Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  “You surprise me.”

  “I may be an innocent in terms of lovemaking, but I’m not by nature a shrinking violet,” Isabella declared. “I lived in a man’s world most of my life, while my mother’s example was anything but that of a conventional female. In fact, I lack many of the traditional attributes normal to a young lady. I know nothing of flirting, nor of polite conversation. Grandpapa liked to talk of subjects with substance, he used to say. We never discussed anything of fashion.”

  “And yet your gown was in the height of fashion.”

  Isabella smiled. “Because I like pretty things and Grandpapa indulged my wishes.”

  “I’d say Madame Duclaisse had a hand in the design of your gown.”

  “How astute. She’s quite my favorite.”

  “So you’re not all bookish and business after all.”

  “I’ve been fortunate in my life, but I also understood there was a larger world that I could only read of and never know. I would dream, on occasion, of exotic locales and adventure. Everyone does, I’m sure.”

  “Not everyone. There are those in society who are content with the round of parties and amusements and never think beyond that circumscribed world.”

  “I should be bored within a week if there were only parties to fill my days.”

  “I think Dermott, too, has found life confining in England.”

  “And yet he stays?”

  “He stays for his mother.”

  “A dutiful son. I wouldn’t have thought so of a rake.”

  “He may lead the way in scandal, but he’s considerably more complicated.”

  “I shall scandalize you and myself in the bargain when I say—what appeals to me when I think of him isn’t his complexity but his great beauty and reputation for vice. Perhaps I’ve lived too long in seclusion. Perhaps my aunts are right after all when they compare me to my free-spirited mother. Although the terms they use to describe her aren’t so pretty.”

  “How did she come to sail?”

  “She stowed away on her uncle’s ship when she was fifteen and found herself on a voyage to Trinidad. It was the end of any opportunity for a suitable marriage and the beginning of a life of adventure. She never regretted it, according to my grandfather.”

  “Your life has been unconventional as well.”

  “As has yours. Will you write your memoirs someday?”

  “And terrify every man of influence in the country? I’ll leave that to others. I’ve plenty of money.”1

  “As do I—perhaps,” Isabella murmured, “should all go well. Now, tell me,” she added, “of these pleasures,” suddenly curious to hear more of the enchanting arts suggested by Molly. An extraordinary door had opened into her sheltered life, and the beautiful, much-desired Dermott Ramsay waited for her on the other side. “Is he really the most-sought-after man in England?”

  “Women pursue him mercilessly. He hides here frequently.”

  Her clear blue eyes widened. “Is he really that good?”

  “He’s really that good.”

  Isabella smiled. “So I should be honored.”

  “You won’t be disappointed. Or so my ladies tell me.”

  “Do they share him?”

  “You’re full of questions.”

  “I want to know everything. I want to know what he does and how he does it, what I should or shouldn’t do. I want to know how to make him want me.”

  “He already does.”

  “But more than he has before. I like to be the very best at whatever I do.”

  The innocent Miss Leslie continued to astonish her. Emerging before her eyes was a plain-speaking, educated young lady with both unconventional antecedents and an upbringing that would do justice to a man of parts. And an interest in the challenge of captivating Dermott’s interest. “Then we must see that you’re the very best seductress Bathurst has ever had the good fortune to meet.”

  “Grandpapa always said I was a quick study.” Miss Leslie was approaching her new education with an enchanting candor. Molly concealed her amazement with effort. “You’re sure now.” She felt as though a last caveat should be offered.

  “Absolutely.” Dermott Ramsay filled her senses, her thoughts, her imagination, and she could no more vanquish those images than she could stop breathing. “I’m very sure.”

  “It’s Dermott, isn’t it?” Molly had seen that look before.

  “I’ve never felt like this before. Increasingly awash with feeling. I wonder if this is what my mother felt when she stowed away. My heart is beating quite rapidly.” Isabella placed her palm over her heart and inhaled slowly.

