Temporary Mistress

  She cast him a steely glance. “Are you a suitor?”

  “Acquit me, darling. I was speaking in an advisory capacity.”

  “Advice from you on courtship, my lord? I would think advice on seduction more your style.”

  “You don’t need any advice on that, puss. You seduce in the most blatant way.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, coming from a man of your repute.”

  “I’d rather have you take something else from me.”

  “Acquit me, darling,” she mocked, repeating his phrase. “I’ve given up making love to faithless rakes.”

  “You knew what I was when you agreed to dispense with your virginity, so don’t take on the airs of an affronted maid,” he said with disagreeable calm. “I never promised you anything.”

  “Of course. How stupid of me to have overlooked the facts of our”—her brows rose—“agreement. Forgive me.”

  “Happily.” Content with the lady’s clearer understanding, his soft murmur turned indulgent. “Now, tell me, darling, how I can make you happy?”

  It was the most tempting of questions but not one she cared to answer honestly. “If only you could,” she sweetly drawled, abruptly coming to a halt just short of the ballroom, resisting the tugging of his hand. “Unfortunately, I have no intention of changing my mind.”

  He looked at her from under drawn brows, his gaze highly charged, examining. And when he spoke, his voice was unutterably soft. “You’re sure?”

  “Very.”

  Releasing her hand, he stepped away. “Then there’s no point in wasting our time. Good evening, Miss Leslie,” he murmured with the ceremonial courtesy of a stranger. And he walked away without a backward glance.

  The earl danced the rest of the evening with women of every description, dispensing his charm with democratic conviviality, flirting shamelessly with the crowd of ladies that hovered around him between dances, ignoring Isabella. And when the guests were beginning to take their leave, he followed suit, coming to pay his respects to his hostess with a lovely raven-haired woman on his arm.

  Lady Hertford and her guest of honor were seated with several others, indulging in champagne ices after a lively mazurka. The ladies were fanning themselves, the men wiping their brows with their handkerchiefs, and at Dermott’s approach conversation trailed off. He and his companion were a stunning couple, both dark, tall, the stylish woman sumptuously provocative. She was dressed in a revealing magenta tulle gown that showed off her pale skin and black hair to perfection, and the manner in which she clung to Dermott flaunted their intimacy. Every man there envied him his night of entertainment. Mrs. Compton’s beautiful mouth was reputedly one of her greatest assets.

  On reaching the seated group, Dermott smiled and bowed to his hostess. “You’ve outdone yourself again, Barbara. The party was a veritable crush.” He winked at her. “Your usual triumph.”

  “Thank you, darling. So nice of you to come.” Her glance was amused. “You always add a bit of drama to any assembly.”

  “I live to entertain you, marchioness,” he lazily drawled, a teasing gleam in his eye.

  “And a good many others as well, you sweet man.”

  Ignoring her drollery, Dermott turned to Isabella. “Much success in your season, Miss Leslie.” He bowed faintly. “I wish you every happiness.”

  With the lady on his arm fairly melting into his side, Is abella found it difficult to subdue her jealousy, and she kept her voice steady only with effort. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Dermott’s gaze turned from her and swept the group. “We’ll say our adieus, then. I’m sure we’ll all see one another again—at some other crush.” He turned to his companion. “Are you ready, darling?”

  The resplendent beauty answered with a breathy, soft response that brought a smile to every man’s lips and a disapproving severity to each woman’s mouth. Isabella felt as though she were suffocating.

  As the couple walked away, Lady Blandford sniffed. “How fortunate for her, Mr. Compton prefers his little bit of fluff in Half Moon Street.”

  “For access to the Prince of Wales’s circle, Compton is more than willing to allow his wife her freedom,” one of the men remarked. “That connection has nicely profited his financial firm.”

  “She’s a bit fast even for the Prince of Wales’s set,” a young matron chided. “And I hardly think her dress suitable for a ball.”

  “More suitable to the boudoir,” another woman taunted, “with her bosom so blatantly exposed.”

  “Come, come, Caro, your son has had his fill of her now,” a gentleman noted.

