“I’m glad you do,” he whispered, wondering how she’d completely altered his world in so short a time.
“I should be blasé and sophisticated and charming so you don’t tire of me.”
“I don’t want that, puss.” Slipping his finger under her chin, he gently lifted her face. “I like you exactly the way you are.”
“You don’t mind taking a crybaby to Richmond?” She sniffled and smiled and looked so utterly adorable, he forgot to be sensible.
“You’re my sun and moon, Izzy,” he whispered.
And her heart filled with joy.
He played lady’s maid for her, which delayed their departure for some time, but eventually Isabella was properly attired in addition to being deliciously sated, and leaving Dermott’s suite, she walked on air.
The servants were decorous and polite regardless the awkward status of their employer’s guest. Dermott’s orders had been unequivocal. And Pomeroy wished them good journey as they walked from Bathurst House into the courtyard, where a closed carriage waited. Dermott helped Isabella into the green-lacquered conveyance, and after giving instruction to the driver, climbed in, shut the door, and took his place beside her.
“You’ll like Strawberry Hill,” he said with a smile.
“I know I will.”
11
MOLLY DISPATCHED A NOTE to the Lord Moira, requesting he visit her at his earliest convenience. And when Francis Hastings was announced the following afternoon, she greeted him warmly. “Thank you for responding so promptly.”
“We’ve been friends for enough years that I recognized a note of urgency in your request.” Walking into her drawing room, he moved to the chair beside hers and sat down. “Now tell me what I can do for you.”
A close friend of the Prince of Wales’s and Dermott’s as well, Lord Moira was a frequent patron at Molly’s. And on the occasions when he’d gambled and lost more than he could afford, she’d kindly covered his losses. They both understood the specifics of patronage and the merits of giving and receiving favors.
After seeing that Lord Moira had his favorite brandy, Molly poured herself one and began relating her story. “A very strange happening occurred a short time ago. A young lady, pursued and in fear for her life, burst into my establishment one night.” And she went on to briefly describe Isabella’s sudden appearance and the subsequent events related to it.
Lord Moira smiled. “Dermott always manages to pluck the ripest fruit, does he not?”
Molly nodded. “He has his share of beautiful companions.”
“But this young lady requires some additional aid?”
“And I’m not in a position to offer it to her. You understand.”
“Of course. You’re talking about—?”
“Possibly a number of things.”
“Of a conventional nature, I presume.”
“Yes. And that’s why I need your help. There’s a possibility Dermott may come up to scratch—”
“He won’t.” Lord Moira’s words were blunt.
“I know.” Molly sighed. “This young lady is wellborn on her mother’s side and an heiress now that her grandfather has died. Do you know George Leslie?”
“A merchant banker?”
“The same.”
“He may have supplied the Prince with some funds, if my memory serves me.”
“Better yet. I shan’t feel as though I’m asking for so much.” She tapped the rim of her glass. “I want Isabella protected from her relatives first. Although I think I may be able to take a hand in that. But I also wish her to be launched into society, and that’s where I need you.”
“Does Miss Leslie have a female relative who can be useful in that regard? I could see that she receives the necessary invitations and vouchers.”
“Unfortunately not.”
Lord Moira pursed his lips.
“Would Mrs. Fitzherbert be willing to sponsor her? I understand she and the Prince are inseparable once again.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert’s welcomed everywhere, of course, but not exactly—”
“Without the Prince. Talk to Wales, then. See what he can do.”
Lord Moira smiled. “Prinny may be willing to help if for no other reason than to play a prank on Dermott. To see Bathurst squirm as this unknown paramour is thrust onto the ton might amuse Wales mightily.”
“It makes no difference to me what the reason, so long as the deed is accomplished. I’ll try to deal with the relatives who plague her, but if necessary, I may ask your assistance there too. They have two eligible daughters, I understand, who are angling for husbands this season.”
“A banker’s daughters?” Moira’s brows rose in mild derision. “Would they be moving in the same circles?”
“Occasionally … possibly. I’m trying to consider all contingencies.”
“Miss Leslie must be a very special young lady,” Moira quietly said.
“Unique.” Molly cast him a warning glance. “And I don’t want you to charm her, Francis. She doesn’t need any more ineligible suitors.”
“You want her happily married to some peer of the realm, in a fairy-tale fashion.”
“I’m not so naive. But I’d like her to have the opportunity to see if she wishes that world. She has background, wealth, and stunning beauty. Whomever she bestows her affection on will be a fortunate man.”
“You’re a manipulative darling,” Moira playfully said. “I can see there’s nothing for it but that I must accede to your wishes.”
“You’ll talk to Mrs. Fitzherbert?”
“Let me talk to the Prince first. He may have some other hostess more comme il faut who’s willing to take this young lady in hand.” His gaze narrowed. “Are you sure she wishes this? If she’s under Dermott’s spell, she may refuse.”
Molly softly snorted. “He won’t keep her. You know that as well as I. And once she’s been discarded, as his sexual playmates invariably are, I think I may be able to convince her—to pay him back, as it were.”