  Molly chuckled. “At least it’s not beating with fear like last night.”

  “Oh, no, not at all. Believe me, the thought of lying beside Dermott Ramsay is much superior, even celestial compared to the alternative of lying beside Harold Leslie.” Shuddering, she made a face.

  “In a more perfect world you wouldn’t have been forced to make the choice.”

  “But since I am,” she said, “I chose pleasure, thank you very much.”

  “Life is unfair to women.” Molly’s voice held a degree of anger.

  “I don’t choose to despair my predicament. Rather, I look forward to securing my fortune and freedom by indulging in illicit pleasures with the notorious earl.” Isabella grinned. “You see, I am quite untroubled.”

  Molly found it ironic that a young woman harried by the world should be consoling her. She gave her high marks for courage. “If at any time you wish to discontinue this … education, you need but say the word.”

  “But I’m quite sure now I want him. And I’ve never really wanted anything with such … partiality,” she finished softly.

  “He’s not for sale,” Molly warned. “Nor is he tractable.” Miss Leslie suddenly sounded like a spoiled young lady who had been overindulged, who wanted what she wanted.

  “I know. Perhaps that’s what makes this entire endeavor so enticing.”

  4

  IN THE LATE FORENOON, the Leslies were assembled in the small chapel where the service for George Leslie was about to commence.

  “I tell you, she won’t miss her grandfather’s funeral,” Harold whispered, his gaze on the doorway.

  “I hope you’re right,” his father muttered, casting another glance at the entrance. “Or we’re going to have to search the entire city for her.”

  “She has no friends, no money, and Lampert’s frightened enough not to give her assistance. And if he should find his courage, we’ve plenty of men watching his office and home.”

  “Then it’s just a matter of time. Who else can she turn to? She has to come to him eventually.”

  The minister began reading from the funeral text, his voice carrying out over the small group.

  “It looks as though she’s not coming,” Harold grumbled, taking out his watch from the tightly stretched pocket of his striped vest and surveying the painted face. “I hope this doesn’t take too long. I’ve a race meet at two.”

  “My milliner is coming to the house at one,” his mother whispered across her husband’s rotund form. “And she’s considerably more important than this useless funeral.”

  Herbert waved his ringed hand at the minister, indicating he speed up the proceedings. Herbert had a card game he didn’t wish to miss.

  And so George Leslie was hurriedly sent from this world with little fanfare and less sorrow.

  Mr. Lampert watched the brief ceremony with a grim expression, and when he left the chapel, he went to neither his office nor his home. He walked to a bookstore on Albemarle Street and took inordinately long to purchase one book.

  It was a waste of time to follow him, Herbert’s man reported that evening.

  The old man had spent the entire day in a tavern, drinking one pot of ale and reading.

  Out of courtesy, Molly had seen that Isabella was alone when the letter from Mr. Lampert was delivered.

  Isabella’s hands were shaking as she broke the seal and
opened the single page.

  I’m being watched, he wrote, so don’t send a message directly to me. Your grandfather was buried this morning and is being conveyed to the vault at Tavora House. Mr. Martin has money for you should you need it but take care approaching the shop. I’m not sure how many spies your uncle has in the city. I wish I could do more. And he’d signed his name with a shaky hand.

  Isabella immediately wrote a reply, telling Mr. Lampert not to worry about her. She needed neither help nor money at the moment. And when the time was appropriate, she would explain her circumstances.

  She tried to read again afterward, but her mind was consumed with having missed her grandfather’s funeral, and the book lay unread in her lap. She should have been with him as he was put to rest, she thought; it would have been the last service she could offer him. And regret of what might have been lowered her spirits. But reminders of her despicable relatives evoked a simmering anger as well, and she took a degree of pleasure in planning revenge.

  Her uncharitable impulses offered a kind of respite, however meager, to her sadness while the troubling uncertainties of her future brought further disarray to a mind already in turmoil. She might be able to maintain an air of resolve concerning her circumstances in the company of Mrs. Crocker, but once alone, she wasn’t sure she possessed the courage to actually see it through.