  “And the lady must feather her nest while she may. Her dark, sultry looks will soon fade.”

  “Mrs. Count’em has feathered her nest quite well, rumor has it.” The sobriquet distinguished Mrs. Compton’s habit of extracting expensive gifts from her lovers. “Bathurst has given more than his share to her. Recently, a necklace of pigeon-egg pearls, I hear.”

  “They’re friends of long standing, are they not?” a man observed.

  “Because they suit each other,” an elderly lady calmly said, having seen enough of the world to be inured to its peccadillos. “Bathurst wishes no attachments. And Mrs. Compton likes his money.”

  “Enough of this tittle-tattle,” Lady Hertford interposed, cognizant of Isabella’s discomfort. “And if we don’t all find our beds, we won’t be up in time for Cecilia’s Venetian breakfast tomorrow.”

  A small groan arose at the reminder of the morning’s event.

  “I for one am for my bed,” Lady Hertford declared, rising from her chair.

  Molly was waiting up when Isabella returned, eager for news of the evening. “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked as Isabella entered her bedchamber.

  “It was very grand, Molly. And yes, I enjoyed myself immensely.”

  “He was there, wasn’t he?” Molly said, the reserve in Isabella’s tone obvious.

  Isabella smiled ruefully. “In all his glory.”

  “And?”

  “After his very public pursuit, I told him I wasn’t interested in renewing our relationship. After which he danced with virtually every woman in the room and then left with a Mrs. Compton, who was very beautiful and seductive and apparently one of his many lovers.”

  “He’s going to be visible during the season,” Molly gently noted. “Will you manage?”

  Isabella kicked off her slippers and sank into a chair near Molly’s. “Yes, Molly,” she quietly replied. “I shall manage. In fact, I’ve accepted an invitation to drive Lord Lonsdale’s phaeton next week when my schedule is less busy. And several other men have expressed their intentions to call.”

  “I’ll warn Mrs. Homer of possible visitors, but you sleep as late as you may.” Isabella’s housekeeper had been brought to Grosvenor Place in the role of a country aunt to Isabella. A suitable chaperone was a requirement for an unmarried young lady. And Homie was capable of presenting an image of respectability.

  “The Holland breakfast is scheduled for noon.”

  “Do you wish to attend? After so little sleep?”

  Isabella smiled. “Of course, Molly. I intend to divert myself with each and every entertainment offered to me this season.”

  “Good for you. I wouldn’t wish for you to pine over something—”

  “Unattainable?”

  “I was going to say something too problematical. Dermott hasn’t come to terms with his life or himself since his return.” She didn’t admit to her bit of matchmaking after the fiasco of Richmond. “He’s not ready to admit to love again. And any woman who thinks to change or reform him is bound for disappointment.”

  “So I’ve come to realize. So I shall enjoy myself in the exhilarating pace of activities. And not expect anything more than amusement.”

  “Exactly. Do you want a warm drink to help you sleep?”

  Isabella laughed. “The moment my head hits the pillow I shall be sleeping. And thank you, Molly … from the bottom of my heart. For
all you’ve given me.”

  But once Molly left and Isabella was in bed, she found sleep elusive. What was Dermott doing right now? she jealously reflected. Was the lovely Mrs. Compton giving him pleasure? Was she making him smile? Was she making him happy? How easy it was to mouth the words—to declare her indifference to him and express her intentions to enjoy the season. But to achieve that level of stoicism was much more difficult. He was in her every waking thought and his image haunted her dreams. Would it be possible to find pleasure with other men? Could she even seriously contemplate such an event? Or did loving Dermott Ramsay spoil one forever?

  Jealousy ate at her, ruined her sleep, peopled her dreams, made her toss and turn until nearly morning. She finally fell asleep near dawn, exhausted, and when she was wakened at eleven for the hairdresser, she groggily opened her eyes and wondered how she could possibly smile today.

