Temporary Mistress

  Isabella took a deep breath, steeling herself against the possible embarrassment and pain. “I don’t care. I wish to talk to him.”

  “Very well. I’ll have Joe find him and come back for you.”

  Shortly after eleven, a large, burly man entered Molly’s drawing room, and Isabella met Joe Thurlow. He was massive, his shoulders as broad as an ox, his neck a pure column of muscle, his arms and thighs bulging. His hazel eyes remarkably kind, his smile boyish and charming.

  Once introductions were complete, he said, “I found Bathurst at the Green Abbey.”

  “Is it far?” Isabella had been watching the clock, and she was concerned it might soon be too late to stop Dermott. The site of the duel was secret, as was usual, so the authorities wouldn’t interfere. While duels often occurred, they were illegal.

  “About a half hour from here.”

  Isabella turned to Molly. “Thank you again. I’m continually in your debt.”

  “Just be careful. Don’t let her out of your sight, Joe,” she ordered.

  He nodded. “Not a chance, Molly.”

  Near midnight, shrouded in a black hooded cape, Isabella was escorted from her carriage up a short bank of stairs into a house bordering Green Park. The small entrance hall was deserted, although it was well lit with a crystal chandelier in the Venetian style. Joe indicated she follow him up the carpeted staircase to the main floor, where he turned to the left and preceded her down a long corridor illuminated with wall sconces. Opening a door at the end of the hallway, he ushered her into a room that looked as though it served as an office. “Wait here,” he said, and left, shutting the door behind him.

  Isabella quickly surveyed the small room illuminated only by a low fire. An elegant desk, a richness of Turkey carpets on the floor, a number of Chippendale chairs, two bookcases. It was obviously a workplace, but an opulent one. Her assessment of the office didn’t long curtail the overwhelming anxiety plaguing her, and she soon began pacing, moving between the desk and the fireplace in short circuits, unconsciously wringing her gloved hands. She was nervous about interrupting Dermott in his night’s amusements. This house was more than a gambling club, she suspected. He would think her interfering. She dreaded the thought of his coldness. But if she didn’t at least try to stop this fearful duel, she’d forever regret her cowardice.

  The door opened and she turned from the fire with a start, her cape billowing out at her sudden movement. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

  Dermott stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the hallway, his ruffled hair limned by candleglow, his face in half shadow, his white neckcloth a pale accent in the darkness of his evening clothes. “You shouldn’t be here,” he gruffly said, annoyance in his tone and rigid posture, in the small impatient gesture he made with his hand.

  “I need to talk to you.” She tried to hide her apprehension, but her voice trembled at the end.

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Please?” It was the merest whisper, unutterably pitiful.

  He shot a glance at Joe standing behind him. “Is your bodyguard for me or you?”

  “For me. After the events today, Molly insisted.”

  “Good for her.” Dermott seemed to relax.

  “If you’d just give me a moment of your time,” Isabella quickly said, taking advantage of what she perceived as a small forbearance. “I won’t keep you from—”

  “My amusements?” The faintest smile flashed for a second, and then, taking a step forward, he crossed the threshold, pushed the door shut, and leaned back against it. “I’m glad you have a bodyguard.”

  “I am too.” She felt some of her tension ease. He hadn’t walked away.

  “You could have been seriously hurt this afternoon.” “I know. The events in Chelsea made me realize some kind of protection was necessary. Molly’s insistence only reinforced my feelings. And I’ve decided to forgo the season as well,” she added, “so that should diminish my public visibility. Although I certainly appreciate everything that Molly”—her voice suddenly sounded loud in the quiet of the room—“did for me,” she finished, unnerved by his detachment. A small silence fell.

  Dermott hadn’t moved from the door.

  “I don’t know how to begin,” Isabella finally said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “I didn’t want to talk to you, if you recall.”

  “You’re making this very difficult.”

  He shrugged.

  “I heard about your duel,” she blurted out.

  That painful silence.

  “I came to try to dissuade you from such foolishness.”

  “Thank you for coming. I’ll bid you good night.” Pushing away from the door, he bowed faintly and turned to leave.

  “Dermott, wait!” Isabella cried, running toward him.

  He stood with his back to her, the tension in his shoulders visible even in the dim light, his hand arrested on the door handle.

  “Don’t go.”

  She stood only inches from him; he could smell her perfume, she could feel the warmth from his body, potent memory brutalizing their senses.

  “I can’t bear the thought of you dying….” She reached out and touched his arm.

  For a breath-held moment with the feel of her hand bombarding his brain, he tried to review all the reasons for leaving, all the pragmatic, sane, rational ones.

  “Please, Dermott, hold me….”

  Her soft voice drifted around him, caressed him. He fought against his desires, knowing he’d only hurt her again, knowing he couldn’t give her what she wanted, and then he felt her arms slide around his waist. For a second more he controlled his impulses, and then his hand slipped away from the door handle.

  Gently unclasping her arms, he turned to face her.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t beg. You must be so tired of women doing that to—”

  “I can’t just hold you,” he interrupted. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I don’t care.”

