Temporary Mistress (11 page)

DERMOTT RAISED a considerable number of eyebrows the following week as he participated in the punishing schedule of spring planting. From morning to night, he worked alongside the plowmen, setting so wicked a pace, his tenants wondered if he'd gone daft from his weeks of carouse in London. And when he should have been tired at night, he couldn't sleep, so he drank himself into oblivion instead. But even then he couldn't suppress the images of a young, innocent woman with eyes like deep blue summer skies and a face so fair he was reminded of goodness and unclouded days.

He scoffed at his absurd folly. Only a fool put stock in flimflam daydreams. But suddenly there was promise in the air, when his world had been shades of gray for a very long time. And fool or not, he crossed off the days, impatient for the week to end.

The day before he was to leave for London, he went to spend the evening with his mother. She lived, by choice, in a small manor house on his estate, her memories of the main house too painful. He always made it a point to visit his mother each day when he was home from London, but he felt a need for her company tonight as well.

He didn't know why.

But he brought her a bouquet of her favorite ruffled tulips and a special pear from the gardener, who knew her partiality for the fruit.

He waved away the servants when he entered the house and quietly entered her sitting room. Coming up behind her as she sat by the fire, he kissed her cheek, and sweeping his arms around her, presented her with his gifts.

Swiveling around, she gave him a glowing smile. "I smelled your cologne, darling, so you couldn't really sneak up on me. But I adore surprises. You came to see me again tonight." Taking his gifts from him, she lay the tulips in her lap and admired the perfect ripe pear. "Timms is such a dear. He always remembers me."

"He's forcing some new kind of pear for you as well," Dermott said, taking a seat across from her. "I think he said they were from Persia."

"Didn't we go there once?"

"You're thinking of your father."

"We weren't with him?"

Dermott's grandfather had died before he was born, his years of travel preceding his mother's childhood as well. "He told you stories. That's what you're remembering."

"You're sure."

"Maybe I'm not completely sure," he said kindly. "Tell me what you recall."

"I remember the ruins of Darius' palace and the bazaars with all their beautiful colors and smells and the beautiful terraces at Nakshi Rustam."

His mother had retreated into the past the last years of her marriage, and even when his father had died, she'd not recovered completely from the misery of her marriage. He understood it was safer for her to live in her own universe. "That palace should be one of the wonders of the world. It's spectacular, isn't it?"

"Especially at sunrise." She smiled. "I always liked it best at sunrise. You have a Thoroughbred named Sunrise, don't you? And your darling grays. How are they doing?"

She always knew him as her son regardless her tangled thoughts. And she would speak to him of his present events as though he alone was allowed to hold a contemporary place in her fractured reality.

"The grays are getting sleek in the pasture and Sunrise won at Doncaster last month."

"Did you win a tidy sum?"

"Enough to buy you some new diamonds if you wish."

"Now, why would I wish diamonds? I have all I want. You buy diamonds for some pretty young thing who turns your head. You haven't married yet, have you?"

When he'd returned to England, he'd told his mother of the death of his wife and son, but she had no concept of India, and it would never stay in her memory. Unlike Persia, the land she'd heard so much about as a child. "I'm not married,
Maman
."

"Do you have a special lady in your life?" Her voice was playful, her blue eyes bright with curiosity.

"Maybe I do." The words shocked him even as uttered them.

"Tell me about her. Bring her to see me. You know how I'd love anyone you love."

"I don't think it's come to that yet,
Maman
. But she fascinates me."

"Then she will fascinate me as well. Does she ride?"

As a young lady, his mother's passion had been riding to hounds.

"I'm not sure. She's from the City."

"The City? My goodness. Then she must be very rich."

"She is, I think."

"Well, we don't need her money now, do we, darling. So you can love her for herself. That's quite a nice idea. Unlike marriages of convenience." Her expression suddenly changed, the joy vanishing from her eyes.

"She has blue eyes like you,
Maman
," Dermott quickly interposed. "And the most beautiful golden hair, like a fairy sprite. I thought her that the first time I saw her."

His mother's expression immediately brightened. "A fairy sprite? Oh, I adore fairies. Does she look like Queen Titania in
Midsummer Night's Dream
?."

"Better."

She clapped her hands. "Then you're a very lucky man. Better than Titania
and
a fairy. Do hurry and bring her to me."

"I'll have to ask her."

"Yes, you certainly will. Tell her you have the best racing stable in Gloucestershire and she'll be sure to come. Even girls from the City like horses."

His mother assumed everyone loved horses. "I'll tell her,
Maman
."

The thought stayed with him on his journey back to London, when he'd never before considered asking a woman to his country home. There was no explanation, although he tried mightily to make sense of his wish to bring Miss Leslie home to meet his mother. Maybe she reminded him of youthful hope or of happier times when he was young. Maybe there was no explanation for his longing. Like the riddles of the universe.

