A few moments later, when the carriage came to rest midway down Bond Street, ignoring her protests Dermott helped her descend, the warmth of his hand, the firmness of his grip, heightening her agitation.
Fully aware of her response, practiced at gauging female arousal, he tucked her hand under his arm, and holding it securely, began strolling with her down the busy street.
In desperation, she entered the first shop they passed, needing to separate herself from his searing closeness, distance herself from the familiarity of his powerful body and all it provoked in terms of heated memory. Once inside, however, she found herself disastrously in a shop awash with lingerie. Every conceivable style of chemise and petticoat, nightgown and robe, was displayed, the silken garments, the intimate implications of the apparel, bringing a blush to her cheeks.
“May I help you?”
She looked up into the handsome face of a young, virile man, and recall of Molly’s erotic book came shockingly to life. “I’m … that is—I’m just … looking at the moment.” Were there no female employees in the shop? Quickly glancing around, she found none and turned to leave.
Dermott’s grip tightened. “Show us some petticoats. Lace ones,” he said with a quiet authority. Turning to Isabella, he pleasantly smiled, as though he weren’t holding her captive. “White lace becomes you.”
Under the clerk’s regard, Isabella curtailed her impulse to scream at him. “Perhaps we could do this some other time,” she replied coolly.
“No time like the present, darling.” Dermott’s grasp was unyielding.
“But, darling,” she returned, oversweet and pointed, “we don’t have time with Auntie’s party at five.”
“You know I’m her favorite.” His grin held a distinct impudence. “She’ll overlook our late arrival. That one, I think,” he added, indicating with a nod to the clerk a frothy confection of chantilly lace. “And the pink one over there.”
Disregarding her resistance, he drew her toward a bank of curtained alcoves. “You can try them on in here.” Apparently familiar with the layout of the store, he pulled back an elegant drapery and stepped aside so the clerk could set the two garments on a small table. “This shouldn’t take long.” Directing a nod at the young man, he pulled Isabella inside and closed the curtain.
“How dare you!” she heatedly whispered, jerking her hand away from his relaxed hold, wondering if she dared run.
“I wouldn’t suggest it,” he murmured as though he could read her mind. “You wouldn’t make it to the door.”
“The clerk is an accomplice?” she hissed, her gaze hot with resentment.
“Let’s just say he knows how best to earn his living.”7
“From you?”
He shrugged. “Try on a petticoat,” he suggested as though she weren’t bristling with umbrage. Dropping onto a convenient chaise, he offered her a sweet smile. “I’ll buy them for you; I’ll buy out the store for you.”
“You can’t mean to go through with this!” Her voice was deliberately muted, but her rage was unmistakable.
“With what?” His expression was innocent.
“I’m not in the mood for your games, damn you!”
“What are you in the mood for? Honestly.”
She drew in a steadying breath, his query uncomfortably relevant. “You just have to appear and I’m supposed to immediately succumb to your charm?”
“I don’t think either one of us is much interested in charm right now.” He lounged in a lazy sprawl, his erection blatant even in the subdued light. “Are we?”
She wondered if he could hear the powerful throbbing between her legs.
“You’re flushed,” he said, his voice exquisitely mild.
He knew. “What do you have in mind?” she snapped. “Five minutes and then we’ll be on our way?”
“I doubt you’ll be satisfied with five minutes,” he gently said. “As I recall, you always wanted more … and more”—he smiled—“and more.”
“And you’re available,” she gibed, trying not to look at the tempting dimensions of his erection.
“Always for you,” he said.
“This is all for me?”
His mouth quirked in a faint smile. “I wish I were so unselfish.”
“And then what? I mean—what exactly happens after this interesting encounter?”
“Do you want a signed contract?” he sardonically asked.
“Would I get one if I wished?” Equally sarcastic, she gazed at him.
“We both want the same thing. I don’t understand your equivocation.”
“Surely a man of your finesse knows better than to so bluntly propose intercourse.”
“I’m sorry.” He grimaced. “I find myself unable to deal with you casually.”
“And if you could, I’d be better wooed?”
He pushed himself upright and his gaze was suddenly stripped bare of indolence. “If I didn’t want you so,” he gruffly said, “I could say anything you wished to hear.”
“And if I didn’t want you so,” she countered, as hindered and buffeted as he, “I wouldn’t care what you said.”
He sighed and sprawled back again. “I’m at a complete loss. Nothing glib comes to mind.”
“You might try ‘I missed you.’”
A low growl escaped him. And then another sigh. “I did.”
The two words were so reluctantly uttered, Isabella found herself smiling. “Then I might indulge you after all.”
His gaze slowly came up and met hers. A moment passed, two, the hush of indecision palpable. And then without speaking, he opened his arms.
Standing in the middle of the room, she understood and didn’t understand and at base, perhaps, was as selfish as he because she wanted what he wanted. “I suppose I should take off my bonnet,” she said because the words were safe and innocuous and the truth would never do.
“Let me,” he softly replied, coming to his feet.