  Regardless Bathurst’s appeal.

  Regardless he was probably her best option.

  Regardless he seemed to want her.

  And she him.

  Such outlandish possibilities shocked her when she allowed herself to consider them, as did the strange and curious desires evoked by the beautiful young earl. But contemplation of Bathurst also generated intoxicating, thrilling tremors deep inside her, and she clasped her hands together tightly on the book lying in her lap to still her trembling emotions.

  How should she deal with her feverish response, she wondered, and her only companion in life unconsciously came to mind. Silently, she spoke to her grandfather, the simple act of communicating offering her solace. As she explained her feelings, it seemed as though he were with her again, as though she weren’t so alone. She even found herself describing the handsome young earl as though her grandfather might enjoy a description as much as she.

  She smiled at the ludicrousness of her imaginary conversation. But a comforting ease overcame her as she offered the bits and pieces of her tremulous thoughts—until a knock on the door interrupted her reflections and a second later Mrs. Crocker bustled into the room, followed by several maids laden with colorful gowns and accessories.

  “We brought some things to cheer you up,” she briskly said, indicating the items be placed on the bed. “Have you written a reply to your lawyer yet? Dermott’s man is downstairs.”

  “I’ll get it.” Rising from her chair, Isabella walked to the small table where her note lay and handed it to a maid.

  “The earl’s man is a precaution, should anyone be watching,” Molly explained.

  “Thank you for your caution and your company as well. I find myself too alone with my thoughts.”

  “Exactly why you need a diversion. I had Madame Duclaisse send over some frocks to amuse us.”

  “I shall pay you, of course.”

  “At your leisure, my dear. Come now,” she said, sitting down, “which would you like to try on first?”

  Isabella selected a morning gown, her immediate ne that of replacing her robe. The pale blue gauze was embroidered with a wide row of floral designs at the hem, but the simple lines were otherwise unadorned.

  Not unfamiliar with servants, although she’d preferred living without a lady’s maid, Isabella allowed the girls to help her dress. Mrs. Crocker had thoughtfully provided a chemise of the finest lawn, and after quickly discarding her robe and having the chemise slipped over her head, Isabella tried on the blue day dress.

  “You have an eye for size.” Isabella twirled before a cheval glass, the belled skirt billowing out around her.

  “It was easy. You’re the same size as Kate … one of the ladies here,” she added in explanation. “The blue is excellent with your eyes.”

  “It is rather nice.”

  “Try on some of the slippers. There’s some matching ones in several sizes.”

  A perfect fit was selected from the array, and she could have entertained royalty in her elegant gown. “I must say, a pretty dress always does wonders for one’s disposition.”

  “My feeling exactly. Do try the apple-green silk next. The cashmere shawl is a delicious contrast.”

  “I don’t plan on stepping out just yet,” Isabella playfully noted, although the delectable fabric was alluring. Napoleon had introduced cashmere shawls to Europe after his Egyptian campaign only a few years past, and they were the height of fashion. And very dear.

  “For when you do, then. I kept two of them for myself.” Mrs. Crocker waved to have the green silk brought over. “Humor me. That color is going to be adorable with your coloring.”

  Before long, a half dozen dresses had been tried on and the room had the air of a dressmaker’s salon, piles of colorful silks and gauzes scattered about the room, shoes and shawls and bonnets adding to the flower-garden effect. Mrs. Crocker had had a bottle of iced champagne brought in to add to the festivities. After having put on a rose-colored silk afternoon dress awash with ruffles they’d both agreed were overdone, Isabella and Molly were giggling over the ostentatious confection and casting on eye on the next possibility in their private fashion show.

  “You’re a trifle young for black lace, but try that one on anyway.”

  “It has the air of seduction.”

  “The point, I’m sure. Let’s see it—just for fun.”

