complained after Kate walked away. "Deuced selfish of you, Bathurst, to keep her for yourself."

Dermott raised his palms in disclaimer. "Acquit me, Kilgore. I'm not concerned with exclusivity."

"You should tell her, then," the young man grumbled.

"I think my feelings on that subject are clear."

"Hear, hear, Kilgore," one of the men interposed. "Not a person in the ton don't know Dermott's not in the market for permanence. And Kate makes up her own mind whom she favors. Now, I've got a damned good hand here, so stop your grousing and deal us another card or two. Are you in or out, Bathurst?"

"In, of course." Dermott grinned. "At least for half an hour."

The small candlelit study was filled with the relatives of the man who had recently died upstairs. They sat on the few available chairs, and those not fortunate enough to have arrived early were left to stand. Like so many sharp-beaked scavengers and harpies, their beady gazes were riveted on the man seated behind a massive desk slowly reading from a document.

Only one person in the group of eight showed any evidence of sorrow. Isabella Leslie stood in a corner, softly sobbing, a handkerchief to her eyes. Her grandfather had been her entire life, the center of her world, the most kind and indulgent friend and parent.

And now he was gone and she was alone.

His illness had been long and lingering. She'd thought she'd had time to say her good-byes, to reconcile herself to life without him. But the immensity of her sadness was threatening to overwhelm her. She scarcely heard the lawyer's words as he read her grandfather's will. Until a stark and utter silence struck her senses and she looked up to see every eye in the room trained on her.

"Your grandfather left you sole heir, my dear," old Mr. Lampert quietly said.

"As if she didn't know," her aunt snapped. "He could have had the decency to leave us small portions at least, the dotty old coot."

"Mr. Leslie's wishes were quite plain," the lawyer replied, "and his mind was clear. He spoke to me only yesterday, reminding me of my duty to Isabella."

"For a tidy sum, I don't doubt, you'll see to her care," her uncle growled.

"My fees were paid long ago by Mr. Leslie. Isabella owes me nothing."

"Then we won't require your presence any longer, Lampert," Isabella's eldest cousin curtly said, his corpulent body quivering with rage. "Get out."

"Harold!" Isabella softly exclaimed, shocked at the discourtesy.

"Get out, Lampert, or I'll throw you out," her cousin barked, ignoring Isabella's outcry. He moved with ominous intent toward the frail, elderly man who after casting a distraught glance at Isabella scrambled from his chair and backed toward the door. Greatly outnumbered, physically threatened, he stammered, "Forgive me, Miss Leslie," and escaped the room.

"Wretched little man," her uncle muttered, walking to the desk and picking up the pages of the will in his beefy hand. Crumbling them into a ball, he tossed them into the fireplace flames. "So much for Uncle George's will." Turning to his wife, he held out his hand. "Give me the marriage license." As she unfastened her reticule, he nodded in the direction of the clergyman who had conferred last rites on George Leslie. "Keep the ceremony short, if you please. I've wasted enough time cooling my heels in this house, waiting for that old codger to die. Harold, get over here."

Isabella's heart had begun beating furiously as she listened to her uncle give orders, and the sly glances she was receiving from her relatives did nothing to soothe her fears. She knew how they felt about her, and while she'd not expected congratulations from them for her inheritance, she'd not considered them dangerous. "If you'll excuse me," she quietly said, wishing to remove herself from the ominous situation, "it's been a fatiguing week." She began walking toward the door.

"Stay where you are," her uncle murmured, his tone acid with dislike. "We're not done with you yet."

"You can't order me about." She kept her voice firm with effort. Suddenly in the midst of enemies, her heart was beating furiously.

"Now, that's where you're wrong, my dear."

The menace in his voice wrapped around her like icy fingers, the wicked gleam in his eye mirrored in the others watching her. "Uncle Herbert, consider-this is my home now, I'm of legal age, as you're well aware, and you have no control over my life."

"As soon as you're married to Harold, he'll have control of your life. As God intended when he made women subservient to men."

"Married!" She turned ashen for only a moment before her cheeks flushed a blazing red. "You must be mad! My cousin Harold suits me not at all"-her voice rose as she surveyed the fleshy, overdressed man who fancied himself a dandy-"and if I should chose to marry, your son certainly wouldn't be a candidate."

"She's saying our Harold isn't good enough for her! Herbert, how dare she, when everyone knows her mother-well, it can't be mentioned, of course, in polite company. Now, you just listen to me, my high-flown missy," Abigail Leslie cried, shaking her thin finger at Isabella, "you should be honored Harold is willing to take you as his wife. He could have any number of wellborn ladies."

"Then he should marry them!" Isabella always bristled at allusions to her mother's unconventional background, as if sailing a ship around the world detracted from one's quarterings. Her mother had bluer blood than any of these bourgeois bankers.

"Mr. Leslie, sir, you said the young lady was amenable to the hasty marriage." The minister abruptly rose from his chair, an expression of consternation on his face.

At the interruption, Isabella quickly glanced around the room, looking for a ready exit should her uncle truly intend to force this farcical marriage. The doorway to the hall was blocked by numerous stolid bodies-Harold's fat form among them. But the windows facing the street opened on a small balcony only a few feet above the sidewalk. Her cousins Amelia and Caroline, seated before the windows, weren't likely to be formidable obstacles. Only capable of squealing or giggling, neither would raise a finger to stop her, and with their rotund bodies balanced precariously on Grandpapa's small Renaissance hassocks, she could easily bowl them over.

