Temporary Mistress

Chapter Seven

HE WAS NEVER NERVOUS. It was impossible he could be nervous. Good God, where was his valet when he needed him? This neckcloth was impossibly wrong. "Charles!" he shouted. "Dammit, what were you thinking when you tied this thing!"

"Sorry, my lord," Charles apologized, coming back into the dressing room at a run, six fresh neckcloths draped over his arm. "I'm sure the next one will be tied to your satisfaction."

But it wasn't, of course, because nothing at the moment was completely satisfying, and when Dermott was finally dressed to an acceptable degree of correctness, Charles disappeared downstairs to regale the servants with a detailed account of the earl's toilette, down to his three changes of evening coat and the crushing of the offending neckcloths under his heel.

"She must be somethin' real special," a footman said. "He ain't never had no-"

"Hasn't ever," the housekeeper corrected him.

"Ain't never," the footman repeated, wrinkling his nose at the housekeeper, who considered herself the superior person below stairs, "had no light o'love to Bathurst House. And what with the cook cooking for hours now and the wine steward ordered to serve only the very best-"

"And the flowers," the upstairs maid declared with feeling. "I've never seen so many flowers."

"I'd say she's a Venus for sure," another footman maintained. "Or like that Helen of Troy, whose face launched a thousand ships, they say."

"Well, we'll soon see, will we not," the butler, Pomeroy, intoned in his haughty basso. Rising to his feet, he surveyed his staff with a piercing gaze. "Places, everyone," he ordered. "She's due to arrive in fifteen minutes." After a meticulous straightening of his shirt cuffs, he turned from the table and moved to the stairs that would bring him into position in the entrance hall.

Dermott stood at the window of the north drawing room, his third glass of brandy in his hand, his gaze on the street below, feeling as though he were going into battle. His pulse was racing, his nerves were on alert, and the tension in his shoulders strained the superfine fabric to a degree that would be unsuitable to his tailor. Draining the glass of liquor, he felt the heat flow down his throat with a kind of relief, as though at least one familiar sensation struck his brain when all else was chaos. The clock chimed the hour, and he glanced at the bronzed winged victory with a timepiece between her feet. Where the hell was Miss Leslie? It was seven.

Had she changed her mind? Had Molly changed it for her? Had he thrown his entire establishment into turmoil for nothing? The scent of lilies suddenly overcame him, and glancing about the room, he saw a great number of very large arrangements-like a funeral, he thought. "Shelby!" he bellowed.

His secretary came around the corner so instantly, he must have been standing outside the door. "Have the maids take some of these damnable flowers away," Dermott barked. "They smell."

"Yes, sir. Would you like to greet your guest in some other room? The scent may linger even if the vases are removed."

At Shelby's propitiating tone, Dermott realized how rude he'd been. "Forgive me, Shelby," he apologized. "You can see how out of practice I've become at paying court to a lady. And no, this room is fine. Here, you take one of these," he said, handing his secretary a large vase of flowers, "and I'll take another, and that will be sufficient to make this room look less hire-"

"A funeral?"

"Exactly."

The two men were at the top of the staircase about to descend to the entrance hall and dispose of their vases when the front door opened and Isabella stepped into the grand marble entrance hall.

Dermott swore at the bad timing.

She looked up.

The butler looked up as well and, wide-eyed, surveyed his employer with a large vase of lilies in his hand.

"Are those for me?" Isabella sweetly inquired.

Dermott grinned. "If you want 'em. Although I warn you, they smell," he said, moving down the stairs.

"I'd be surprised if they didn't. Don't you like Mies?"

"Not this many." Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he offered them to her with a bow. "For your pleasure, my lady."

"One of many tonight, I presume." Her warm gaze met his over the lilies.

"Your wish is my command," he murmured.

"What a charming concept. I do look forward to the evening."

