Temporary Mistress

by Susan Johnson

  “So you helped ease Harkin’s gambling debts?”

  “I may have paid them off,” the earl noted, taking the chair beside Molly and sliding into a sprawl. “That roan is a damned fine racer.”

  “Do join us, Isabella.” Molly pushed a delicate fauteuil forward.

  There was no way to refuse and not look like a child, so Isabella tamped her feverish emotions with supreme effort and walked across the pale carpet.

  He watched her from under his lashes.

  Skittishly aware of his gaze, Isabella approached them with a wildly beating heart and pinked cheeks.

  She fairly glowed, the provocative juxtaposition of trembling innocence and flamboyant sensuality intense, her ripe body displayed in all its splendor beneath the sheer black lace, her downcast gaze chaste as a virgin’s.

  Which thought momentarily disconcerted him, but anyone with a body like Venus herself couldn’t be completely chaste, he decided. As if reason were a requirement with the state of his erection. He shifted marginally to ease the tightness of his trousers.

  His movement, however slight, drew Isabella’s gaze, and her breath caught in her throat. He was blatantly aroused, the black knit fabric of his trousers tightly stretched. And for the first time in her life, she felt a heated shimmer deep within the core of her body, the feeling so exquisite, she came to a halt.

  He smiled as if he understood.

  She smiled back because she couldn’t stop herself.

  And Molly thought it best to slow the pace. She wished her young guest to acquire some of the expertise necessary to entice more than Dermott’s fleeting lust. “You must tell Dermott of your cartography society,” Molly declared. “Miss Leslie owns an uncommon library of rare maps,” she added, turning to Dermott. “Pour us all some champagne, and you can compare your visions of the world.”

  His vision at the moment had to do with a finite view of the paradise between Miss Leslie’s legs, but he could see that Molly was intent on putting pause to their heated encounter, and no one ever bested Molly in a confrontation. “Really?” he said, reaching for the bottle in the bucket of ice. “Not the library in Grosvenor Square?”

  “You know of it?” A new concentration overtook the fever of arousal, and Isabella took her seat with them.

  “I’ve been there only twice. I didn’t realize you were that Leslie, nor that the banker who held my mortgages was your—”

  “Grandfather,” Isabella quickly supplied. “My goodness!” She felt as though she knew him suddenly, his recollection of their connection enough to make him not so much a stranger who took her breath away but a family friend—who took her breath away, she reflected with an inner smile.

  “Isabella will be staying with us for a few days,” Molly noted, offering the information as though they’d not discussed her previously over breakfast.

  “Lucky for us.” Dermott leaned over with a glass of champagne for Isabella, careful not to touch her fingers. Regardless Molly’s presence, he couldn’t guarantee his docility.

  The scent of him wafted over her as he leaned close, and heady with the fragrance of maleness and fresh citron, Isabella took the glass from him and proceeded to drink a good deal of it in one swallow.

  Her agitation was appealing. Of course, what about her wasn’t appealing, he mused, concentrating with effort on what Molly was saying as she offered him a plate of petit fours.

  “She was thinking of perhaps acquiring some additional skills while she’s with us,” Molly declared, putting the plate down at his refusal.

  Suddenly his attention was fixed, his gaze intense. “Additional …” he murmured, his glance swinging over to take in the disconcerted Miss Leslie.

  “Isabella requires safeguards … protection from an unwanted marriage.”

  “I see.” His dark gaze held Isabella’s.

  “Something in the way of a denouement.”

  “Ah …” His voice was like velvet.

  Mesmerized, charmed, warmed by the sultry heat of his regard, Isabella felt as though he might indeed be her white knight in this outlandish predicament. “I have relatives who wish my fortune,” she murmured, half breathless under his spell.

  “I could call them out.” A strange obligation overcame him, as though he should offer her something for what he was about to receive.

  “You would kill them surely.” Nervously, she shook her head. “They aren’t men skilled with weapons.”

  “Does it matter when they victimize you so cruelly?”

