Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  Molly and Isabella sat up after dinner that night, making lists of all that still required attention.

  Isabella was taut with excitement.

  Molly took pleasure in that excitement, pleased to offer the young woman she’d come to love entree into the grande monde.

  “I’m going to have to practice all the various curtsies and graceful phrases and the dance steps too. I’m not sure I’m ready,” Isabella nervously said.

  “Nonsense. You’re very accomplished and quite up to the mark.”

  “Tell me again, what I should do if I chance to meet my relatives at any of these functions?”

  “Follow Moira’s advice. Cut them cold. Dermott sent a note telling me they’d been warned off, as you know. I expect that will be sufficient to protect you from any unwanted overtures.”

  “And if I see Dermott?”

  “Do as you wish, of course. But if I were you, I’d make sure he saw that you were enjoying yourself.”

  “Might he become jealous?”

  There was such a wistfulness in her voice, Molly didn’t have the heart to disavow that possibility. Although after the account of Moira’s meeting she felt there was a chance Dermott’s feelings might be involved. Nevertheless, she warned, “Dermott’s plagued by demons you and I can’t understand. It’s difficult to determine what he feels.”

  “When Grandpapa died, I felt such loneliness. I can’t imagine how one would survive the loss of a wife and child.”

  “He’s haunted by the memory; it affects his whole life. But consider, dear,” she coaxed. “There are a number of other handsome, charming men in the ton without Dermott’s afflictions. Perhaps you’ll find one you fancy.”

  “Perhaps …” But Isabella’s dreams continued to be of Dermott, and in her bluest moods she wondered how long it took to fall out of love.

  “Let’s decide what jewelry you’ll wear with your lavender gown,” Molly declared, intent on distracting her protégée from melancholy thoughts.

  Isabella smiled. “My mother’s amethysts, of course.”

  “With that new pearl tiara.”

  “And the bracelet you found with the flower clasp.”

  “Perfect. We should have a portrait painted of you in that magnificent gown. You look as grand as a princess.”

  Isabella laughed. “If only Grandpapa could see me now. He would tell everyone at the bank and everyone who came into the bank, and all the sailors and workers at our warehouses and docks. ‘Look at Izzy,’ he’d say. ‘She’s taken on the ton.’”

  “And so you shall,” Molly cheerfully replied. “Beginning next week.”

  13

  THE EARL OF MOIRA had given Isabella’s schedule to him out of roguish sport, Dermott didn’t doubt. But he wasn’t about to rise to the bait.

  In fact, he made a point of having plans the night of her coming-out ball. But in the course of Lord Falworth’s revel that evening, he was more aware than he would have wished of the special event transpiring at Hertford House. At midnight, with the bacchanalia in full swing, Dermott looked up from the chaise where he lay with a beautiful cyprian—one of several Falworth had brought in for the occasion—and glanced at the clock chiming the hour.

  The lovely woman lying beneath him regained his attention in a particularly arousing way, bringing his perceptions back to amorous play, and he renewed his gratifying rhythm. The private room in the tavern was furnished with a number of chaises—all occupied by young lords and their fair companions, and the consumption of liquor had had its effect on the guests. The level of dissipation had reached an unbridled state of orgy.

  From which Dermott felt oddly detached.

  Not that the lady beneath him had any reason for complaint. He operated automatically after so many years, instinct and skill taking over when his attention was otherwise engaged. Although, after bringing her to climax once again, he disengaged himself with well-bred courtesy—the phrases second nature to a man who never stayed long—excused himself and rose from the chaise.

  Prompted by rash impulse, he swiftly dressed, making himself presentable with an adeptness acquired from countless hasty departures. And after leaving his companion a sizable purse and a gracious smile, he exited the debauch.

  With a pronounced feeling of relief.

  Twenty minutes later, he was mounting the stairs to Hertford House.