"As do I, Miss Leslie." He handed the vase to Pomeroy and reached for the ties on her cloak, a possessive gesture, symbolic perhaps of the fact he was the taker and she the takee. Standing very close as he untied the velvet ribbon, he said so low the words were for her alone, "I've waited a long time."

"I pray you won't be disappointed." But her tone was playful rather than conciliatory, and his gaze came up from the tangled knot.

"No chance of that," he whispered. And slipping the bow open, he slowly undraped the cloak from her shoulders as though he were unwrapping a personal gift.

The young footmen audibly gasped, but none received a reproach from their superiors, for all eyes were trained on the young lady. Isabella's white lace gown was so sheer, the shadow of her body was only partially concealed, the risque décolletage more in the nature of a tenuous support for the plump mounds of her breasts, the entire garment held in place with two small silver shoulder bows, the imminent threat of gravity adding a delicious element of suspense to the ensemble.

"My compliments, Miss Leslie," Dermott murmured. "You have taken all our breaths away."

"As do you, my lord. You quite turn my head." He looked large and powerful dressed in perfectly tailored black superfine, his tall, rangy form shown to advantage, his linen, crisp and white, gleaming in the candlelight, the diamond at his throat so large, it could have come only from India.

"Might I offer you"-the heat fairly crackled in the air-"a glass of champagne?"

"That would be very nice," she purred, "for now…"

He acknowledged the delectable purr with an appreciative smile and offered his arm. "Miss Leslie."

"My lord Bathurst." Dipping a small curtsy, she placed her hand on his strong wrist and they both felt the heated jolt.

Inhaling deeply, Dermott wondered how in the world he was going to repress his carnal urges when his hard-on was embarrassing him in front of his staff and the little minx was deliberately leaning into him so her breasts were almost spilling out of her gown. Dinner, he thought. "Dinner," he said to Pomeroy. "We'll have dinner now."

"Now, my lord?" The schedule had been specific. Champagne and brandy first, then dinner at nine.

"Now."

"Yes, my lord." Pomeroy moved forward to escort them to the dining room, knowing the chef was going to tear his hair out with dinner pushed up two hours. On the other hand, he reflected, the earl and his lady seemed oblivious of all but each other. There was a good possibility they wouldn't notice what they were eating.

The dining room positively gleamed, Isabella thought as they entered the large chamber-the polished cherry-wood walls, the massive silver plate on the sideboard and table, the crystal goblets marching in a row beside the two services set on the polished mahogany table, the gilt frames on the paintings adorning the walls, the twin chandeliers of Russian crystal that dripped from the high coffered ceiling. She felt as though she'd entered a shining Aladdin's cave.

"Do you always eat in such splendor?" she asked, slightly in awe of such magnificence.

It took him a moment to answer because he rarely ate at home, and when he did, he generally shared a tray with Shelby in his study. "Actually no." In fact, he couldn't remember when last he'd eaten in this room. "Would you rather have dinner somewhere else?"

In bed with you, she thought, still trembling from his touch, but it wouldn't do to be so forward. Bess had said men never liked women to give orders. "This is very nice. Really."

"Would you like a glass of champagne?" he asked because he badly needed a drink.

"Oh, I would very much. Thank you."

With a nod, he indicated Pomeroy serve them. "The room seems warm, or I'd suggest we sit by the fire, although you're probably not warm," he added with a smile, surveying her scantily dressed form.

"Actually I am… dreadfully warm, I mean-the room is indeed warm…"

Her stammering innocence was charming. "So we'll sit away from the fire."

"Yes, please, I'd like that."

Suddenly she seemed very young, very different from the seductive minx in the entrance hall, and he felt an odd disquiet. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

His sigh of relief brought a smile to her face.

"I didn't realize age mattered."

"It's bad enough-just set the tray down, Pomeroy, we'll serve ourselves." As the butler walked away, Dermott said, "It's bad enough you're a virgin; I'm not, however, about to bed some adolescent child." A grin broke across his face. "Although you definitely don't have the look of a child, Miss Leslie. And I mean it in the most complimentary way." He handed Isabella a stemmed goblet of champagne.