“A woman scorned …” Moira smiled. “I shudder to think of the consequences.” His expression sobered. “But consider, do you want Bathurst as an opponent? Does she? He won’t back down.”
Molly’s gaze was equally serious. “Right now I’m not concerned with Dermott. He’s very capable of taking care of himself. I’m doing this exclusively for Isabella. For her future happiness.”
“Very well. You have my support, of course.” While Lord Moira was in debt to Molly for a variety of favors, they’d become friends as well over the years. And he genuinely liked her. He suddenly grinned. “Would you care to make a small wager on whether Dermott responds to the lady’s entrance into society”—his brows flickered in sportive query—“with his usual indifference?”
“You might lose on that. Think, Francis, when has he taken a lover to his house at Richmond, or, more to the point, to Bathurst House?”
“Not Bathurst House!” His eyes widened in astonishment. “You don’t mean it.”
She smiled.
“So you might have other plans as well,” he murmured. “Like bringing Bathurst up to scratch another way.”
“It’s time, I think, that he experiences an unselfish feeling.”
“You’re going to reform the rake that’s bedded half of London since his return from India?”
“I’m not sure Isabella requires reform so much as commitment.”
Moira groaned. “Never, Molly … you aim too high.”
“We’ll see,” she murmured, more aware than Moira of Dermott’s response to the beautiful Miss Leslie. “In due time, Francis, perhaps all the ton will have a front row seat at the spectacle.”
He laughed, his hearty guffaw a boisterous sound in the elegant rococo room. “Damn, Molly, I tell you, I wait with bated breath.” He drained his brandy and set the glass down. “With such a drama in the offing, I’m in haste to set the wheels in motion. You’ll hear from me soon.”
“Thank you, Francis. This is important to me.”
Rising, he gracefully bowed. “Then we shall see the lady launched, my dear. You can count on it.”
Unmindful of the plans en train for their return to the city, the lovers dwelt at Richmond in an idyll of sensual delight and joy. Some days they never left their bed, the sunny springtime viewed through the open doors to the terrace, the scent of fresh air only a light wafting breeze on their heated flesh. On other days they lay in the meadow behind the ancient orchard and absorbed the sun like pagans aligned to the rhythms of nature and made love as though they were alone in the world.
They swam in the river and fished and even played croquet one night when the moon was full. They made love later in the cool grass and wondered if ever two people were so happy. Dermott had dismissed his servants, unwilling to share Isabella, and they ate haphazardly from the food left for them each morning or attempted occasionally to master the most rudimentary culinary skills. Twice they walked into the nearby village and ate at the inn, shocking the locals by hiring a private dining room and not reappearing for hours.
Then one morning Dermott seemed preoccupied, and when Isabella questioned him, he casually dismissed her queries. But he disappeared late that afternoon while she napped, and when she found him he was seated in the library, a bottle of brandy in hand.
“Have I done something?” Frightened at his odd behavior, she watched him, hoping she might read further meaning in his expression.
He looked up and seemed not to see her at first.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
His gaze focused on her and he smiled, a distant smile without the intimacy she’d grown to expect. “I’m just having a drink.” He spoke calmly, as though he did this often.
“Would you rather be alone?” Each word was fraught with anguish.
He hesitated and then answered no, when his expression said otherwise.
“I could wait for you on the terrace.” The door was open, the sunshine bright even as her world was turning cold.
He softly sighed. “No, don’t. I’ve had enough.” His smile this time held some warmth. “Should we walk into the village? Are you as hungry as I?”
She agreed. She would have agreed to walk to the moon if he’d asked, stricken and fearful, feeling that her happiness was disappearing. But Dermott was charming and gracious on their excursion into the village, conversing about subjects that amused her, making her laugh as they ate and drank the local cider, restoring her good spirits.
When they returned to the house, they made love with a special tenderness that almost broke her heart. It was over, she kept thinking, not knowing how to bring him back, feeling him drifting away. And later that evening when she fell asleep, he quietly left the bed.
She found him in the library again at two o’clock in the morning. But he wasn’t sitting in the chair by the window this time. He was seated before an open cabinet alight with votive candles, tears running down his face. The small shrine held a portrait of a beautiful Indian woman with a young boy in her lap. She wore luxurious native garb and fabulous jewels, and the little boy looked out from the portrait with the most beautiful eyes. Dermott’s eyes.
He must have heard her, but he didn’t look around. He only said, “I’d like to be alone.”
It was almost midmorning when he returned to the bedroom, looking drawn, his eyes shadowed with weariness. He stood just inside the doorway, distant, remote, not the man she’d come to love. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice dispassionate, his apology politesse alone. “Perhaps it’s time we return to the City.”
“Who are they?” Isabella asked, needing to know, fearful of knowing, not sure he’d answer her.
She was curled up in a chair near the bed, and he gazed at her as though seeing her for the first time. As though they’d just been introduced and he was trying to recall her name.
“Tell me, Dermott, please.” The sadness in her voice echoed her wretchedness. “Before you send me away, tell me that at least.”
“My wife and son. They’re dead.”
“I’m so sorry.” If she’d dared, she would have gone to him and held him in her arms.