  Standing on the threshold of the ballroom a few moments later, he was announced by the marchioness’s august majordomo. A great number of guests turned their heads to stare. Not that he was overlate, for balls rarely began before eleven.

  But, rather, that he was there at all.

  And, they noted, in a state of mild dishevelment.

  Even from a distance it was evident he’d not just come from his valet. Although the earl had a certain cachet that drew the eye regardless of the state of his dress. He wore a black swallowtail coat, an elegant waistcoat of embroidered silk, and knee breeches, the required dress for balls. And while his neckcloth might be a shade wrinkled, the beauty of his face and form eclipsed even that most reprehensible of sins. He ran his hand through his hair in a casual gesture as he stood in the doorway, the cynosure of so many eyes, and surveyed the guests with a raking gaze.

  His appearances were rare at society functions, although he was known to make the exception when he was intent on making a new conquest or charming a current one.

  It had to be a woman.

  Who was she? everyone wondered.

  And then his gaze came to rest on Lady Hertford’s honored guest, and the conjecture ceased.

  The earl strolled forward.

  Isabella had seen Dermott the minute he’d stepped through the doorway, before he’d been announced, before he’d seen her, and her heart was racing.

  His progress across the large room engaged everyone’s attention, although he seemed not to notice. And when the men surrounding Isabella moved aside enough to allow him access to her and he saw her fully, his mouth curved into a smile.

  An intimate smile that suggested he and Miss Leslie were well acquainted.

  That made it clear to those who knew him best.

  “Miss Leslie, I understand,” he said, his voice deep and low, his salutation careful not to openly acknowledge their prior friendship. “Lord Bathurst at your service.” He bowed with exceptional grace.

  And while protocol demanded he wait to be presented to her, no one was surprised at his audacity.

  She should take offense at his insolence, but he looked so beautiful, she could scarcely breathe.

  But then she smelled the heavy fragrance—a woman’s scent that rose from his hair and clothes—and an inexpressible rage filled her senses.

  “How dare you,” she murmured, aware of the attention his appearance had evoked but unable to suppress her anger.

  “I didn’t realize you were such a stickler for convention, Miss Leslie. Should I find someone to introduce us?”

  “Don’t let me keep you, my lord. You perhaps wish to return to your lady friend.”

  “Not in the least. I apologize for my unkempt state. It was unavoidable.”

  “As is my next engagement. Excuse me, gentlemen. I’ve promised Lady Hertford a moment of my time.” She made to walk away.

  Dermott stepped in her path, his half-smile offering challenge. “Barbara won’t mind waiting. Dance with me, Miss Leslie.”

  All eyes were on their exchange, and even those on the opposite side of the ballroom recognized a contretemps.

  Isabella smiled tightly. “The musicians aren’t playing, my lord. Perhaps some other time.”

  “An oversight, I’m sure.” Gripping her hand, he stepped out onto the floor enough so the resting musicians saw him, and signaled for them to begin. They were separated from the other guests by a small distance now, their words not as likely to be heard.

  “You’re annoying me,” Isabella snapped.

  “Strangely, I feel the same way.”

  “Then I’ll thank you t
o unhand me.”

  “I don’t care to. Are you willing to make a scene at your coming-out party?” he softly jibed, drawing her into his arms as the strains of a danse à deux began. “Think of what you have to lose. All those potential suitors. A position as reigning belle. You’re dazzling in that lavender gown, darling,” he murmured. “I’m sure you know that.” Pulling her closer, he gazed down at her with a cheeky grin.

  “How kind of you to notice, my lord,” she replied sarcastically, trying to ease backward.

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it.” His grip tightened as he smoothly moved them into a turn. “Your breasts are quite magnificent mounded in plump display above that very risqué neckline.”

  “Low décolletage is the fashion, my lord. As you well know, I’m sure, considering your major source of interest.”

  “As I recall, it was yours as well.”

  “People change. Although I see you’re still in form. Who was your lover tonight? She uses perfume liberally.”

  “Actually, I forget.”