"Molly thought you'd like the gown," Isabella said, a half-smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "Do I look sufficiently seductive?"

"In that dress? Completely, wholly, exuberantly. And white-interesting," he murmured over the rim of his glass.

"A metaphor, I believe." Her blue eyes sparkled. "Molly's idea again."

"She sets the stage well."

"I am also well trained, sir," she sportively noted. "Although not to your standards perhaps. Your reputation is formidable."

He slid lower in his chair, his gaze taking on a faintly disgruntled expression at the reminder of their disparate lives. "I wish you weren't a virgin."

"I could relinquish my virginity to someone else first if you like."

"No," he snapped.

"You could watch," she suggested, innuendo in her tone.

"Not likely," he growled.

"Or we could get this over as quickly as possible."

"You have a sense of humor, Miss Leslie."

"I watched you one night."

He glared at her. "Damned Molly should have kept you in your room."

"Don't blame her. I was quite alone, and what better teacher than you, after all. Although you were selfish. I'm not sure the lady enjoyed herself."

He relaxed marginally. Obviously, she hadn't stayed long. He was grateful for that. "I'll try not to be selfish with you."

"Molly says I'm allowed to be as selfish as I wish because you can take care of yourself."

"Meaning?" he asked, grinning.

"Meaning you are an accomplished libertine."

"I can't argue with you there."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why do you do it?"

What a startling question. "Why not?"

"You engage in debauch without thinking?"

He shrugged. "Mostly."

"I've thought quite a deal about tonight."

"In your case, I have too. Don't look so surprised. I don't as a rule,"-he smiled-"engage in debauch with virgins. So you see, tonight is different."

"How different?"

One dark brow rose, amusement in his eyes. "Is this a catechism?"

"Do you know?" She wanted her question answered.

"As a matter of fact, I don't. I don't have the vaguest notion why you fascinate me."

"I fascinate you?"

He shrugged again. "It seems so."

"Because of this?" She swept her hand over her gown.

"Definitely a factor," he said with a boyish grin.

"I confess your good looks are a most potent lure for me."

"Then we can both be accused of being shallow," he sportively affirmed. Although he knew better. He'd slept with scores of great beauties and never felt what he felt right now.

"Do you actually want to eat?"

His heart missed a beat. "You decide," he carefully replied.

"I'd rather not eat-right now. I'm too excited."

He set his glass down, slid upright in his chair, and gazed at her with a look that was faintly quizzical and wholly carnal. "What would you like to do instead?"

She bit her lip, debating how to ask, and then in a rush said, "May I see your bedroom?"

His pulse rate leaped, but he schooled his expression to a well-bred courtesy. "Certainly," he said, coming to his feet.

"If you don't think me too forward. Bess warned me that men don't-"

"It's not a problem." Offering her his hand, he drew her up from the chair.

"I wish I could be calm. I'm so nervous."

Her hand was small and warm in his, and it took effort to maintain his composure. "Should I bring a bottle of champagne with us?" He smiled. "For your nerves."

"Maybe you should, although I already had some wine at Molly's before I left-to calm myself… and I'm not sure when I'll get tipsy."

"You may get tipsy if you like," he genially offered, picking up the bottle from the iced container. "I've always found the world looks considerably better after a bottle or so."

As they stepped into the hall, Pomeroy materialized from the shadows.

"Postpone dinner," Dermott instructed. "I'll ring when we're ready."

"Very good, sir." The chef was going to burst into tears.

"I wonder if I might be a little hungry," Isabella apologetically said; the smells of dinner were wafting up the dumbwaiter in the hall.

"Something light?" Dermott suggested.

"That would be wonderful. I think I smell chicken."

"A little of everything," Dermott ordered.

"Now, sir?"

Dermott looked at Isabella, then back at Pomeroy. "Now," he said.

"I do apologize," Isabella remarked as they began ascending the stairs.