  “I wouldn’t wish their blood on my hands.” The whole world knew of his expertise.

  He didn’t answer for a moment. “As you wish.”

  “Isabella wishes to discourage their avarice in a less fatal way,” Mrs. Crocker interposed. “With your cooperation.”

  “At your service, mademoiselle.” His voice was soft, low, oddly touched with compassion. Quickly setting his glass down, he slid up from his lounging pose, impatient with such sentiment.

  “This is extremely awkward.” Isabella twisted the stem of the goblet in her fingers and would have looked completely artless save for her voluptuous breasts about to burst from her low décolletage.

  Awkward indeed, he thought, not sure he was capable of taking what she was offering with such guileless naivete. Equally sure he couldn’t long resist her bounteous pulchritude. “Please,” he gently said. “I believe I know what you’re about to say, and there’s no need. I willing accede to your wishes, whatever they may be. You decide what and where and let me know.”

  She looked up from the goblet in her hands and exhaled in relief. “You’re most kind, sir.”

  “I’m most fortunate, Miss Leslie,” he replied softly.

  “Perhaps in a fortnight, Dermott,” Molly submitted.

  Isabella blushed while the earl wondered how he could last that long. But infinitely polite, he gracefully bowed his head. “I await your pleasure, ladies.”

  Dermott left Molly’s shortly after, and waving his driver off, walked away at a pace that indicated his deep frustration. He passed through Green Park, continuing through Hyde Park to Kensington Gardens, completely immune to his surroundings, the uncommon degree of lust Miss Leslie evoked not only torturous but disturbing, his thoughts in tumult. A considerable time later, he found himself on the banks of the Thames, the sun setting over the river in a spectacularly brilliant crimson, and startled, he looked around as though waking from a dream.

  Understanding a degree of sanity and good judgment was called for, he found a hackney cab, gave directions for his London house, and studiously avoided thinking of the blond jezebel in the black lace gown. Intent on supplanting images of the delectable Miss Leslie with more available females, he arrived home, quickly bathed and dressed, and set out for an evening at Carlton House, where the Prince of Wales’s set could always be counted on for unbridled revelry.

  Dinner was informal, with the usual male coterie of the Prince’s engaged in outdrinking each other. Mrs. Fitzherbert was in Brighton, so the few women present were of questionable social status, a fact Dermott welcomed in his present churlish state.2 As the evening progressed, the guests moved into the music room, where they were joined by ladies who were there to entertain them with their musical abilities along with other more titillating delights. And by midnight a general state of inebriated carouse was well under way. While the Prince of Wales swore his devotion to Mrs. Fitzherbert, he was easily dissuaded from the path of faithfulness if she was absent, and tonight a dancer from the corps de ballet was piquing his interest. She not only danced but sang extremely well, charming the Prince, who delighted in music of all kinds and singing in particular.

  The party had just finished a rousing second chorus of a drinking song when the Prince cast a glance at Dermott, who alone was without female company, and cheerfully called out, “No cunt tonight, Dermott? Should I send for the doctor?”

  “I’m on a rest cure.”

  “Venus’s revenge got you?”

  Derm
ott shook his head as he lay sprawled on a silk-covered chaise with peculiar crocodile feet. “I’ve found religion,” he drawled, his voice rich with liquor.

  “Oh, ho! And maybe I’ve a notion to take back my wife,” the Prince hooted.3 “Although it might be a tad crowded in bed with all her lovers.”

  A roar of drunken laughter greeted his statement.

  “Ain’t like you, Bathurst, that’s all.” Beau Brummell spoke into the lessening guffaws and chuckles in the same fastidious tone with which he dressed, his cool-eyed gaze keen despite a night of drinking.4

  “But then, variety is the spice of life,” Dermott murmured, his dark eyes clear and challenging. “Any argument there?”

  “Acquit me, Bathurst,” Brummell casually disclaimed. “You know how I dislike intense physical activity early in the morning, not to mention the risk of bloodying my linen.”

  The sudden silence that had fallen at Dermott’s quiet query evaporated in a communal sigh of relief.