  He didn’t even have the decency to deny it, she hotly reflected. “But then, you make a point of forgetting your light o’loves, don’t you.”

  “Not always. I’m here tonight.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered?” How beautifully he danced, damn him, effortlessly.

  “You should be.”

  “You arrogant bastard!” she hissed, his cool nonchalance galling. “Is this where I’m supposed to fall into your arms and offer myself to you?”

  He smiled. “You’re already in my arms.” With a cordial nod he acknowledged an acquaintance dancing by. “Al though I’m getting the distinct impression you won’t be offering yourself in the next few minutes,” he murmured, his attention returned to her.

  “How astute. It must come from your vast experience with women. For your information, I won’t be offering myself at all.”

  “Really.”

  Another nod, a smile. He seemed to know everyone. “Yes, really,” she said in a pettish tone that took issue with both the public display of adulation directed at him and his casual acceptance of it. “You’re too assured, my lord. You’ve had your way too long.”

  “And you haven’t?”

  “Not with such selfish abandon.” Most pertinently, she refused to be number two hundred and ten or one thousand fifty or whatever the sum of his conquests. The female fragrance on him tonight forcefully reminded her of his reputation for inconstancy.

  “Do you wish to be courted? Is that what you want?”

  “What I want, my lord, isn’t within your power to give.”

  “You never complained before—about my giving,” he dryly murmured.

  Her cheeks turned red. “I have some pride, Dermott. Consider—how long would you keep me if I returned? A week, two weeks? When would you tire of the game? Because it’s only a game with you. And I no longer care to play.”

  “Are you angling for a husband?” His voice had taken on an edge. “Is that what this is all about? This season and your newly found virtue?”

  “What difference does it make.”

  “Tell me,” he brusquely ordered, no longer nonchalant, the thought of her married to someone else insupportable.

  “Unless you’re thinking of proposing, I don’t see how it can possibly matter what my plans are.”

  “So you are on the market.” His grip on her hand hardened.

  “Whether I am or not has nothing to do with you.”

  “I could take you away. You couldn’t stop me. No one could.”

  “To what purpose?” Her brows rose infinitesimally.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You see,” she whispered. “Back to square one. Now, if you would stop acting like some spoiled young boy, I’d be grateful if you’d return me to Lady Hertford.”

  “Fine,” he curtly said. Twirling them in grim-mouthed silence and flawless pirouettes through the numerous dancing couples, he came to rest directly before Lady Hertford.

  “It was a pleasure, Miss Leslie,” Dermott pronounced in silken accents. “I wish you a pleasant evening.”

  “And you as well, my lord,” she murmured, as capable as he of feigned civility.

  “Your party is a great success, Barbara,” the earl remarked, smiling at their hostess. “Everyone of consequence is here.”

  “So nice of you to come, Dermott. I’m sure Miss Leslie is appreciative.”

  “Bathurst!” The Prince of Wales appeared in the doorway of the card room and waved as he approached. “I see you’ve been introduced to Miss Leslie,” he said with a sly smile as he came to rest beside the marchioness.

  And introduced into Miss Leslie as well—as he would be again, Dermott firmly resolved. “She granted me the privilege of a dance, Your Highness,” he replied, honey-tongued and insolent. “I’m overcome with gratitude.”

  “And so you should be, Bathurst. Miss Leslie is a jewel of the first water, a rare beauty we’re all grateful to have in our midst. Is that not true, Barbara, my dear?”

  “Without a doubt, Your Highness. Why not join us for supper, Dermott. I’m sure Miss Leslie would enjoy your company.”

  “Thank you. I will.” The smirk he turned on Isabella was one of brazen-faced impudence.

  “We still have plenty of time before supper to test our competence in the card room,” the Prince of Wales cheerfully declared. “Come, Bathurst. You always bring me luck.”