  He briefly shut his eyes against the intensity of his feelings, and when his lashes lifted, he said, “I won’t be able to stay long.”

  “I don’t care about that either.”

  “You might later.” He drew in a shallow breath because he seemed to be suffocating. “I’m trying to be—honest….”

  “I understand.”

  “And this won’t change my mind about the duel, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Fine,” she conceded.

  “Bloody hell …” His voice was gruff, heated, an undertone of resentment in the expletive. And then he suddenly gripped her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. “We shouldn’t be doing this. We shouldn’t even be talking about—”

  “I’ll take responsibility.”

  “For everything?” His dark gaze was turbulent, fierce. “I don’t have protection here. This isn’t a room for assignations.” He was baiting her, capable of controlling his ejaculations, but restive, angry, he wished to give her no quarter.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Don’t say that.” His voice was hot with temper, with carnal lust and craving.

  “I mean it.”

  “You’d risk having my child?”

  “I wouldn’t consider it a risk.”

  “Jesus, Izzy …” Releasing his grip, he stepped back, only to come up against the barricade of the door.

  She followed him that small distance, slid her gloved palms up over the lapels of his jacket while he stood rigid, motionless. Raising herself on tiptoe, she slipped her hands around his neck. “What are we going to do about this?”

  It wasn’t a question a man like Dermott could ignore, his sexual response honed to a fine pitch over the years, his erection hard between them. “I thought maybe I’d send you home,” he brusquely muttered, restless, touchy, struggling against his base impulses.

  “Send me home in an hour,” sh
e murmured, melting against him, her urges as ravenous, as outrageous. Terror-driven as well. She might never see him again. He might be dead tomorrow. And suddenly nothing mattered but feeling him one last time. “You can spare me an hour, can’t you?” Her voice was liquid heat as she slid her fingers through his dark hair and tugged his head down.

  Her kiss was sweet and warm, all promise and glowing welcome.

  He might never again feel the sweetness of her mouth on his, he thought, understanding the odds against him. And the warmth of her body, the soft pressure of her breasts, her hips, her thighs, burned through the fabric of his evening clothes, reminding him of all the pleasures they’d shared. Of the ecstasy he felt in her arms.

  “Make love to me, please … please,” she whispered, her breath warm on his mouth.

  “We shouldn’t.” Only sheer will kept his hands at his sides.

  “But I want to feel you inside me….”

  Suddenly his hands came up, and gripping her face, he engulfed the delicacy of her mouth with a hard, possessive kiss that burned away his few remaining scruples. Fueled by the pent-up frustration of their separation and his rare abstinence, he no longer thought of right or wrong, impropriety or principle, but invaded her mouth as he intended to invade her body—fiercely, urgently.

  Isabella had been celibate except for Bond Street, and she answered his fevered impatience with her own blazing passion, forgetting why she’d come, why they’d last parted, all the sadness and pain of his leaving. She welcomed him with a thrilling, reckless happiness, wanting his strength and virility, wanting the unadulterated bliss of making love with him, wishing she might keep him forever.

  There was no tomorrow, no yesterdays, only the haphazard present, and heedless of all but hot desire and the stark brevity of their time together, Isabella slipped her hands downward to the buttons of his trousers.

  “I’ll do that,” he muttered, quickly sliding his hands under her legs and lifting her into his arms. Striding to the desk, he swept aside the objects in his way; papers, books, pens, ledgers, flew to the floor, their impact deadened by the carpet. Although in his current frame of mind he would have been indifferent to the sound of breaking glass.

  No one dared bother them anyway, not at Green Abbey. And Joe wouldn’t interfere unless he thought Isabella in danger. And while she might be in a measure of danger, he thought, carefully placing her on the gleaming mahogany, she wasn’t likely to want Joe’s help.

  Following her down, driven by lust, he kissed her with an unrestrained ferocity—briefly. “I always forget how fucking hot you are,” he whispered against her mouth, swiftly untying her cloak, needing more than kisses.

  “While you’re still as good as ever.”

  “You don’t know that yet.” His grin was wicked as he stood up and began unbuttoning his trousers.

  “I expect I will soon enough,” she purred, pulling off her gloves and hitching up her skirts.

  “You’re never bashful.”

  “You taught me well.”

  Her words sent a rush of blood to his erection, all the heated memories of their time together flooding his senses. That was enough unbuttoning, he decided, suddenly interested in speed, and moving forward, he pushed her skirts up to her waist and spread her thighs wider with a firm brush of his hands. “Let’s see how much you remember.”

  “More than enough.” A coquettish response, so sensual and insinuating it added new dimension to his erection.

  Had she’d lain with other men since they’d parted? he wondered, suddenly remembering bits of gossip from his friends, how the luscious Miss Leslie seemed bent on flirtation this weekend. Damn her, she looked like a wanton lying there with her pale thighs spread. “Have you been practicing with other men?” he gruffly asked.

  “Are we comparing our schedules since Bond Street?”

  He scowled. “I’m not in a humorous mood.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Answer me.” How available had she been, how willing?

  “If you supply me with the same information.”