  14

  DERMOTT WOKE to find Emma Compton in his arms and silently groaned. Easing her head from his shoulder, he slowly slid away, hoping he could escape her bed without a scene. While Emma may have been tempting last night when he’d drunk enough to put most men under the table and wished retaliation against Isabella, in the cold light of day he cursed his stupidity.

  “Ummmm …” She reached for him in her sleep.

  He lay utterly still until she quieted again, then carefully rose from the bed and tiptoed away. After gathering his clothing scattered about the floor, he quickly dressed save for his shoes, which seemed to have disappeared. Surveying the overgilded room, he searched the boudoir without success.

  Perhaps he’d go home in his stockings, he thought, his need to flee urgent. He didn’t want to talk to Emma; he didn’t want to be reminded of all they’d done the night before. He particularly didn’t want her to ask when they’d meet again.

  The activities of the previous night had left a sour taste in his mouth. Despite Emma’s agility and ready talents, he’d not enjoyed himself. He felt as though he’d reached some distasteful level of surfeit. Tired of women or sex, perhaps only of Emma, he stood in the middle of her pink-and-white boudoir, shoeless and empty of feeling.

  Then he softly swore, because he realized the true reason for his discontent.

  And he had no intention of acting on that knowledge.

  In the end, Emma woke up because he accidentally kicked over a bottle left on the floor, and it required a delicate politesse along with a promise to buy her a brooch she wanted to placate her demands for more of his time. The jewelry was a small enough concession in his current mood; he would have offered anything to make his escape. He finally discovered his shoes under the puddle of magenta tulle, and with an evasive promise to call on her soon, he left her perfumed boudoir.

  A few moments later, he stood on the pavement outside, feeling like a man just let out of prison.

  Dressed, coiffed, standing in the doorway to the drawing room, Isabella viewed the scores of bouquets with amazement.

  “They began arriving at eight this morning,” Mrs. Homer declared. “I think we’ll have to move some of them to the other reception rooms, for each knock on the door brings more. You’re the belle of the ball, my dear,” she added with a smile. “And the billets-doux. I counted twenty-two already.”

  “Oh, dear.” Isabella’s soft exclamation was composed of both astonishment and dismay. While it was gratifying to be the recipient of so much attention, she wondered how she was going to politely elude her suitors’ regard. None of the men attracted her in the least. In fact, she felt a poseur, for she couldn’t possibly return any of their affection.

  A strong inclination to bolt and run overcame her as she surveyed the vast array of flowers.

  Although she couldn’t, she knew.

  Not after all Molly had done to see that she had a season. Not after having witnessed Dermott’s shameless behavior with all the ladies at Lady Hertford’s. Particularly not after her sleepless night, where unwanted images of the voluptuous Mrs. Compton smiled at her from beneath Dermott. Damn his unbridled philandering! Clenching her fists, she lifted her chin and prepared to face the day.

  Dermott would see she could enjoy herself as well as he.

  And to that purpose Isabella conscientiously read each enclosure sent with the flowers, each billet-doux. Should she meet any of her admirers at the Venetian breakfast, it would be necessary to properly thank them. She had every intention of taking part in the full gamut of society’s pleasures with as much gusto as Dermott.

  The Earl of Bathurst was absent from the Holland breakfast, for which she was grateful, she told herself. Although she periodically searched the crush of people—in some inner recess of her soul, hopeful of seeing him. But on the surface she performed well, accepting the role of belle as though she’d been born to the part. And perhaps she had, with a mother known for her flamboyant personality and a grandfather who had indulged her like a princess.

  In the course of the festivities she found herself diverted at least, conversing with countless people, accepting flattery with grace and charm, amusing and entertaining with an easy fluency. Her unusual education allowed her to discuss feminine pursuits or business affairs with equal competence; she also understood the world of bluestocking women and was sensitive to the erudite issues they espoused. While her ready sense of humor amused without malice.

  “You’ve introduced a most charming young lady into society,” the Duchess of Kendale remarked to Lady Hertford as they surveyed the milling scene from comfortable chairs in a small flower-filled alcove.

  “She’s a darling, is she not?” Barbara smiled. “And quite in love with Dermott, I surmise.”

