Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  “I can’t imagine where you girls get such preposterous notions. No one will be poisoning anyone. Do you understand?” Abigail cast them a pointed look.

  “And we’ll just mold away at all the rubbishy parties while Isabella dances with the Prince and probably marries a duke.” On which sour note Caroline stuffed an entire muffin into her mouth.

  “And we’ll be forced to live with Mama and Papa for the rest of our lives,” Amelia said with a dramatic sigh cut short by a forkful of glazed ham.

  After breakfast, impelled by motherly impulse and the ridicule of her friends if she couldn’t marry off her daughters with ten thousand apiece, Abigail sought out her husband in his study. “I don’t suppose you saw the society columns this morning,” she curtly pronounced as she entered the room, displeasure in every syllable of her statement.

  Herbert looked up from his desk. “Now, why would I look at the society columns?”

  “To see if your daughters might be in them?”

  “Not likely that.” He was realistic about his daughters’ prospects, understanding they would find themselves husbands only because of the generous dowries he provided.

  “Well,” Abigail pithily said, plunking herself down in a chair near the desk, her brows drawn together in a black scowl, “if you had, you would have seen that Miss Isabella Leslie has flown very high indeed.”

  His wife had his attention. “Meaning?”

  “None other than Lady Hertford sponsored Isabella at a ball last evening. Which really means the Prince of Wales is her sponsor, as you well know. Our daughters are beside themselves with grief and rage.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I could no more get them an invitation to Lady Hertford’s than I could jump over the moon.” Isabella had indeed landed on her feet, he thought, Bathurst’s interest in her suddenly personalized, the tidbits of gossip apparently true. His close relationship with the Prince of Wales was well known.

  “You will do something, Herbert.” Abigail’s thin shoulders were rigid with anger. “Need I remind you what the influence of my father’s firm meant when you were first gaining clients?”

  “No, you need not remind me,” he grumbled, “since I’ve heard it anytime you were vexed these last twenty years. But you didn’t see Bathurst when he threatened me. He was serious.”

  “Surely a man of his ilk rarely appears at the deb balls. The girls wish to meet the aristocracy, not the sons of City merchants.”

  “Unfortunately, we don’t know when he may appear, and I have no intention of meeting him on the dueling field.”

  “I understand, Herbert.” She offered him a thin smile. “But surely there’s some way around it. A means of offering the girls entree into some of the fashionable balls. Bathurst’s defense of Isabella certainly can’t be of much moment. He’s known for the fickleness of his interests.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right. I don’t relish his anger. Nor do any of our male relatives.”

  “You must find out when and where he will be and simply avoid those entertainments. There will be plenty enough parties left over. With the girls’ dowries we can reach high, Herbert, and don’t tell me you wouldn’t wish a quartering or two added to our family name.”

  “You ask a good deal, Abigail.”

  “But not the impossible when every night sees a dozen balls.”

  “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s all I want.”

  By one of those fortuitous freaks of fortune that occur from time to time, Herbert Leslie found himself meeting with the Marquis of Lonsdale the following day. It seemed the marquis had lost rather heavily at White’s the night before, and he needed funds to pay his gambling debts. Since Herbert already held a number of the marquis’s notes, he was just about to ask a favor of him in regard to invitations for his daughters, when Lonsdale asked, “Is the beautiful Miss Isabella Leslie any relation to you? She’s quite charmed the ton.”

  It was a moment of pure opportunity.

  Invitations be damned.

  Since George Leslie’s death, the Leslie males had been trying to find a way to separate Isabella from her fortune, and now Lonsdale had suddenly appeared in his office as though by the hand of God. Not that Herbert had a Christian bone in his body, but he recognized a miracle when he saw one.

  “As a matter of fact, she is. She’s my niece.”

  “And very wealthy, I hear.” After dissipating his inheritance in five short years, the marquis was on the lookout for a profitable marriage. “She’s agreed to go driving with me next week.”

  “Has she now?”

  At Herbert’s tone, the marquis looked at his banker with a speculative gaze. “She has,” he softly said.

  “How much do you owe me?” Herbert asked.

  One of the marquis’s brows rose in contemptuous regard. “How should I know. Do I look like a grubby clerk?”

  “Fifty thousand.”

  The marquis smiled. “And you want something from me for this new loan?”

  “How would you like to marry my niece?”

  “I and a hundred other bucks. Do you have a suggestion on how I might accomplish that feat?”

  “Possibly. But if I do, I want my fifty thousand and the running of her businesses.”

  “Where you’d steal me blind.” It was a time when women had few rights to their fortunes after marriage. The marquis’s interest in Isabella’s wealth was as keen as his interest in her.

  “There’s more than enough for everyone,” Herbert calmly said. “And need I remind you, you’re near bankrupt. So a percentage of Isabella’s fortune is more than you have or could possibly contemplate. You’re not a great catch, Lonsdale, with your estates in ruin.”

  The marquis scowled at him for a moment and then said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Take her driving as planned.”

  “And?”

  “Drive her to your little hideaway in Chelsea, where you can see that she’s thoroughly compromised. We will see that there are witnesses and a minister waiting.” This time Herbert planned on taking no chances. He’d see that Isabella was married to the marquis. Bathurst would be less likely to threaten one of his own kind. And should he, Lonsdale’s skill with a pistol was formidable.

  “Tempting.” The marquis leaned back in his chair and contemplated some distant view outside the windows.

  “You’d be very rich.”

  Lonsdale refocused his gaze on Herbert. “I could take her away to the Continent.” He smiled. “For a honeymoon.”

  “Until the scandal dies down.”

  “Until I see that she’s with child. Insurance, as it were.”

  “Very wise.”

  The marquis abruptly came to his feet. “I’m going to need contracts for my lawyers to review. Soon. I take her driving Monday.”

  “I’ll have them delivered to your home.”

  “Send them to Jackson Hewlett. I’ll stop by to see him now and give him a brief overview.”

  “Only of our terms.”

  “Of course.”

  “The matter of Isabella will remain private.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I’ll see that your debts at White’s are taken care of.”

  Lonsdale dipped his head. “And I’ll see that Miss Leslie enjoys her drive.”

  15

  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 pla
yed 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.