"No need. Pomeroy will take care of it. That's what he does."

"Our household was rather small-compared to yours. And not so formal. I confess, I'm quite intimidated."

"By Pomeroy? Don't give it another thought. If you're hungry, you can eat. It's as simple as that. What else do they have to do? Hell, I'm hardly ever home."

"Don't you like your home?"

He glanced around the cavernous staircase and entrance hall, a multitude of ancestors staring down on them from the walls, the cupola fifty feet above them. "I suppose I do. Never thought about it."

"And yet you're never home."

"Too quiet."

"You require stimulation?"

He laughed. "You might say that, darling. Come, this way." Tugging on her hand, he led her down the corridor toward a huge painting of a man in Elizabethan dress with a hunting dog.

He'd called her darling. The word strummed through her brain, warming her senses even while she told herself to discount charming words from charming men.

He stopped before two massive carved doors just short of the huge painting, and tucking the champagne bottle under his arm, opened them. "Welcome to my wing, Miss Leslie," he said, ushering her into an enormous drawing room.

"This can't be your bedroom."

He nodded toward another set of double doors. "It's in there. The earls of Bathurst apparently used this room for-" He grinned, interrupting himself. "I haven't the foggiest idea. Come, I'll show you my bedroom. It's built on a slightly more intimate scale."

Only slightly, she realized as he opened the doors into the bedroom. The idea of intimacy must have been in terms of royal levees. The bed was mounted on a dais, crowned with a gilt coronet draped in crimson brocade. Enormous gilt chairs covered in a similar brocade were placed along the walls, as though courtiers had watched their master sleep. Windows ten feet high were draped in swags and tassels and more of the crimson brocade. A large desk sat in the middle of a Persian carpet off to one side. Obviously a working desk, papers were strewn over its surface. The ceiling must have been twenty feet high, the mural adorning it that of a bacchanal.

"Do you actually sleep here?"

"Cozy, isn't it?"

"For two hundred people maybe."

"Let me show you my dressing room." Taking her hand again, he led her across the carpet custom-woven for the dimensions of the room and opened a normal-sized door into a normal-sized room.

His stamp was revealed on every detail of the room, from the riding boots on a stand at the end of the bed to his watch fobs tossed on a tray atop his bureau to the portrait of him as a child tucked away in a corner of the room. The bed was small, made for a single person, and covered in a blue Indian cotton. There was a desk here as well, more cluttered than the one in the imposing bedroom outside. And books. Everywhere. On shelves, on chairs, stacked in piles on the floor.

"Forgive the mess," he apologized. "I don't let the staff move my things. If they clean up too much, I never can find anything."

"You read."

He smiled. "Is that all right?"

"Forgive me. I was surprised, that's all. May I look?"

"Certainly." He offered her entree with a small bow and then took himself to a liquor table, where he set down the bottle of champagne, poured himself a brandy, spilled an inch or two of champagne into a glass for her, and sat down to observe her tour of his room.

"Fielding," she said with a smile, holding out a small volume to him. "I love him."

"He observes the realities with a charming sense of the absurd."

"Yes, does he not? And Richardson. You like him too?"

"When I wish to pass the time. He has less humor and his heroines often meet disastrous ends." He shrugged.

She picked up another book. "I love Gibbon too."

"You are enamored of reading, then," he said with a smile, taking pleasure in watching her excitement.

"Oh, yes, very much. It was my access to a world I'd never know otherwise."

"You lived with your grandfather, Molly said."

"Yes, we had a cozy life but not an exciting one. Business and books, books and business. I'm sure you'd find it very boring."

"I contend with my share of business as well, although my secretary, Shelby-I forgot to introduce you downstairs." His smile reappeared. "You turned my head completely and my manners went calling."

"I love when I turn your head."

"like you love books."

She turned around to face him, her eyes wide. "Not in the least, my lord Bathurst. In a completely tumultuous, tremulous way that defies description."

"I know."

