Temporary Mistress

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
EPILOGUE
NOTES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Don't Miss Any of Susan Johnson's

Tantalizing Novels

The Kuzan Dynasty Trilogy

SEIZED BY LOVE

LOVE STORM

SWEET LOVE, SURVIVE

The Braddock-Black Series

BLAZE

SILVER FLAME

FORBIDDEN

BRAZEN

The St. John-Duras Series

SINFUL

WICKED

TABOO

A TOUCH OF SIN

and

TEMPORARY MISTRESS

LEGENDARY LOVER

TO PLEASE A LADY

OUTLAW

PURE SIN

Available wherever

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Dear Reader,

Temporary Mistress
came to life as a fleeting image in my mind. In a shadowed room with candles flickering and malice heavy in the air, an elderly lawyer is reading a will. A young woman is weeping, her grandfather having died only recently. But her relatives are untouched by sorrow, for their niece and cousin is delegated sole heir of a fortune they wish for themselves, and bitterly resentful, they regard her with hatred.

That was the first time I saw Isabella Leslie and I could tell she was going to need some help.

At the same time, Dermott Ramsay, Earl of Bathurst, is gambling in London's finest brothel, unaware of Isabella or her problems and indifferent, in any event, to all but the pursuit of pleasure.

An unlikely pair to ever meet.

Except for the hand of fate and the feeling I had that they'd enjoy getting acquainted.

I hope you enjoy the course of their friendship too.

Best wishes,

April 1802

THE STEADY DRIZZLE had turned to a downpour ten minutes earlier and the lady clinging to Dermott Ramsay on the high-lurching seat of his racing phaeton was not only thoroughly drenched but furious. Which meant he'd have to set her down at the next inn, practically ensuring Hilton a win in their race to London. Damn Olivia anyway. He'd not wanted to bring her along, but she'd coaxed with such enticing fervor as they lay naked in her absent husband's bed that morning, he'd found his better judgment overruled by lust.

Again.

Damn.

He squinted into the driving rain, the road barely visible through the deluge, but his Thoroughbreds were running strongly despite the rough going, and if his racing phaeton didn't snap an axle, by the grace of God and some damned fine driving he
would
have won the race.

"Ram!" the countess screamed, her nails biting through the fine wool of his coat as the carriage hit a pothole and tilted crazily. "Put me down this instant!"

For a fleeting moment he was tempted to do just that, but he was a gentleman for all his faults and couldn't indulge his wishes and leave her in the middle of the muddy road. He raised his voice enough to be heard against the storm. "I'll set you down at The Swan in Chaldon."

"It's too far!"

While he agreed, it wasn't as though he had another option. Forcing himself to a politesse he was far from feeling with his chance of winning virtually destroyed, he shouted, "Just ten minutes more and you'll be dry!"

"I should never have let you talk me into coming along! Look at my bonnet and gown!" she cried. "And the state of my…" Her voice died away, the glance he shot her way chill enough to silence even the overweening vanity of London's most celebrated beauty.

The rest of the wet, miserable journey to Chaldon passed in silence.

Bringing his matched pair to a plunging stop outside the entrance to The Swan, the Earl of Bathurst tossed his reins to an ostler and leaped to the ground. He was around to the countess's side in a few racing strides, his arms lifted to catch her. Carrying her inside, he bespoke a room, set her down, paid the innkeeper a generous sum over and above the required amount to assure his companion would have every comfort, and bowed to the lady who had cost him not only the race but a ten-thousand-guinea wager. "I'll send my carriage for you in the morning." Without waiting for a reply, he strode back outside.

Hilton had passed him, of course. He'd been close on his heels since Red Hill. Dermott didn't need the ostler's report to know he'd been bested. Softly cursing, he tossed the man a guinea, vaulted back onto the phaeton seat, and snatched up the reins.

It wasn't as though he'd not been behind in a race before, he thought, taking heart from the instant response of his powerful grays. Their will to win matched his, and his Thoroughbreds and custom-made phaeton had garnered more than their share of racing wagers in the past few years. "Come on, sweethearts," he crooned, leaning forward on the high-perched seat, knowing they recognized not only his voice but his urgency. "Let's see if we can catch them."

Their ears pricked forward, then twitched as though signaling their acknowledgment, and their strides lengthened.

A half hour later, Hilton's phaeton rose out of the gray mist, the outline faint in the distance. Dermott's nostrils flared as though catching the scented hint of victory. He'd raised his grays from foals and knew them as well as he knew his own family. Better, his mother would complain on occasion. "Here we go now, darlings," he murmured, letting the reins slide through his gloved fingers, giving his racers their heads.

It was a slow, laborious undertaking with Hilton's horses renowned for their speed. But Dermott's team slowly gained ground, and when they were within passing range, Hilton did what any driver who wanted to win would do. He moved squarely into the center of the road.