"Shut your mouth, Dudley." Herbert Leslie pushed the minister back into his chair. "Save your speeches for the ceremony." He snapped his fingers. "Harold, get your bride and bring her here." Swinging around, he pointed a finger at Isabella. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll do as you're told."

"You don't really think I'm going to allow myself to be married off to Harold, do you?" she hotly inquired. "I'll gag and tie you if necessary." "Such a marriage would never stand in court." "We have sufficient witnesses to testify to your willingness," her uncle silkily said. "And we're all going to see that you're properly wedded and bedded this night." He surveyed the various relatives with a fierce gaze, as though reminding them of their duty. "You'll be married right and tight," he went on, smiling at her with a well-pleased complacency, "and the money will be kept in the family, as is only proper."

All the tears and sorrow she'd been experiencing only moments before were burned away by a rage so towering, she silently swore she'd see them all in hell before she married fat Harold. She was already running before her uncle had finished speaking, and the Misses Amelia and Caroline were dumped on the floor a second later with two hard shoves. Racing between the tumbled hassocks and flailing arms and legs, she jerked the drapes aside, wrenched the window open, and leaped through it onto the balcony. The cold rain struck her like a blow, but there wasn't time to completely register the wet and chill. Throwing a leg over the wrought iron railing, she pulled herself up and over and dropped to the walk below in a splash of muddy water. Her silk gown was already drenched, her stained skirts catching on her legs as she ran full out down the street.

The shouts and cries behind her only added to her speed, and when she reached the corner, she careened right, hoping to gain shadowed refuge in the tall oaks of St. James's Square. Moments later, panting, she slumped against the wet bark, trying to draw in much-needed air to her lungs.

Her gaze was trained on the corner.

If they turned left, she was safe.

Harold was first under the streetlamp in the intersection, followed shortly by his portly relatives-father, uncle, and two cousins. They apparently couldn't agree on a course, their raised voices echoing down the street, indecision in their milling forms. Then Harold seemed to point directly at her, although he couldn't possibly see her in the murky darkness of her surroundings.

Nevertheless, terror washed over her and, turning, she ran down King Street without waiting for further confirmation of their possible route.

Unable to avoid the light on the next corner, her saffron gown glowed in the night like a beacon as she sped past.

Immediately a hue and cry rose behind her, and she knew she'd been sighted.

A half block later, she turned again, then again in another block, hoping to evade her pursuers in the narrow lanes, and when she spied the flaming torches illuminating a fine-porticoed entrance, she raced down the wet cobblestones and banged on the blue door with both fists.

The portal abruptly opened before her, and she stumbled into an elegant foyer lit by a Venetian chandelier of such vast proportions, she wondered if she'd entered some hidden palace. Quickly surveying her surroundings, she took note of gleaming white marble and elaborate gilding, elegant paintings and plush carpets, and a majordomo so enormous and tall, she had to tip her head upward to see his face.

"May I be of some help?"

His calmness seemed to descend on her, and she could almost feel a lessening of her fear. "Forgive me for… barging in, but… someone was pursuing me." Her heart was pounding, her words broken by gasps. Taking a deep breath, she struggled to compose herself, hoping he wouldn't consider her some demented female and put her out in the street again. "If I might see… your master or mistress, I could explain…"

"Of course. Please, let me show you into the small drawing room." With a wave of his hand he indicated a highly polished door. "I'll have some towels brought to you," he politely went on as though soaking-wet women being chased in the night wasn't out of the ordinary. Opening the door, he ushered her into a candlelit room decorated with painted panels of colorful birds and foliage and quietly closed the door behind her.

The towels arrived quickly in the arms of a servant girl, and by the time the majordomo returned, Isabella was marginally dry. Her pale hair tumbled onto her shoulders in damp ringlets, and her gown, while soiled at the hemline, had been sponged to a semblance of presentable.

Dermott's game lasted slightly longer than a half hour because he was on a winning streak and even Kate's splendid charms couldn't compete with the run of luck he was having. But a servant came to fetch him as the half hour stretched to an hour and, folding his hand, Dermott rose from the table with a bow. "Until tomorrow, gentlemen. I expect I'll see most of your faces here again once you wake from your hangovers."

"We aren't all impervious to drink like you."

Dermott offered them a tight smile. "India does that to you-if it doesn't kill you…"

"Or make you a nabob."

"Among other things."

He spoke so low, most at the table couldn't hear him, but his tone was such that no one asked for clarification. And he was already walking toward the door anyway, tall and commanding even in his disheveled state.

He entered the foyer from the gaming room just as Isabella stepped through the drawing room door. Mercer offered him a blank gaze and without comment showed the young woman up the stairway to the main floor.

Transfixed, Dermott watched her ascent, the lady's beauty uncommonly rare. Pale-haired and rosy-cheeked with eyes the color of gentian, she had the look of a meadow sprite, particularly with her flowing damp tresses and wettish gown. She moved too with an ethereal lightness, her slender form seeming to flow up the stairs without effort on violet-slippered feet. He caught a scent of her fragrance as she passed, and the perfume drifted around him, evoking memories of cascading roses and summer nights.

He spoke Mercer's name as they reached the top of the staircase, but the majordomo didn't reply.

And then they were gone.