  The duchess lifted one brow. “A rather useless endeavor, from all accounts.”

  The marchioness shrugged faintly. “That remains to be seen. He was wooing her most assiduously last night until she gave him his congé.”

  “Is she so clever as to make him beg?”

  “Apparently there is some discord in their relationship. But not so long ago, I understand, it was quite—shall we say … cozy.”

  “She’s not a young gel, is she?”

  “No. But an heiress of vast fortune.”

  “So she can afford to offer challenge.”

  “Or perhaps she’s as prideful as he.”

  “Either way, their courtship should offer an interesting piece of drama.”

  Lady Hertford shook her head. “Surely not a courtship with Bathurst. Although, I admit, I find it amusing that at last he’s found a lady who refuses to succumb to his enormous charm.”

  “Perhaps it’s time. He’s been untroubled by female rejection his entire life.”

  “And Isabella may decide to favor one of her many suitors instead. Who knows how practical her motives.”

  “A practical woman would never waste time on Dermott.”

  Barbara flicked her fan open with a snap of her wrist. “And he’s not likely to change.”

  “A rake rarely reforms,” the duchess pronounced softly.

  Barbara sniffed. “Really, Clarissa, be sensible. They never do.”

  “Mama!” Caroline Leslie cried, her plump cheeks quivering with the intensity of her feelings. “It’s the most ghastly thing ever! Her name is in almost every paragraph of the society columns! I can’t bear it!”

  Seated with her daughters at the breakfast table, Abigail Leslie clutched a copy of another news sheet, her thin lips tightly pursed, twin spots of red coloring her sharp cheekbones. “Somehow Isabella has managed to show herself to advantage,” she grimly murmured.

  “The Prince of Wales, Mama!” Amelia wailed. “How vexatious and provoking! The little bitch knows the Prince of Wales!”

  “Mind your tongue, my dear. I doesn’t suit a young lady of fashion.”

  “As if we even are, Mama,” Amelia crossly replied. “The only parties we’re invited to are ones given by mushrooms or arrivistes. There hasn’t been one viscount or baron or even a knight at any of them. And that little bitch,” she furi
ously added, looking daggers at her mother as if daring she reprove her, “is not only invited to a party given by the Prince of Wales’s mistress but is the belle of the ball! Papa must do something about it, Mama! He must!” She reached for a piece of plum cake, her fourth.

  “You know very well, your papa has been warned off by the Earl of Bathurst. Would you wish him killed in a duel?”

  Both daughters stared at their mother without speaking, their selfishness curtailing an immediate reply. And then Caroline begrudgingly said, “I suppose not.”

  “Why does Bathurst have a say in our lives anyway?” Amelia petulantly inquired. “Can’t Papa just tell him to mind his own business?”

  “Would he really, actually, shoot Papa?” Caroline queried, a hopeful note in her voice.

  “I don’t think your papa cares to find out whether he will or not,” Abigail snapped.

  “We’re never going to get husbands,” Amelia cried. “And next season we’ll be old goods. It’s not fair, Mama!”

  “What if stupid Isabella fell down the stairs? That would end her season.” Caroline had pushed her governess down the stairs years before and the lady had directly left the household in fear for her life.

  “I won’t have you even thinking of such a thing,” her mother warned. “You would never receive another invitation should you be so unwise.” It had taken a considerable sum to still the governess’s gossiping tongue those years earlier, and Abigail didn’t wish to have any old stories revived should Isabella meet with an accident on the stairs.

  “She’d be out of our way though,” Amelia murmured, directing a sly smile at her sister. “And we could go to more parties.”

  “That’s enough!” Abigail chided. “I forbid you to talk of such things as pushing anyone down the stairs.”

  “We could poison her,” Caroline suggested, her mother’s warnings always lacking penalties. “That’s what happened to the heroine in Lady Blair.”

  “If you recall, the hero saved her,” her sister pointed out. “And stupid Isabella has any number of suitors, according to the gossip column, so she would be saved anyway.”