“Do you love her?” Joe bluntly asked, watching Dermott’s face as though the truth might be revealed in some fleeting expression.
“Do you?”
“I asked first.”
Both men were tall, the width of their shoulders identical, and had the earl been less recently on his deathbed, they might have been more nearly matched in strength. But their eyes held equal challenge, the air was charged.
“No offense, Bathurst, but your answer matters more than mine.”
“Why, when you’ve been with her every day for weeks.”
“Because she loves you.”
Had Mrs. Notkins been less informative, Dermott might have been able to speak without cynicism. “What else do you know about Isabella, Thurlow, when you know such personal things as who she loves?”
“What the hell are you implying?”
“I’m implying you’re a lot closer to her than I am.”
“Christ, Bathurst,” Joe resentfully muttered. “Do you think I’d bother talking to you if I thought I had a chance with her? I’d knock you flat, step over you, and forget I’d ever seen you. So answer me. Do you love her?”
“Until recently, I was under that assumption,” Dermott growled.
“I’m going to need more than that.” Joe’s tone was brusque.
“Are you her vetting agent?”
“I am.” Two words backed up by eight years of heavyweight championships. “Are your intentions honorable?”
“A bold question, unless you’re her guardian.”
“At the moment I am, and I require a suitable answer if you wish to see her with your pretty face in one piece.”
Dermott brows rose. “So we are rivals.”
Joe’s eyes held Dermott’s for a tense moment, and then he shook his head. “She turned me down, Bathurst—for you, so believe me, I don’t have any friendly feelings toward you. But I care about her and I won’t have you play fast and loose with her again. She’s been miserable since you left, more miserable after this morning on the island.”
Where Dermott may not have completely believed him before, Joe’s words about Wight were so unusual, his sincerity couldn’t be questioned. “I don’t know anything about your trip to the island, but I assure you, I’m here with the most honorable intentions.” His voice was as grave as his expression. “I have a ring for Isabella, along with the offer of my hand and heart. Will that do?”
“It’s enough for me. I can’t speak for her.” Joe suddenly smiled. “She may prefer your heart on a skewer.”
Dermott returned Joe’s smile with a tentative one of his own. “I’m not unaware of her possible outrage. If she throws me out, will you throw me back in? I intend to persist in this suit.”
“I’d be pleased to throw you anywhere at all, Bathurst.” Joe grinned. “But, unfortunately, she wants you, not me, so—that’s what I want too.”
“She’s very easy to love, isn’t she?”
“Damn right she is. You don’t know how much I envy you. Now, don’t fuck up again.” His voice was brusque.
Dermott’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Would you like to come along and advise me?”
“I think you can handle the charming of a woman with the best of them, Bathurst. You don’t need any advice from me.”
His gaze turned serious. “Thank you for taking care of her.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
“I know.” Nervous, Dermott touched the ring in his pocket, uncertain of his reception despite Joe’s assurances, not at all sure he wasn’t too late. He drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. “Wish me luck.”
“I suppose if someone has to have her, I’m glad it’s you,” Joe replied. He winked. “Although, looking like you do, you’re going to need some luck.”
22
SECOND DOOR AT THE TOP of the stairs, Joe had said.
He’d also said Isabella loved him. Hopefully, he was right.
Dermott rapped twice, then winced. A little overzealous, he thought, shaking his stinging fingers.
But she called out, “Come in, Joe!” and he forgot his pain and jealously decided she sounded much too friendly. Why was she letting Joe into her bedroom anyway? He looked more grim than he intended when he entered the room.
Although, as it turned out, Isabella didn’t notice because she was nowhere in sight. He surveyed the small bedchamber.
“Just leave my bag anywhere, Joe!” Isabella’s voice came from behind a screen set before the fireplace, as did the sudden sound of splashing water.
What if he had been Joe? Dermott moodily thought. What if Joe weren’t so damned polite and honorable? What if he’d taken advantage of the fact she was obviously taking a bath … or—green demons whispered—maybe Joe had already taken advantage.
With a loud thud Dermott dropped the satchel Joe had given him.
“Thank you!”
He didn’t respond, and a moment later she hesitantly said, “Joe?”
“It’s not Joe.”
He heard her gasp, heard the slap of water hitting the floor, a spreading puddle appearing soon after under the linen screen.
“What do you want?”
No words of love in the harsh question, although he was realistic. Instead, the sound of wet feet striking the floor and brisk toweling-off reached his ears—an activity that momentarily stopped when he said, “I’d like to talk to you.”
She didn’t answer for so long, he found himself holding his breath.
He was alive! An unguarded happiness transiently disregarded her saner judgment—those more lucid thoughts surfacing seconds later, the ones that reminded her of all he was and all he’d done to her or not done to her. And all the conscious resentments that she thought she’d consigned to the past came flooding back.
She walked from behind the screen, her coarse robe obviously borrowed, a too-small robe. “I’ll give you two minutes.” Her voice was cool. “Where’s Joe?” Dermott had to have come through him.