"You do?"

"It's most odd."

"But lovely," she softly intoned, "like a cozy fire on a cold night…"

"Not exactly." There was nothing cozy about the lust drumming through his brain. "Molly's told you what to expect tonight, hasn't she?"

"For an entire week, my lord. Oh, dear, have I kept you waiting with all my talk of books?"

"You needn't call me my lord. And you haven't kept me waiting," he politely lied, discounting his week-long wait at Alworth with cavalier disregard.

"I suppose you'd rather do something else than listen to me prattle on about books, but I confess, I'm not exactly sure how to-begin. It's all well and good," she nervously noted, "to be schooled in seduction, but when one actually is onstage, as it were…"

"Come, sit and have your champagne. We'll decide how to begin later."

"Yes, sir."

"Please, my name is Dermott."

"Yes, sir"-she fluttered her hands-"I mean Dermott."

He'd not had a lover say Yes, sir to him before, and while Miss Leslie might be experiencing a degree of trepidation, he wasn't exactly on familiar ground either. "Drink some champagne," he noted, handing her the glass, "and tell me about your map library."

His deliberate effort to put her at her ease was successful, and within moments she was conversing in a completely natural way. He asked questions, she answered, and before long, he was refilling her glass and she was leaning back comfortably in her chair and smiling at him in a deliciously sweet way. It unnerved him transiently, sweetness having never been a trait that attracted him, but she was exceedingly sensual as well-Molly's choice of gown the merest wisp of fabric.

"So you see, if Magellan had had better maps, he might have survived."

"Would you like to see those in my library?"

"Now?"

"We've plenty of time." He had no intention of making love to a trembling virgin. In fact, on more than one occasion since meeting Miss Leslie, he'd tried to talk himself out of making love to her at all.

Taking their drinks with them, Dermott guided Isabella to a secret door concealed in the masonry of the fireplace surround, and holding her hand, preceded her down a narrow, curving staircase that opened into the library below. His maps were arranged in large, shallow drawers, and after Isabella had exclaimed over the rarest of his collection, he showed her the maps of India he was updating.

"I could help you," she excitedly said, lightly touching some mountain elevations he'd added to a section of northern India. "I've some very good inks that will last forever-well," she added with a small grimace, "when I return home, I'll be able to give them to you. Grandpapa had them specially mixed in Paris."

Although she had no way of knowing, taking out the maps of India had been a watershed he'd not been able to cross since returning to England. Gazing down at her head bent low over the table, her golden hair shining in the lamplight, he felt an affection he'd not experienced since he'd lost his family. How could this slight young woman so touch his feelings when none of the scores of women he'd made love to since his return had so much as engaged his interest?

He moved away, not wishing to feel what he felt when the only woman he'd ever loved was dead. Replenishing his glass, he walked to the windows overlooking the terrace and stared out into the starry night.

"I've bored you again," Isabella remarked, putting the maps away, the small sound of the drawer sliding shut forcing him to speak.

"I'm tired, I think."

"I've said something wrong," she said, coming up to him. "I apologize."

"It's nothing you said. Molly tells me I'm moody."

"Then I shall entertain you," she declared brightly.

"Surely, you're not thinking of singing." A smile creased his face.

"I don't see a piano in sight."

"Lucidly."

"You don't like female entertainments?"

"Not of the cultural kind."

"Ah… perhaps, then, I should show you how these bows open." She reached up to her shoulders.

"Not yet." Quickly placing his hands over hers, he arrested her action, not sure he was ready, not sure an artless virgin could fill the void in his black mood.

"Yes, sir… er-Dermott," she softly corrected, the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, the weight of them, his closeness, making her tremble, her wanting him no longer casual, if it ever had been, no longer a practical decision, but deep, specific, and defenseless. "When?"

Never, he should say, her virginity a vast deterrent, his own troubled memories disquieting.

"I want you… ever so much," she whispered, gazing up at him with wistful blue eyes, taking a half step forward so her body brushed his.