“It’s been some years now.” He drew in a deep breath and seemed to come to an awareness of his surroundings. “Forgive me for involving you. I apologize. Do you need help packing? I’ll send for the servants if you wish.”
“There’s no need. I can manage.”
“Good. Say an hour? Is that too soon?”
Too soon to end the happiest days of her life? “It’s fine,” she calmly said, forcing a gracious smile, her heart shattering in a thousand pieces.
“I’ll see you downstairs, then.” And like a stranger, he turned and walked away.
She wouldn’t allow herself to cry, too proud to be red-eyed with weeping when she met him downstairs. She bolstered her spirits as she packed with sensible reminders—of the ways of profligate nobles, of her understanding from the first that Bathurst wasn’t offering permanence. That their arrangement had been one of expediency—a means of insuring her inheritance.
And were it not for the tormenting ache in her heart, such sensible reminders would have been adequate.
But she managed to greet Dermott before the main door with equanimity, and on their ride back to London, she even spoke with a certain casualness. It was a performance equal to the best on the Covent Garden stage, and if she’d not been crying inside, she could have appreciated the stellar quality of her dramatic talents.
Shortly before they reached Molly’s, Dermott said, “I’ll see that your relatives no longer bother you. My lawyer’s been looking into the situation. You should be able to safely return home soon.”
“Payment for my services?” Her voice was sharp. “Forgive me,” she instantly apologized, understanding it wasn’t his fault she’d allowed herself to daydream of more. “It’s very kind of you, but not necessary. Molly’s plan is sufficient.”
“There’s always the possibility of scandal with Molly’s idea. I’d rather you let me do this for you.”
“Soothing your conscience, Bathurst?” she gently inquired.
“I don’t have a conscience. I thought you knew that.”
“Of course, how naive of me to forget.”
“I didn’t intend for this to happen,” he quietly said. “I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize.” She managed a small smile. “I enjoyed myself.” Pale words for the resplendent pleasure he’d given her, the blandest of thanks for introducing her to paradise.
“As did I.” He didn’t smile; he looked at her, seated across from him, with a shuttered gaze. “I’ll send a message to Molly’s as soon as it’s safe for you to go home.”
He didn’t escort her into Molly’s. He only helped her down from the carriage, bowed faintly, and said, “It was a pleasure, Isabella.”
“Yes, very much,” she answered, curtailing her tears with superhuman effort.
Mercer had a footman pick up her valises.
Dermott glanced at the man and then, turning his attention back to her, said, “Thank you again.” Swinging back toward his carriage, he ordered “Bathurst House” in a clear, strong voice, and stepping up through the door held open by one of his grooms, he entered his carriage.
“This way, my lady,” Mercer murmured, conscious of her stricken look.
Isabella took a deep breath and turned. How many times had he said good-bye to a ladylove, she wondered, in that cool, well-bred way. She entered Molly’s through the blue door that had once offered her refuge on a wet, dark night and surveyed the resplendent marble entrance hall. She’d first seen Dermott there. It seemed like a hundred years ago. In another lifetime—when she’d not yet tasted the sweet ecstasy he dispensed with a prodigal hand, when she’d not known the agonizing torment of unrequited love. When she was an untried maid.
“Isabella!”
Molly’s voice rang down the staircase, and looking up, Isabella smiled at the woman who’d given her so much.
T
hey met midway on the stairs and hugged, and then Molly escorted her to the drawing room. “Sit down now and tell me everything.” She smiled. “Or at least what you wish. Oh, dear,” she added, taking note of Isabella’s quivering lip as she took a seat on the brocaded settee. “He’s broken your heart.”
“I didn’t expect he could,” Isabella whispered as the tears spilled from her eyes.
“He deserves a thrashing,” Molly exclaimed, moving to enfold Isabella in a comforting embrace. “I was afraid of this.”
“It’s not his fault.”
“Of course it’s his fault. I told him not to take you to Richmond.”
“But I wanted to go.”
“He’s too wretchedly charming. As always. Dear, dear,” she soothed. “Don’t cry for him. He’s far from worth it.”
Isabella looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “Did you know of his wife and son?”
“He told you?”
“I found him this morning crying before their portrait. He has a shrine of sorts in the library.”
“They died four years ago today,” Molly softly said. “He’s not been able to forget. And for that reason and others I implore you to not pine for him.”
“I’ve told myself as much, but it’s not quite so simple.”
“With time, my dear, you’ll find other pleasures.”
Sitting up straight, Isabella wiped away her tears with her shawl. “I told myself that as well,” she said with a small smile.
“I have something of interest that might distract you from your melancholy.”
“Not another Dermott?” A tentative teasing note colored her voice.
“Something less disastrous. You know the season is just beginning.”
“You jest, surely. You know my life was of the simplest before Grandpapa died.”
“It would be an opportunity to show Dermott you’re capable of surviving without him.”
“I doubt he’d notice or be concerned.”
“Would you like him to?”
“Notice me?”
Molly shrugged. “It depends how you feel about him.”
Isabella pursed her mouth. “Sad and angry both. But hardly hopeful of more. You said yourself he’s not worth pining over.”