  “There, there,” the Prince interjected. “What we all need is another bottle.” Snapping his fingers brought a number of footmen on the run, and the noisy carouse resumed.

  But everyone took note of Dermott’s departure shortly after, although no one dared question his motive when he rose from his chaise and exited the room.

  “He’s blue-deviled,” the Marquis of Jervis remarked as the door closed on the earl’s back.

  “Must be a woman.”

  “Not with Bathurst. He don’t care for any of ’em enough.”

  “Did he losh a race today?”

  “No races today, Wiggy,” a young baronet interjected. “You’re too drunk to remember.”

  “Naw drunk,” the Duke of Marshfield’s heir slurred.

  “Maybe he’s bored,” Brummell noted, his sobriety conspicuous in the sea of drunkenness.

  “Never saw Bathurst bored with cunt before.”

  A general nodding of heads greeted the remark.

  “A pony says he’s hors de combat.” A young man winked.

  “Never happened before. I’ll raise you a pony against it.”

  The state of Dermott’s health continued in heated debate until the betting included most everyone in the room, for or against, a coin toss deciding who would talk to his doctor in the morning. No one considered asking Bathurst personally.

  Not in his current ill temper.

  When the earl found himself at Molly’s several hours later, wet from the rain falling outside and more sober than he would have liked, Kate was waiting. She welcomed him with a smile despite the late hour, and he followed her to bed, trying not to let his moodiness show. He performed well because he always did and because he didn’t wish her to suffer for his own black humor, and once he’d pleasured her and found his own relief, he fell asleep like a man dead to the world.

  She wasn’t without insight, and she sat up afterward and watched him in the candlelight, wondering what demons were driving him. She knew of the death of his wife and son; was tonight some anniversary? But it had happened years before, and even Molly said he was over it as much as anyone can ever be over such a devastating loss. With female intuition she wondered whether the young lady taking up residence in Molly’s quarters might more likely figure in his moodiness. Call it a hunch or a bit of gossip revealed by one of the maids, but if she were a betting woman, she’d say Dermott’s newest fancy was contributing to his ill humor. And if she were anything but a sensible young woman who understood earls didn’t marry courtesans, she might allow herself to mourn the imminent loss of his company.

  But she was eminently pragmatic; she was also very near her financial goals, thanks to Dermott’s generosity, and soon she would put period to her life here and return to her young daughter in the country with enough money to live the life of a genteel widow.

  Dermott was dear to her. She lightly stroked the gleaming black of his hair spread on the pillow and leaned over to gently kiss his cheek.

  He woke at her touch, gathered her in his arms, mumbled something affectionate, and fell back to sleep.

  She would miss him, she thought, lying in his warm embrace. He was the kindest of men.

  5

  ISABELLA’S EDUCATION BEGAN the following morning.

  A bath was brought in after her breakfast, and she was bathed and dried in so leisurely and sensuous a manner, she felt as though she were adrift in a dream. And while she was supposed to pay attention to all manner of technique mentioned by Molly, her concentration was fixed, rather, on exquisite sensation. After her bath, she was escorted to a narrow daybed, where she lay down for the next lesson in a tyro courtesan’s life. Warm jasmine-scented oil was trickled over her skin, each heated drop like tingling bewitchment as it struck her. With the gentle stroking massage on her flesh artfully heating her senses, her attention wandered once again, Molly’s voice explaining the mysteries of amour fading away, the slow, tantalizing hands roving her body too delectable to deny. She found herself substituting her favorite lush fantasy for the sound of Molly’s voice, experiencing instead the soul-stirring feel of Bathurst’s strong hands gliding over her softly—squeezing, rubbing, drifting in a slow, luxurious rhythm downward until, breath held, she felt her cleft eased open and the sensation of warmth melt into her pulsing tissue.

  The intense, spiking pleasure snapped her eyes wide.

  “Always see that you are sweet scented everywhere,” Molly calmly remarked.

  “I see,” Isabella murmured, half breathless.