"This could be a mistake." Irresolute, skittish, he hesitated.

"You promised," she pleaded.

The innocent longing in her eyes, the lush feel of her body against his, weakened his already equivocal resolve, his body automatically responding to her nearness, his erection rising between them.

"You do want me," she breathed, moving her hips against his rigid length. "I can tell…"

She was temptation incarnate, the look, the feel of her, and gripping her shoulders, he reluctantly pulled her closer. Her sweet scent filled his senses, her soft breasts pressed into his chest whetted his appetite for more, her hips brushing against his throbbing erection fed his lustful cravings.

She slid her hands from beneath his and, reaching up, placed them on his shoulders. "I'm going to kiss you now, my lord," she murmured as though she had a schedule to keep. And when she rose on tiptoe to reach his mouth, it was impossible to resist. His hands drifted lower, sliding down her back, cupping her bottom, and pulling her hard against his body. He growled softly, "You'd better be sure." His voice took on a faint drollery. "Then at least one of us will be."

"I'm sure." Her eyes were clear blue, untouched by doubt, her mouth only inches away.

Wanting to be kissed.

He dropped his head slowly, as though she were dangerous.

"Kiss me," she whispered, tightening her grip on his shoulders, drawing closer.

And he impetuously obliged, covering her mouth in a restless hotspur kiss that didn't charm or take heed of her innocence but fed his own rash urgency after a week of waiting-a greedy, incautious kiss that ravished and roused and tantalized.

She sighed into his mouth, unafraid, audacious in her wanting, reveling in his need. Melting against him she ate at his mouth, tasted him deeply, as though he were hers to savor and relish and he was the reason she'd waited so long for her first kiss.

It was half a lifetime away from Dermott's first kiss, and heated or not, flame hot or blazing, it wasn't enough.

He wanted more. When he shouldn't, when she might regret what she was doing, when he didn't want the burden of her guilt.

Chafing with indecision, he abruptly pushed her away.

Shocked, trembling, she gazed at him.

"I can't do this."

"You agreed!" Flushed, overwrought with desire, she cried, "You can't refuse!"

He was standing very still. "I can do anything I want."

"You're rude!" she exclaimed. "To do this to me… to make me feel this way and then-"

He took a deep breath. "Sorry, I changed my mind."

"Well, change it back," she heatedly retorted, "because I'm deeply frustrated and you invited me here tonight!"

"I'll send you back."

"I won't go!"

They stood mere inches apart, hot-blooded, resentful.

Furious at his indifference to her plight, at his indifference to her, quivering with indignation, she vehemently said, "How dare you back out now, when I need you!"

Her breasts trembled above the precarious neckline of her gown in the most bewitching way, Dermott noted, and whether her indignation registered or the provocative tremor of her exquisite breasts most captured his interest, he suddenly smiled. "You're intent on this?"

"Of course I am. Look at me!" She threw open her arms and he looked at the sumptuous, barely dressed female before him, demanding to be fucked.

He inhaled briefly, counted to about two and a half with the lush sexual gift being offered him, and said, "Fine. I give up."

"Well, thank you," she murmured sarcastically, "for your kind concession."

One dark brow lifted. "Do you want to do this or don't you?"

Her nostrils flared. "Damn you."

"Damn us both, probably, before we're through with this bizarre agreement. Let's go." And walking away, he strode toward the hidden door.

She caught up to him as he opened it.

"I'll go first if you don't mind." His voice was polite, cool. There was no way he could follow her tantalizing bottom up the stairs and act with any semblance of decency. On the other hand, he brutally noted, she was there to have her virginity taken from her, and no one had signed any contracts defining the details. He could overlook gentlemanly behavior if he wished and assuage his burning lust in any way he chose. In fact, she had just demanded as much, he reflected, taking the stairs in a run.