Her hair was dripping water onto the floor, and he was reminded of the first time he’d seen her at Molly’s. But his brief nostalgia was almost instantly supplanted by umbrage at her concern for Joe. “He can take care of himself. Are you worried?”
“Of course I’m worried. You’re not very trustworthy—among other things,” she pointedly added.
“How much are you worried?”
She surveyed him, her chin slightly lifted. “I don’t think that’s any concern of yours. Actually, nothing about me is any concern of yours. You made that quite plain. Why are you here?”
She was angry, although he’d expected as much. What he’d not expected was his inability to control his jealousy. His voice was mild only with effort. “Joe tells me you were at the Isle of Wight.”
She colored furiously.
“Did my mother write to you?”
“It doesn’t matter if she did.”
“I didn’t know. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
“I’m sorry I went,” she crisply noted, humiliated afresh at the memory.
A hush descended on the room.
“I owe you a great number of apologies,” he finally said.
“Yes, you do.”
He took a small breath because he wasn’t in the habit of apologizing. “One of the reasons I’m here,” he added, “is to offer atonement for everything and anything I may have done to hurt you. There’s no excuse, but I want you to know I’m deeply sorry.”
“And?”
Another small breath. “You’re not making this easy.”
“Like our meeting at Green Abbey. As I recall, you didn’t respond at all to my pleas.”
“I did to some of them.”
Her smile was tight. “But then, that’s automatic with you, isn’t it—the sex. I’m talking about the part that requires empathy for another human being, I’m talking about you leaving me on the curb that morning with a casual good-bye. I’m talking about you not contacting me, not letting me know if you were
alive, letting weeks go by without a word.” Her voice sharpened. “You didn’t care that I suffered for weeks … thinking the worst, thinking you were dead. But then, you never did care, did you?” she tartly declared. “So, you see, I’m not really in the mood to make anything easy for you. In fact, I’d take pleasure in having you—”
“Do you have something else you could put on?” His voice was constrained.
She snorted, disbelief flaring in her eyes. “You can’t be serious.” Her gaze raked him. “I’m raising holy hell, taking wrathful issue with your behavior and my frustrations, and you’re getting a hard-on?”
“I’m sorry,” he muttered. “But, Christ, you’re practically naked in that damp, undersized robe—and looking incredible, as usual.”
“And you’ve forgotten what you intended to say because your brains are in your cock.”
He hadn’t, of course, the ring burning into his rib cage. He’d only hoped to put her into a better mood first.
Obviously—that was a failure.
“I went to Higham to ask you to marry me,” he brusquely said, because his unnatural, conciliatory pose had collapsed at her tart comment about the position of his brains. “And when I discovered you’d taken off with your bodyguards, one of whom the village of Higham considers your very special beau,” he jibed, “I figured fuck it and fuck you and fuck all women in general. I was on my way back to Wight when I saw your sweetheart, Joe, outside.”
“He’s not my sweetheart.” The phrase marry me was ringing in her ears, the loud reverberation capable of drowning out a devil’s chorus of resentments.
“It’s damned hard to tell.” He was sulky, aroused and sulky, or sulky because he was roused to no damned purpose.
“Well, now you know,” she calmly said, “and there’s a better robe in that satchel if you want to throw it to me.”
He looked at her. Her tone had changed, and she was regarding him with a faint smile.
“Why don’t you come and get it,” he murmured, instinctively recognizing female goodwill.
“The robe?”
“The robe … and the ring … and me and my thousand apologies.” He paused and smiled. “And all my love too.”
“You’re sure now.”
He nodded. “I don’t know what my mother wrote, but it’s all true.”
“A lady might like to have such a message personalized.” Her gaze slowly drifted down his body and then up again, coming to rest on his eyes. “You look like you’re old enough to speak for yourself.”
“I’m very wet.” An unconscious evasion perhaps, after so many years of avoiding the words. Nervously rocking on the balls of his feet, his boots squished.
“Does that affect your voice?”
Motionless now, he chuckled. “No … and not my cock either.”
She smiled. “How fortunate on both counts.”
“Will you marry me?”
She cupped her ear, tipped her head slightly forward. “Isn’t there usually some flowery preface to a proposal?” she queried. “Something poetic that has to do with mountains and rivers and endless time?”
“I love you like a fast river running through a mountain valley forever.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry I asked.”
“I really do love you, Izzy,” he softly returned, “and I will as long as mountains exist and rivers run. Every day seemed endless without you, every night empty without you, every breath I took useless without you. Marry me—please?”
“Only if you promise to never fight another duel.” Her voice went very quiet. “I couldn’t live through that again.”
He blew out a breath and gazed at her. “Ask something else. There’s always going to be some young Turk wanting to test his luck. I can’t promise you that.”
“Then we’ll have to stay in the country, far away from all the young Turks.”
“A pleasant solution.” His brows rose. “Are you saying yes?”
She nodded.
“Isn’t there usually some flowery response to a marriage proposal?” he teasingly mocked. “Something having to do with gratitude and devotion?”
