Temporary Mistress Page 8

  “Especially at sunrise.” She smiled. “I always liked it best at sunrise. You have a Thoroughbred named Sunrise, don’t you? And your darling grays. How are they doing?”

  She always knew him as her son regardless her tangled thoughts. And she would speak to him of his present events as though he alone was allowed to hold a contemporary place in her fractured reality.

  “The grays are getting sleek in the pasture and Sunrise won at Doncaster last month.”

  “Did you win a tidy sum?”

  “Enough to buy you some new diamonds if you wish.”

  “Now, why would I wish diamonds? I have all I want. You buy diamonds for some pretty young thing who turns your head. You haven’t married yet, have you?”

  When he’d returned to England, he’d told his mother of the death of his wife and son, but she had no concept of India, and it would never stay in her memory. Unlike Persia, the land she’d heard so much about as a child. “I’m not married, Maman.”

  “Do you have a special lady in your life?” Her voice was playful, her blue eyes bright with curiosity.

  “Maybe I do.” The words shocked him even as uttered them.

  “Tell me about her. Bring her to see me. You know how I’d love anyone you love.”

  “I don’t think it’s come to that yet, Maman. But she fascinates me.”

  “Then she will fascinate me as well. Does she ride?”

  As a young lady, his mother’s passion had been riding to hounds.

  “I’m not sure. She’s from the City.”

  “The City? My goodness. Then she must be very rich.”

  “She is, I think.”

  “Well, we don’t need her money now, do we, darling. So you can love her for herself. That’s quite a nice idea. Unlike marriages of convenience.” Her expression suddenly changed, the joy vanishing from her eyes.

  “She has blue eyes like you, Maman,” Dermott quickly interposed. “And the most beautiful golden hair, like a fairy sprite. I thought her that the first time I saw her.”

  His mother’s expression immediately brightened. “A fairy sprite? Oh, I adore fairies. Does she look like Queen Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “Better.”

  She clapped her hands. “Then you’re a very lucky man. Better than Titania and a fairy. Do hurry and bring her to me.”

  “I’ll have to ask her.”

  “Yes, you certainly will. Tell her you have the best racing stable in Gloucestershire and she’ll be sure to come. Even girls from the City like horses.”

  His mother assumed everyone loved horses. “I’ll tell her, Maman.”

  The thought stayed with him on his journey back to London, when he’d never before considered asking a woman to his country home. There was no explanation, although he tried mightily to make sense of his wish to bring Miss Leslie home to meet his mother. Maybe she reminded him of youthful hope or of happier times when he was young. Maybe there was no explanation for his longing. Like the riddles of the universe.

  His feelings wouldn’t sensibly fall into some judicious clarity no matter how he rationalized, but it had been so long since he’d acknowledged any feeling other than transient pleasure that he wasn’t sure he’d recognize real emotion anyway. But of one thing he was sure. He didn’t wish to spend his first night with Miss Leslie in a brothel. No matter the act he was about to commit was businesslike and sexual. It was also more.

  It was the first time since Damayanti died that he’d looked forward to a lady’s company. He quickly warned himself not to have too high expectations, not to set too great a store on a young woman who was willing to coolly dispense with her virginity in order to safeguard her fortune. Perhaps a good lawyer would have worked for her as well.

  She could turn out to be cold and calculating. Although that persona didn’t seem to fit the blushing young lady he’d met at Molly’s. Not that women weren’t capable of the most deceitful theatrics. That he knew from personal experience.

  Time would tell, he noted practically. And if sated lust was the only consequence of his liaison with Miss Leslie, he couldn’t in good conscience expect more. But he sent a note to Molly on his arrival in London. Miss Leslie was requested to present herself at Bathurst House at seven.

  Molly concealed her surprise when she conveyed the contents of Dermott’s request to Isabella. “Apparently, he’ll feel more comfortable at his own home,” she stated, when she and Isabella both knew Dermott spent more time at Molly’s than he did at Bathurst House.

  “Very well,” Isabella politely replied, her degree of nervousness already intense when the agreed-on date finally arrived. The last week had been a frantic round of activities. Her body felt as though it had been washed and massaged and perfumed with such an eye to detail, she could have been presented to the sultan of sultans without disgrace.

  Molly stood in the doorway of Isabella’s room, Dermott’s note in her hand. “I don’t think I can teach you anything more.”

  “You’ve been very kind, really.” Isabella shut the book she’d been trying to read for the past hour.

  “Bathurst will send his carriage at half past six.”

  “I’ll be ready.” She stood as though matching activity to words.

  “We sound as though you’re about to mount the guillotine.”

  Isabella forced a smile, her nerves on edge. “Hardly. Tonight will, in fact, insure me a peaceful life.”

  “I remind myself of that when I’m in doubt.”

  “Please,” Isabella enjoined, moving toward her hostess, “don’t feel responsible for what I’m about to do.” Taking one of her hands in hers, she gently squeezed it. “I’m of age and relatively sound mind,” she added with a smile. “I’m quite capable of taking responsibility for my actions.”

  “Nevertheless, I shall warn Bathurst to treat you well or incur my wrath.”

  “That won’t be necessary if all the stories the ladies have been telling me are true. He apparently is the kindest, most amorous and gentle of lovers.”

  “Hmpf,” Molly grumbled, drawing Isabella into her arms. “Take care, my sweet,” she murmured. “He may be kind and sweet, but for all that, he’s still a man, and I’m not so sure any of them can be trusted.” Patting Isabella’s back lightly, she stepped away and smiled at the young girl who had captured her affection. “And despite all the damnable training this week, you do what you want; the devil with what he wants.” Much as she loved Bathurst, he was a seasoned player in the world of amour. He could take care of himself. This young mite needed all the help she could get.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Isabella playfully replied, dropping a polite curtsy to her protector. “I shall be the soul of selfishness.”

  “Good for you,” Molly said gruffly. “Now I’ll have Mercer send up a nice half bottle of wine for you to steady your nerves. And I’ll help you dress.”

  7

  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 like—”

  “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 lilies?”

  “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 risqué 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 acros
s 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.”