But there was no time left for further musing with her following hot on his heels. As they exited the concealed doorway into the bedroom, she grabbed at his arm, not sure he wasn't running away. "Don't you dare change your mind," she breathlessly proclaimed. Reaching over, she deliberately ran her palm over the stretched fabric of his breeches, feeling the entire length of his erection. "Because I want that."

Perhaps passion always won out over reason, he decided, particularly with the determined Miss Leslie. She was pretty plain about what she wanted.

And when she looked up at him and said "Well?" he jettisoned any remaining scruple, swept her up into his arms, and murmured, "Let's see how much you know."

"The way I'm feeling right now"-her voice was exhilarated-"having won," she added, kissing his cheek as he carried her into his private room, "I'd be more than willing to do anything you wish."

"Very tempting, Miss Leslie. Although I might argue who won," he replied with a faint smile, her soft weight in his arms inciting pleasantly covetous feelings.

"Promise you won't tease me anymore," she breathed as he lay her on his narrow bed, "because I can't wait… even though I should, even though I shouldn't be making you do this."

She didn't realize he was the last man in the world who could be coerced into sex; he turned down dozens of women every week. "You're not making me do anything," he murmured, gently touching her flushed cheek. "No one can." Standing, he swiftly took off his coat and neckcloth and pulled his shirt over his head, his need matching hers now that he'd allowed himself to disregard honor and scruple.

Tugging open the bows on her shoulders, Isabella slid her gown off in a swift wriggle, throwing it on the floor like an heiress might. Her chemise was an insignificant scrap of tulle she lifted over her head, and then, seated in the middle of his bachelor bed, she pulled out her hairpins, tossed them away, and opening her arms wide, smiled at him. "Hurry, hurry!"

"This is hurrying, darling," Dermott said with a grin, tossing his stockings away and reaching for the buttons on his breeches. She was ridiculously pink and plump where she should be plump, and lithe where she should be lithe; her golden hair was tumbled on her shoulders and she fairly glowed with eagerness.

(

He slid the buttons free, slipped his breeches down his legs, and stepped out of them to the sound of a rapturous, delighted "Ohhhhh!"

"Come closer," she breathlessly said. "I want to touch it." Leaning forward, she fluttered her fingers in anticipation.

Moving toward the bed, he smiled at such enthusiasm. Although his own zeal was hardly less. When he stood before her, enthralled, she touched him delicately, slid her fingers down his length and then up again, intent, studying the object of her attention with a fierce concentration. "I've never seen any at close range," she softly said, gently stroking the very crest of his penis.

"One can be grateful," he murmured waggishly.

She squeezed the swollen head, and his amusement was superseded by riveting sensation. He moaned deep in his throat, faintly arched his back, and looking down, he saw her smile and knew she was pleased with her accomplishment. "Molly said I could do that. And this…" she said proudly, grasping his erection with her small hand, her fingers barely closing the circle, but she squeezed again as her hand moved downward.

"That'll be enough," Dermott said on a suffocated breath, easing her fingers open. "I've been waiting for you too long to settle for this."

"I'm so glad we're done waiting-finally!" she exclaimed, falling back on the indigo-blue coverlet and lifting her arms to him. "Come make love to me."

He didn't need an invitation; he needed a large measure of restraint or he'd ruin the first time for this eager young lady. Sitting down beside her, he resisted her tugging hands, taking them in his and placing them at her sides. "I don't want this to hurt."

"It won't," she lavishly disclaimed, reaching for him again.

He didn't know much more than she on the subject, but he understood losing one's virginity could be painful. "One step at a time, darling," he cautioned, pushing her hands away, easing her thighs open. "Let's take this slowly." Slipping a finger between the sleek moist lips of her labia, he gently stroked her pulsing flesh.

She arched her hips against the delicious sensation. "Ummmm…"

So far so good. He felt like he was fourteen again, although Harvey Nicols's mother had hardly been a novice. He eased his fingers in another short distance.

"More… more…"

He obliged, massaging her liquid interior with practiced skill, slowly sliding deeper and deeper, touching, stroking, until he met the barrier he was slated to destroy.