His feelings wouldn't sensibly fall into some judicious clarity no matter how he rationalized, but it had been so long since he'd acknowledged any feeling other than transient pleasure that he wasn't sure he'd recognize real emotion anyway. But of one thing he was sure. He didn't wish to spend his first night with Miss Leslie in a brothel. No matter the act he was about to commit was businesslike and sexual. It was also more.

It was the first time since Damayanti died that he'd looked forward to a lady's company. He quickly warned himself not to have too high expectations, not to set too great a store on a young woman who was willing to coolly dispense with her virginity in order to safeguard her fortune. Perhaps a good lawyer would have worked for her as well.

She could turn out to be cold and calculating. Although that persona didn't seem to fit the blushing young lady he'd met at Molly's. Not that women weren't capable of the most deceitful theatrics. That he knew from personal experience.

Time would tell, he noted practically. And if sated lust was the only consequence of his liaison with Miss Leslie, he couldn't in good conscience expect more. But he sent a note to Molly on his arrival in London. Miss Leslie was requested to present herself at Bathurst House at seven.

Molly concealed her surprise when she conveyed the contents of Dermott's request to Isabella. "Apparently, he'll feel more comfortable at his own home," she stated, when she and Isabella both knew Dermott spent more time at Molly's than he did at Bathurst House.

"Very well," Isabella politely replied, her degree of nervousness already intense when the agreed-on date finally arrived. The last week had been a frantic round of activities. Her body felt as though it had been washed and massaged and perfumed with such an eye to detail, she could have been presented to the sultan of sultans without disgrace.

Molly stood in the doorway of Isabella's room, Dermott's note in her hand. "I don't think I can teach you anything more."

"You've been very kind, really." Isabella shut the book she'd been trying to read for the past hour.

"Bathurst will send his carriage at half past six."

"I'll be ready." She stood as though matching activity to words.

"We sound as though you're about to mount the guillotine."

Isabella forced a smile, her nerves on edge. "Hardly. Tonight will, in fact, insure me a peaceful life."

"I remind myself of that when I'm in doubt."

"Please," Isabella enjoined, moving toward her hostess, "don't feel responsible for what I'm about to do." Taking one of her hands in hers, she gently squeezed it. "I'm of age and relatively sound mind," she added with a smile. "I'm quite capable of taking responsibility for my actions."

"Nevertheless, I shall warn Bathurst to treat you well or incur my wrath."

"That won't be necessary if all the stories the ladies have been telling me are true. He apparently is the kindest, most amorous and gentle of lovers."

"Hmpf," Molly grumbled, drawing Isabella into her arms. "Take care, my sweet," she murmured. "He may be kind and sweet, but for all that, he's still a man, and I'm not so sure any of them can be trusted." Patting Isabella's back lightly, she stepped away and smiled at the young girl who had captured her affection. "And despite all the damnable training this week, you do what
you
want; the devil with what he wants." Much as she loved Bathurst, he was a seasoned player in the world of amour. He could take care of himself. This young mite needed all the help she could get.

"Yes, ma'am," Isabella playfully replied, dropping a polite curtsy to her protector. "I shall be the soul of selfishness."

"Good for you," Molly said gruffly. "Now I'll have Mercer send up a nice half bottle of wine for you to steady your nerves. And I'll help you dress."

HE WAS NEVER NERVOUS. It was impossible he could be nervous. Good God, where was his valet when he needed him? This neckcloth was impossibly wrong. "Charles!" he shouted. "Dammit, what were you thinking when you tied this thing!"

"Sorry, my lord," Charles apologized, coming back into the dressing room at a run, six fresh neckcloths draped over his arm. "I'm sure the next one will be tied to your satisfaction."

But it wasn't, of course, because nothing at the moment was completely satisfying, and when Dermott was finally dressed to an acceptable degree of correctness, Charles disappeared downstairs to regale the servants with a detailed account of the earl's toilette, down to his three changes of evening coat and the crushing of the offending neckcloths under his heel.

"She must be somethin' real special," a footman said. "He ain't never had no—"

"Hasn't ever," the housekeeper corrected him.

"Ain't never," the footman repeated, wrinkling his nose at the housekeeper, who considered herself the superior person below stairs, "had no light o'love to Bathurst House. And what with the cook cooking for hours now and the wine steward ordered to serve only the very best—"

"And the flowers," the upstairs maid declared with feeling. "I've never seen so many flowers."

"I'd say she's a Venus for sure," another footman maintained. "Or like that Helen of Troy, whose face launched a thousand ships, they say."

"Well, we'll soon see, will we not," the butler, Pomeroy, intoned in his haughty basso. Rising to his feet, he surveyed his staff with a piercing gaze. "Places, everyone," he ordered. "She's due to arrive in fifteen minutes." After a meticulous straightening of his shirt cuffs, he turned from the table and moved to the stairs that would bring him into position in the entrance hall.