  In the interim before supper, Isabella danced with any number of the horde of men intent on claiming her company. She gaily accepted their compliments and requests to visit on the morrow, hoping to diminish the impact of Dermott’s appearance tonight by welcoming their attentions, thinking she could forget his rudeness in the arms of other men.

  Adoring men.

  Flattering men.

  Men who wanted her for more than sex.

  She smiled and laughed and flirted outrageously, wanting to pretend Dermott didn’t matter, wanting to obliterate the image of his smug smile, thinking if she played at amour as shamelessly as he, she might feel a spark of interest in one of the many men who wooed her.

  But no matter how handsome or charming the men, no matter their dancing skills, regardless of their title or flowery blandishments, her feelings remained sadly untouched.

  She might have been made of stone.

  But she steeled herself against the counterfeit joy that Dermott offered, reminding herself that all was only transient pleasure with him and the sense of loss at his leaving was too unbearable to repeat. If she were sensible—and prior to meeting Dermott she’d prided herself on her reason—she’d take advantage of her miraculous entree into society and concentrate on the amusements of a London season with single-minded purpose.

  Not an easy task with Dermott so much on her mind. But the sheer number of entertainments together with her numerous gallant and enthusiastic admirers should keep her busy from morning to night. And in her present peevish mood she welcomed distraction above all else.

  Gazing up into the handsome face of the Marquis of Lonsdale, she said with feigned warmth, “I’d very much like to take the ribbons of your high-perch phaeton. Say early next week? Monday?”

  “Delighted, Miss Leslie,” the young lord suavely replied.

  “Perhaps four o’clock?”

  “Four o’clock it is.” His smile had charmed from a very young age. “I consider myself most fortunate, Miss Leslie.”

  “Au contraire, Lord Lonsdale. The pleasure is mine.”

  Dermott won at the gaming tables, of course, which didn’t help her annoyance. Did he ever fail at anything? The Prince had won as well, and both men were in good spirits when they escorted the ladies into supper.

  “Do you gamble, Miss Leslie?” Dermott inquired, his eyes asking something else entirely as he sat down beside her.

  “I did once, to my chagrin,” she pointedly replied.

  “A shame. Perhaps it’s like being thrown from a horse. It’s best to simply
try again.”

  “In this case, my lord, I doubt the horse has learned any better manners.”

  “How would you know without riding him again?”

  The double entendre brought a flush to her cheeks, but her voice, when she spoke, was chill. “Some rogue horses can’t be broken of their bad habits.”

  “What horses?” the Prince of Wales inquired in a jovial tone. “Did you buy yourself some new prime horseflesh, Dermott?”

  “Miss Leslie and I were speaking metaphorically, Your Highness.”

  “Oh, ho! Poetry already, Bathurst. You don’t waste any time. I’ll drink to that, eh, Barbara, my dear. To love and romance, hear, hear!”

  And there was nothing for it, but that they must join him in his toast.

  Isabella tried to ignore Dermott as they were served their food by a phalanx of footmen, the menu gargantuan—like the Prince of Wales’s appetite. But Dermott insinuated himself into the proceedings, indicating to the flunkies what to serve her, having her wineglass refilled as she emptied it, watching her eat each course with approval as though he had a proprietary right, touching her hand on occasion and her leg under the table with great frequency.

  She tried to distance herself, but there was little room to physically move with the other guests at the table and the eyes of the Prince and Lady Hertford often trained on them. She didn’t dare make a scene on her first night in society.

  And Dermott knew it.

  When the purgatory of supper was finally over, Dermott took her hand in his and drew her from her chair. “Miss Leslie has asked me to dance again.” His smile to the table at large was sunny. “How can I refuse?”

  And after the courtesies of taking their leave were complete, she was led away.

  “You missed your calling,” Isabella snapped, finally able to speak her mind. “You should have been on the stage.”

  “While you could have played the part of a sulky miss,” he sportively replied. “How do you hope to bring a suitor up to scratch if you don’t put yourself forward in a more flattering way?”