They made love that afternoon with a suppressed desperation, as though they both knew their fleeting moments together might be all they had, that the world and the past and their uncompromising sensibilities precluded a perfect future. They were at once selfish and generous, indulgent and self-indulgent, caught up in a frantic sense of wonder and fevered exaltation. And when at last Isabella took note of the time, or the clerk did, or she’d just imagined the knock on the woodwork, Dermott reluctantly kissed her adieu.
But later, dressed once again, standing outside the shop, neither knew what to say.
He offered her his thanks and a number of graceful phrases of leave-taking. Although even as he spoke, he was assailed with an uncustomary sadness.
“I understand,” she said, capable of pretext as well, when nothing made sense at the moment, when it felt as though she were falling off the edge of the world into nothingness.
He nodded, words failing him, his emotions in chaos.
And then he walked away.
Isabella returned home and canceled the rest of her engagements for the day. Self-pity overwhelmed her, and even Molly knew better than to interfere after talking to Sam and John. Retiring to her room, Isabella locked her door, lay on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried to bring her feelings into some semblance of order. She loved Dermott—an appalling, wretched fact. Like a dozen other women, no doubt—or hundreds. And there wasn’t a hope in the world that he would reciprocate her feelings. That he was even capable of loving someone again.
So the question was—how best to overcome her unrequited love and get on with her life? Ever practical, she understood the pathetic liabilities in loving him. And in the course of her hermitage that evening, she considered a great number of options, none of which, unfortunately, soothed her current misery. Although there was comfort in knowing Dermott cared for her at some level other than sex. Of that she was certain. It was small recompense for her sadness, but a degree of solace, however minute, that she desperately needed.
It was a shame he had so many demons i
n his past, she reflected at least a thousand times that night.
In a more perfect world, she might have met him sooner.
In a more perfect world, neither would have suffered loss.
In a more perfect world, he would have returned her love.
And unalloyed bliss could have been theirs.
By morning, Isabella had reconciled fact and fantasy and had sensibly put what had passed between herself and Dermott into perspective. He wasn’t about to change his life—nor should she. There was no purpose in wishful dreams. When dealing with Dermott Ramsay, cold practicality was not only critical but essential.
For her part, considering the circumstances in which she found herself, she’d decided diversion would best serve her purposes.
And so she conducted herself that weekend as though frivolous society offered her the greatest delight, as though flirtation were her raison d’etre and there weren’t enough hours in the day to satisfy her penchant for pleasure.
16
ON MONDAY, under Molly’s watchful eye and with the help of her maid, Isabella dressed for her drive with the Marquis of Lonsdale. She wore a simple muslin gown, tucked and pleated with green ribands, a short riding jacket of bottle-green wool completing the ensemble. Calling for her driving gloves, she set a small turban of striped silk on the back of her head while her maid went to fetch the gloves. Turning to Molly, she lightly asked, “Will this do? For one must show well, mustn’t one?”
“You’ll show very well indeed. Everyone in the park will take note.”
“Which is the point, is it not—to see and be seen,” Isabella observed. “In yet another gown, on the arm of yet another man.”
Isabella was deluged with suitors and callers, the drawing room thronged with hopeful men whenever she was at home. “Are you becoming weary of the scene?” Molly gently asked, hearing the discontent in Isabella’s voice. “You need but say it and we’ll fold up our tent.”
Isabella looked at her friend and smiled. “I’d be fainthearted to cry off so soon.”
“Perhaps you should be more selective. Accept only a few invitations.”
Isabella made a small moue. “At the moment, I feel a great need for distraction”—her smile was brittle—“and amusement.”
“Perhaps not with the marquis, however. He’s a bit of a rogue,” Molly warned, “and deep in debt. I should have said something before. I almost wish you might cry off today.”
“And so I might if I’d not agreed to this in order to spite Dermott.” The marquis for all his lack of money was a great favorite of the ladies. “Not that Dermott will take note anyway. He’s probably entertaining some lady, as usual.” And who better than she to understand his allure?
“Not Mrs. Compton in any event, Mercer reports.”
“And how would Mercer know?”
“Because I told him to keep watch on Dermott for me.”
“Then, tell me, where has he disappeared?” With the exception of the duchess’s musicale, he’d been absent from society since her ball.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
Isabella grimaced. “Another woman, I suppose.”
“Dermott doesn’t like to be alone.”
“A convenient excuse. Who is it this time?” Even as she asked, she didn’t know if she really wished to hear.
“Helene Kristos. An actress at Covent Garden.”
“He’s been with her all this time?” How it hurt to think of him with someone else.
“So I’ve been told. That will be all, Hannah,” she added as the maid handed Isabella her green pigskin gloves. Molly waited until the maid left the room and then said, “They’re friends of sorts. Dermott helped Helene when her husband died two years ago. Her child was only a month old, and to all accounts she nearly went mad from grief.”
“How did Dermott know her?”
“How does any young rake know the actresses at the Garden?”
“Is their relationship platonic, then?”
Molly hesitated.
“Never mind. How naive of me to even ask.”
“It was at first, but …”
“Of course. How could she resist? How could he resist when he never does.”