  Dermott had spent the morning at Tattersall’s adding to his racing stable and had taken lunch at Brooks’s afterward. He’d gone home for a time, intent on discussing some business affairs with his secretary and steward. But he found himself unable to concentrate on the ledgers and correspondence, and his employees exchanged speculative glances after he said “Would you repeat that” for the tenth time. They politely repeated their statement, only to find the earl indifferent to the crop figures he normally followed with great enthusiasm. After returning from India, he’d had the means to see to enormous improvements at Alworth. And until that day, he’d taken a detailed interest in each rick of hay and bushel of wheat, every head of cattle and sheep his acres produced.

  “If you’d prefer discussing the crop projections some other time,” Shelby, his secretary, suggested.

  A small silence fell.

  The young man was about to repeat himself, when the earl pushed away from the desk and stood. “Some other day would be preferable,” he said, glancing at the clock on the mantel.

  Both men came to their feet.

  Another awkward silence filled the large study. The earl seemed not to take notice of them, his dark eyes shadowed by his lowered lashes, his mouth pursed.

  The steward cleared his throat and Dermott’s lashes lifted. “Thank you very much.” His smile was distant. “We’ll do this another day.”

  He remained standing for several moments after the door closed on his employees, his large frame immobile, even his breathing difficult to perceive in the stillness of his pose. “I shouldn’t go,” he murmured into the hushed room.

  He raised his hands to his fashionably windswept hair and raked his fingers through the heavy waves. Softly swearing, he held his head between his palms for a transient moment and then, exhaling, dropped his hands. “How the hell can it matter,” he muttered, and strode toward the door.

  But he resisted still, and once arriving at Molly’s, he strolled into the card room and joined a game. He lost, and the rarity of the occurrence caused him to give in to his impulses. Excusing himself to the wide-eyed group of men who speculated once he’d gone that he was surely ill to have overlooked a straight flush, the earl took the stairs to the main floor in a run and walked into Molly’s apartm
ents without knocking.

  He heard the giggling from the bedchamber immediately on entering the sitting room, recognizing the women’s voices. He knew Molly’s as well as his own. The other trilling tone was the reason he was there. Against his better judgment.

  Against every principle of disinterest he’d nurtured since his return to England.

  He should have knocked, but bad tempered at his need, impelled by desires he’d tried to resist all day, he invaded the women’s room like a man intent on plunder.

  Molly said, “Hello, Dermott,” her voice remarkably calm, her gaze knowing.

  And the young woman who had dominated his thoughts since the night before whispered, “Oh, no!” in the merest of breaths.

  “Join us in some champagne,” Molly invited the earl.

  He looked at her as though he’d not heard, his gaze immediately swinging back to Isabella, standing in the middle of the Aubusson carpet, her eyes wide with shock. She was dressed or, more aptly, undressed in black lace over flesh-colored silk mousseline, and he restrained himself from moving forward, picking her up, and throwing her on the bed.

  “Do you like the dress?” Molly asked.

  He forced himself to respond. “Yes,” he said. His nostrils flared as he drew in a calming breath. “Very much.”

  “Isabella wasn’t sure it suited her.”

  “It does.” Like sorcery suits an enchantress, he thought, not sure he cared to stay in the same room with a woman who could make him forget everything but lust.

  “There, you see?” Molly smiled at Isabella and then, turning to Dermott, who’d not advanced past the threshold, she asked, “Would you like to see another gown on Isabella?”

  “No.” Male and female voices, instant and soft, spoke in unison.

  “Very well.” Molly waved the servants out and crooked a finger at Dermott. “Come in and join us.” She patted a chair beside hers. “I hadn’t expected you so early. Did you have good luck at Tattersall’s this morning?”

  The commonness of her question set the tone, and Dermott brought his errant senses to heel. “Very good luck,” he replied, moving toward her. “I found two yearlings with promise and Harkin’s roan was on the block.”