  “Bathurst is particular.”

  His name alone caused a new surge of heat to curl inside her, the perfumed flesh between her legs throbbing anew. “I’ll remember,” she whispered, remembering as well how Bathurst had looked aroused. How she’d trembled at the sight of his rigid length and size. “Is he here?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Half rising, she rested on her forearms. “Is he with someone?”

  “He’s always with someone.” Molly spoke plainly. There was no point in deceiving the young woman.

  “Then I shall have to pay more attention, shan’t I,” Isabella said, lying down again, “if I wish to engage his interest.”

  “Is that what you wish?” This young girl was refreshing—neither alarmed nor confused.

  Isabella smiled. “I do most fervently.” Images of Dermott’s stark beauty had saturated her dreams, not only just moments earlier but through the night past, and she found herself wanting him with a fevered indiscretion that overlooked all but her urgent desires. Desires she’d not known existed a mere day before. “I almost feel as though I should thank Uncle Herbert and Harold for their villainy in driving me here.”

  “Such uncomplicated thinking will serve you well.”

  “Exactly. I’ll have my fortune and some very fine memories once I leave. Am I not fortunate?” “Your frankness is disarming.”

  “You must teach me everything,” Isabella said with an expansive wave of her arm, “and I shall see that Bathurst has a memorable time.”

  Molly’s brow quirked. “Is this a contest?”

  “Do you mind if it is?”

  Molly laughed. “He’s well ahead of you.”

  “But not of you, I expect.”

  “Perhaps … although I offer no guarantees. I’ve not spent time in India.”

  “There are Hindu love books. I know there are because a captain brought some back once and Grandpapa quickly put them away. Let’s have Mr. Martin find them for us.”

  Her excitement was a delight. “You wish to send Bathurst over the moon?”

  “I wish to arouse him to the most sublime colossal pitch.” Isabella’s downy brows lifted faintly. “Am I terribly wicked?”

  “Wonderfully wicked, I’d say. Why don’t I see to some books?”

  The first frontispiece they looked at portrayed a handsome young footman, partially undressed, servicing a pretty lady in her boudoir. The caption beneath the picture brought a smile to Isabella’s lips: Being in service requir
es dedication, obedience, and a willingness to learn. “The lady seems to be enjoying herself. Although I doubt all employees are so handsome.”

  “They are if your husband allows,” Molly sardonically replied. “This book is rumored to have been written by several noblewomen of the highest rank.”

  “Then ladies are allowed their vices as well? I never realized …”

  “Their vices require a deal more discretion, but, yes, there are ladies who enjoy themselves with equal gusto. For instance, take note of the next illustrations.”

  In a sequence of five etchings, the tale of a shopping expedition in Bond Street was depicted. The young shop men were dazzlingly handsome and well formed, and from the looks of the various illustrations, bent on offering any particular service a lady desired.

  “I always thought the shop men were delightfully handsome, but I never realized why they were so good-looking. Is everyone but me aware of their sexual availability?”

  “Those who are interested are aware. However, discretion is ever the watchword.”

  “My education has been sadly lacking,” Isabella playfully bemoaned. “Heavens,” she exclaimed, gazing at the next illustration, “don’t tell me every handsome groom I see in Hyde Park is making love to his mistress.”

  “I would say, generally,” Molly explained, “if one sees a good-looking groom and a lady who takes undue interest in her equine skills, a high degree of suspicion is called for.”

  “My life has been dreadfully dull. All I ever did was sell shipments brought to London on our vessels.”

  “Keep in mind, all the pleasures you see depicted are generally reserved for married women. Virginity is still the gold standard for a suitable marriage.”

  “Well, since I have no immediate plans for marriage and have yet to see a man who would even interest me in that regard—”

  Molly’s eyebrows rose.

  “Surely not. I know what you’re thinking, but Bathurst would no more marry me than he would cook your dinner. So I shall be ever so grateful to you for showing me—well, what I’ve been missing. And allowing me an education in certain pleasures that may interest me in the future—whether I’m married or not.”