“Dermott was faithful to his wife. That I know. But before and after his marriage, well …” She shrugged. “He’s always been pursued; it would be rare for a man to refuse everyone.”
“And there’s so many.”
“I’m sorry,” Molly quietly said. “I know how painful this is, but the truth often is … and—what purpose would be served to deceive oneself?”
“I understand.” Isabella adjusted the gloves on her fingers.
“I wish I could sugarcoat the facts. He seemed to look on you very differently, and I confess I was hoping …”
Isabella smiled ruefully. “So you have impractical dreams too. It’s reassuring. I thought, perhaps, only I wished for the moon.”
There was a rap on the bedroom door.
“I think my chariot awaits,” Isabella said with a forced élan.
“Don’t go if you don’t wish to. I’ll have Homie give your excuses.”
“Nonsense,” Isabella briskly said. “I feel the need for some fresh air. It might help to blow away the gossamer dreams from my brain.”
“Take care with Lonsdale. He has a private side to him that isn’t very savory.”
“Are you warning me off? He’s accepted at all the best functions.”
“He’s a marquis after all. And regardless the state of his finances and his bachelor vices, he has a title and looks. But he does need to marry for money.”
“As do a great number of my admirers. I’m not so innocent that I think my allure is strictly the shape of my ankle or the color of my eyes.”
Molly smiled. “You have a good head on your shoulders.”
“I well understand the point of the season. The men are looking for wealth to marry as much as the women are. And if a title goes with the bargain, so much the better. But I have no intention of marrying anyone. In the foreseeable future—perhaps never. I dislike the notion of being married for my money.”
“In that case, Lonsdale will be disappointed.”
Isabella grinned. “Better him than me.” And with a wave she left the room and descended the staircase to see Lonsdale’s smart phaeton and team.
He was waiting in the drawing room, standing at the window, facing the street. He turned when she entered the room. “You look very fine today—as usual, I should add.” The marquis’s smile was charming as he walked toward her.
“Thank you. It looks as though the weather is cooperating for our drive.”
“I ordered the sun to shine particularly for you.” He offered his arm to her.
“How pleasant.” Isabella placed her hand on his arm and smiled up at him. “A man of authority.”
“Do you like men of authority?” His drawl matched his quirked grin as they moved toward the door to the entrance hall.
“Only when they’re ordering the weather for me.”
“Not in other things?” His gaze was amused.
He was very handsome, Isabella thought, in an ordinary way, very fair, like a young Apollo, with a well-formed athletic body and superb blue eyes. “Never in other things,” she softly affirmed. “I fear I’m sadly self-indulgent.”
The doors opened as if by unseen hands, and they moved into the entrance hall.
“Aren’t we all,” he agreed. “And to that purpose, I thought you might like to see a bit of the country today.”
“That sounds very refreshing. Although my aunt expects me back in good time to dress for my evening engagement.”
“I’ll see that you don’t miss your evening’s pleasures,” he quietly said.
The marquis helped her up onto the high-perched seat of his phaeton and then jumped up beside her. After releasing his grip on the horses, the groom leaped into place on the back of the vehicle and with a crack of the whip, they were off.
&n
bsp; The weather was indeed fine, sunny and warm, with a light breeze that caressed their faces as they bowled through the streets of the City.
“I’ll drive out and you can drive back,” the marquis offered, weaving through traffic like a top hand.
“After the hectic pace of the past week, I’m content to simply sit and enjoy the scenery.” Isabella clung to the seat, swaying with the speed of the carriage and the rhythm of the horses. Lonsdale’s team were coal black and gleaming, brushed to a glossy shine, the matched pair prime and fleet of foot. Before long, they were well along Kings Road on their way south. The City gave way to pasture and field and an occasional cluster of buildings. Until they reached the village of Chelsea, no longer so much on the outskirts as it once had been. With the City spreading in every direction, what had been a country village not so long ago was now a retreat for those needing rustication or a bit of bucolic repose.
The marquis drove up to an inn, brought his horses to a stop, and tossed his reins to his groom. “I thought we’d take some refreshment here—a lemonade or tea if you wish. The parlor is quite clean, I’m told, and the proprietress makes a caramel shortbread that’s worth the drive from the City.”
“I was tempted by the lemonade, but caramel shortbread too. How can I refuse?”
In moments she’d been helped down from the phaeton and was being escorted inside the Grey Goose. But rather than entering the front parlor, where several patrons sat, the marquis continued through the center hallway to the back of the inn, where he turned to insert a key into a door.
“What is this?” Isabella looked around at the well-kept garden out back, at the quiet hallway through which they’d walked, the sound of customers in the public rooms only faintly heard.
“I bespoke a private parlor.” Turning the key, he opened the door, and before he could turn back to her, Isabella caught a glimpse of not a private parlor, but an apartment. A well-decorated room quite out of place in the rustic inn. With two top hats on an elegant console table.
That shouldn’t be there.
She glanced back to the inn entrance but saw no one. And when she swiveled around again, Lonsdale was reaching for her.
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