  He retreated a step. “Maybe I won’t fuck you after all.”

  “I think you probably will,” she softly said, lifting her feet up on the desk so his view was markedly improved.

  “Trollop,” he murmured, his tone not so much rebuff as a caress.

  “In fact, if I were a gambling woman,” she said with a half-smile, “I’d bet on having sex with you. So why don’t you tell me what I want to know and then I’ll tell you.”

  “It doesn’t matter for men.”

  “It does to me.” Her brows rose, and she began opening the closures on her bodice.

  “Hussy.” That same velvety tone.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, wanting to know for a thousand jealous reasons that defied sanity. “And then put that wonderful cock inside me.”

  All considerations save fornication were wiped from his mind at her breathy statement. Suddenly he was past games and titillation, past conversation and courtesies. Advancing closer, he slid his hands under her hips, hauled her bottom to the edge of the desk, and moved between her legs.

  She twisted away. “Tell me first.”

  He forced her back, his hands hard on her hips. Drawing in a frustrated breath, he met her heated gaze. “None. Your turn.”

  She smiled, blissfully content because now she knew his time with Helene had been platonic. “None,” she cheerfully declared.

  The word echoed in his ears like angel song, when it shouldn’t matter, when he’d always thought women deserved their freedoms. But for some reason, he didn’t want her to be free—in that sense, and as he leaned closer and adjusted himself between her thighs, he softly murmured, “Then this is just for me….”

  “Yours alone, my lord,” she whispered, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I’ll expect a suitable reward for my celibacy.”

  He chuckled, oddly pleased, his moodiness gone. “Instead of a dozen times, why not a score?”

  “That must be why I prefer you best.”

  “And I you,” he whispered.

  They both lost count in the heated bliss of consummation, although Dermott never so forgot himself as to climax inside Isabella. It was pure torture to curtail his impulses, and at those times when she was begging him to come in her, it was very nearly impossible.

  But were he killed in the morning, he didn’t want to leave her with a fatherless child.

  While she desperately wanted his child for that reason and a thousand more.

  In that contest of wills, however, the earl prevailed.

  And when the stars began to fade, he gently kissed her as they lay by the fire.

  “You have to go,” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I have to.”

  “You won’t change your mind?”

  “This isn’t something you renege on.”

  “I hate you for doing this,” she sadly said.

  He gently touched her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not worth your life.”

  He placed his finger on her mouth. “Hush.”

  “Come back to me.”

  He was so quiet, she frantically wished she could snatch back her words.

  “I can’t give you what you deserve.” His distress was plain.

  “I didn’t mean …” Her eyes filled with tears because she did mean it, and she might lose him to Lonsdale’s marksmanship and if not, she’d lose him anyway. Sadness filled her so completely, she felt as though she were choking on her tears.

  “I wish I could.” He brushed a kiss on her temple, but she could feel the constraint in his body.

  “Be careful this morning,” she murmured, kissing him lightly on the cheek, moving from his embrace and sitting up, separating herself before she burst into tears.

  A man like Dermott must have suffered countless weeping women in his life; she didn’t wish to become another commonplace statistic. “Let me know that you’re safe—once it’s over,” she said, forcin
g a calmness to her tone, reaching for her chemise. “Send Molly a note.” She wished to be adult about this, not clinging or demanding, not asking for more than he could give. She’d understood from the very beginning that there would be an end to their relationship. Tonight had been a brief reprieve—no more.

  He’d made that clear.

  “I’ll see that Molly knows,” he said, rising to his feet, the perfection of his tall form gilded by firelight.

  Would she ever see him again? Would she ever feel his kiss or taste his smile? His hair was tousled from their lovemaking, and she ached to smooth it with her fingers.

  He smiled. “Thank you for coming here tonight.” As though she’d favored him. “You’ve brought me luck.”

  “I give you all my luck. I wish I could give you the world’s good fortune.” Give you the sun and moon and everything, she wistfully thought. “I probably shouldn’t have kept you up all night,” she said, instead, in a conversational tone that made no demands.

  “I wasn’t planning on sleeping.”

  Of course, he wouldn’t. And if she’d not come to Green Abbey, some other woman would have taken her place. Her expression must have mirrored her sudden thoughts, because he said, “I was drinking with friends. That’s all.”

  A concession, a kindness, maybe even the truth, she hoped, so in love, she wasn’t capable of feeling anything but the pain of his leaving.

  He’d begun dressing as well, gauging the time against the distance he still had to travel to reach Morgan’s field. “I’ll be sure to send Molly a note.”

  “Thank you.” She forced herself to think of Molly, of the coming afternoon, when this would all be over. When Dermott would be safe and the trivialities of the world could go on once again.

  “Do you need help with your gown?”

  It was a politesse. He’d always before just helped her. “No, I’m fine,” she said, when her heart was breaking.

  They dressed in an awkward silence when only moments earlier they were bound by an intimacy so intense, the beauty of it still lingered in their senses.

  But Dermott had gone through leave-takings often enough; he didn’t expect the feeling—however unprecedented—to last. And he carried the weight of the conversation until they were dressed.