“I know you’re grateful I’m willing to marry you and you’ll be eternally devoted to me.”
He chuckled. “That’s it.”
“How nice that we agree.”
“How nice to look forward to living again,” he whispered. “And I am sorry for everything.”
“I know.” She moved toward him, leaving wet footprints on the floor, and when he took her in his arms, he softly said, “I’m going to make you happy.”
“I know …” she repeated, twining her arms around his neck. “And speaking of happiness,” she murmured …
EPILOGUE
THE LOVERS WERE MARRIED a week later in the Tavora House chapel so Isabella’s grandpapa could see her married—in spirit at least. And the dowager Countess of Bathurst joined Molly—Mrs. Peabody that day—Isabella’s employees, and a select number of the ton in celebrating the joyful nuptials.
The Leslie relatives found themselves thwarted in their plans, not only by the marriage but by the birth nine months later of a son and heir to the earl and his countess—followed in quick succession by two additional children. And during the course of their marriage, the earl faithfully kept his promise to make his bride happy and in the process found the blessed joy and contentment that had so long eluded him.
NOTES
1. It wasn’t unusual for well-known courtesans to write their memoirs in their retirement years as an added source of income. Names of lovers could be omitted from the publications for a suitable sum of money, although Lord Chesterfield and/or the Duke of Wellington (sources vary on the attribution) weren’t alone in their famous remark: “Publish and be damned.” Because of the intimate nature of these memoirs, the accounts are fascinating glimpses into the temperaments and personalities of these noble lords. Harriet Wilson’s early-nineteenth-century memoirs are some of the most interesting, for her friendships included many of England’s most powerful and influential men. And contrary to popular belief, the life of a courtesan wasn’t necessarily that of degradation and ruin. Many beautiful young ladies found prosperous, loving husbands in the course of their careers. Harriet Wilson’s youngest sister, Sophia, was a case in point. With her older sisters in the business, she’d determined from a young age to parlay her youth and beauty into the ultimate triumph. And she succeeded. She charmed and married Lord Berwick, immediately became conscious of her new dignity, and cut herself off from her sisters and former acquaintances.
2. Mrs. Fitzherbert, twice widowed and childless, first attracted the attention of the Prince of Wales in March 1784. He was twenty-two and she was twenty-eight. With the Prince already notorious for his drinking and womanizing, she shrewdly resisted his persistent passionate advances, refusing to become his mistress until December 15, 1785, when he agreed to marry her in a secret ceremony. While the marriage wouldn’t be legal under the Royal Marriages Act, in the eyes of the church it would be a marriage and that was sufficient for Mrs. Fitzherbert. One child, possibly two, were a result of their union (take your choice of inferences and evidence), but like so many of the Prince’s relationships, it was threatened by his dissolute lifestyle and disreputable friends. By the winter of 1793, the love affair was over and Lady Jersey became the Prince’s favorite. In addition, his mounting debts required he marry legally, which would increase his income by at least 100,000 pounds a year. A bride was found for him—his current lover, Lady Jersey, having a hand in her selection—and not by coincidence his cousin, Princess Caroline of Brunswick, proved to be unremarkable and plain. His remark on first meeting her is legendary: “I need a brandy.” The marriage, which took place April 8, 1795, was disastrous, lasting only two weeks. Completely alienated from his wife and tired of his mistress Lady Jersey, in the summer of 1798 the Prince sought to win back Mrs. Fitzherbert. By midsummer 1799, she at last relented. Their reconciliation was now official. “A Gentleman of high
rank and Mrs. Fitzherbert are once more ‘Inseparables,’” announced The Times on July 4, 1799. “Where one is invited, a card to the other is a matter of course.”
The next eight years were the happiest of their connection, although the Prince still spent a great deal of his time with his cronies.
3. Princess Caroline was treated abominably by both the Prince of Wales and his family. As mentioned above, she was spurned almost immediately after the wedding and once her daughter, Charlotte—conceived in the brief two weeks of their conjugal union—was born, she was deliberately kept from her child. Miserable in the royal apartments, she was allowed to rent a house at Blackheath in the summer of 1797, where she continued to live for many years. She was rumored to have a sizable sexual appetite, and stories circulated concerning her various lovers. Gossip had it she delivered a child in 1802, but no definitive proof survives. Until she was allowed to leave England in 1814, she lived apart from the court with only a few retainers in attendance.
Her stay on the continent fueled more scandal, and a commission was funded by the government to investigate the allegations of adultery for the purpose of a divorce action. The then Prince Regent was eager to divorce his wife. His only child, Charlotte, had died in childbirth, leaving the English throne without an heir, since all the royal dukes had morganatic marriages. Charlotte’s death created a rush for the royal dukes to marry and provide an heir to the throne. The Prince Regent brought divorce proceedings against his wife in 1820 but failed in his attempt. Caroline died on August 7, 1821, and by her will wished to be buried in Brunswick with the simple epitaph: Here lies Caroline of Brunswick, the injured Queen of England.
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