Isabella was no longer capable of recalling any of the lessons she'd been taught. Eyes shut, she was lost in sensation, floating in a blissful, heated paradise centered between her legs. The trembling, delicious ache heightened by slow degrees; a fevered longing filled her brain. All she wanted was more heated bliss, and she moved her hips in a slow undulation, reaching for the ravishing pleasure, lifting up into the exquisite, inciting touch of his fingers.

Experienced at bringing women to a frenzied hysteria, Dermott watched the flush of arousal color her skin, observed the panting gasps as he slowly penetrated and withdrew, took note of the increasingly frantic arching of her hips. She was a hot-blooded little minx, as if he didn't know, and she was almost there.

Leaning over, he kissed her, inhaling her fevered gasps while he gently stroked her pulsing flesh, wanting her with an unbridled violence he knew he couldn't act on. But words were safe, piquant stimulation for her, delicious anticipation for them both. "I'm going to make love to you soon," he murmured against her mouth. "You'll feel me deep inside you, all the way inside… until you're filled so full, you'll squirm to get away. But I won't let you go, I'll-"

As he spoke, the coiling heat inside her burned higher with each salacious word. "I'll make love to you until you can't move, until I can't move, and then we'll rest and start all over again. Because I intend to keep you under me or over me or around me-"

Her climax burst over her, and she screamed at the wild, pulsing beauty, at the unadulterated rapture, the exquisite intoxication lasting and lasting and lasting, until finally she lay replete, eyes shut, a half-smile on her lips.

"Satisfied?" His voice was softly teasing as he sat beside her.

"Ummmm…" Her eyes slowly opened and her smile broadened. "You are definitely good."

"We try." His grin was captivating.

"You really aren't selfish," she murmured, reaching up to touch his muscled chest.

"Usually not."

"I see why you're so much in demand."

"The concept of mutual pleasure is more-gratifying."

She stretched like a young sultana. "More gratifying?" she breathed, one brow raised in delicious query. "We'll definitely have to work on that."

He smiled. "My thoughts exactly."

"I don't know though," she hesitantly murmured. "Can I do that again?"

He nodded. "No problem."

Her eyes glowed. "You're sure?"

"Positive."

She smiled faintly. "I think Molly failed to mention a whole lot."

"I'll show you what you missed."

"Because you're not satisfied yet."

"Partly."

"And I'm the other part?" she playfully noted, arching her back in a theatrical, preening pose.

"Absolutely," he said, enjoying the view.

"Am I allowed to say no?"

"You're allowed anything. But I guarantee, you'll like it."

"And I'll feel that delicious, tingly, end-of-the-world thing all over again?"

He nodded again. "All of it."

"How can you be so sure?"

Years of fucking, he thought, but, circumspect, he said, "I just know."

"Because of all the ladies."

"Because of that," he admitted.

"What number am I?"

Was she resentful or curious? He couldn't tell with her brows drawn together like that. "I don't count."

"I think I might. Keep a diary or list. Like Casanova."

"Casanova didn't have a list. He remembered because he liked all those women."

"Do you like them too? Do you like me?"

Her frankness always surprised him. The ladies he knew were more artful. "I like you very much."

"I know I adore you… for what you did just now. I've never felt that wonderful before, not even when Grandpapa and I came upon that map of Galileo's."

"I'm honored." He gracefully bowed his head, amused at the comparison.

"All of a sudden I'm ever so hungry," she abruptly confessed. "Are you hungry?"

His hunger had nothing to do with food. "I am if you are," he politely replied.

"Would you mind if we ate first?"

It took a great deal of restraint to say "No, of course I don't mind. I'll ring for Pomeroy."

"You're an absolute darling," she murmured, lightly touching his arm.

Yes, he was. Because he wanted to fuck the delectable Miss Leslie until he fucked himself to death. Nothing he couldn't put off until after supper.