Temporary Mistress (12 page)

Dermott stood at the window of the north drawing room, his third glass of brandy in his hand, his gaze on the street below, feeling as though he were going into battle. His pulse was racing, his nerves were on alert, and the tension in his shoulders strained the superfine fabric to a degree that would be unsuitable to his tailor. Draining the glass of liquor, he felt the heat flow down his throat with a kind of relief, as though at least one familiar sensation struck his brain when all else was chaos. The clock chimed the hour, and he glanced at the bronzed winged victory with a timepiece between her feet. Where the hell was Miss Leslie? It was seven.

Had she changed her mind? Had Molly changed it for her? Had he thrown his entire establishment into turmoil for nothing? The scent of lilies suddenly overcame him, and glancing about the room, he saw a great number of very large arrangements—like a funeral, he thought. "Shelby!" he bellowed.

His secretary came around the corner so instantly, he must have been standing outside the door. "Have the maids take some of these damnable flowers away," Dermott barked. "They smell."

"Yes, sir. Would you like to greet your guest in some other room? The scent may linger even if the vases are removed."

At Shelby's propitiating tone, Dermott realized how rude he'd been. "Forgive me, Shelby," he apologized. "You can see how out of practice I've become at paying court to a lady. And no, this room is fine. Here, you take one of these," he said, handing his secretary a large vase of flowers, "and I'll take another, and that will be sufficient to make this room look less hire—"

"A funeral?"

"Exactly."

The two men were at the top of the staircase about to descend to the entrance hall and dispose of their vases when the front door opened and Isabella stepped into the grand marble entrance hall.

Dermott swore at the bad timing.

She looked up.

The butler looked up as well and, wide-eyed, surveyed his employer with a large vase of lilies in his hand.

"Are those for me?" Isabella sweetly inquired.

Dermott grinned. "If you want 'em. Although I warn you, they smell," he said, moving down the stairs.

"I'd be surprised if they didn't. Don't you like Mies?"

"Not this many." Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he offered them to her with a bow. "For your pleasure, my lady."

"One of many tonight, I presume." Her warm gaze met his over the lilies.

"Your wish is my command," he murmured.

"What a charming concept. I do look forward to the evening."

"As do I, Miss Leslie." He handed the vase to Pomeroy and reached for the ties on her cloak, a possessive gesture, symbolic perhaps of the fact he was the taker and she the takee. Standing very close as he untied the velvet ribbon, he said so low the words were for her alone, "I've waited a long time."

"I pray you won't be disappointed." But her tone was playful rather than conciliatory, and his gaze came up from the tangled knot.

"No chance of that," he whispered. And slipping the bow open, he slowly undraped the cloak from her shoulders as though he were unwrapping a personal gift.

The young footmen audibly gasped, but none received a reproach from their superiors, for all eyes were trained on the young lady. Isabella's white lace gown was so sheer, the shadow of her body was only partially concealed, the risque décolletage more in the nature of a tenuous support for the plump mounds of her breasts, the entire garment held in place with two small silver shoulder bows, the imminent threat of gravity adding a delicious element of suspense to the ensemble.

"My compliments, Miss Leslie," Dermott murmured. "You have taken all our breaths away."

"As do you, my lord. You quite turn my head." He looked large and powerful dressed in perfectly tailored black superfine, his tall, rangy form shown to advantage, his linen, crisp and white, gleaming in the candlelight, the diamond at his throat so large, it could have come only from India.

"Might I offer you"—the heat fairly crackled in the air—"a glass of champagne?"

"That would be very nice," she purred, "for now…"

He acknowledged the delectable purr with an appreciative smile and offered his arm. "Miss Leslie."

"My lord Bathurst." Dipping a small curtsy, she placed her hand on his strong wrist and they both felt the heated jolt.

Inhaling deeply, Dermott wondered how in the world he was going to repress his carnal urges when his hard-on was embarrassing him in front of his staff and the little minx was deliberately leaning into him so her breasts were almost spilling out of her gown. Dinner, he thought. "Dinner," he said to Pomeroy. "We'll have dinner now."

"Now, my lord?" The schedule had been specific. Champagne and brandy first, then dinner at nine.

"Now."

"Yes, my lord." Pomeroy moved forward to escort them to the dining room, knowing the chef was going to tear his hair out with dinner pushed up two hours. On the other hand, he reflected, the earl and his lady seemed oblivious of all but each other. There was a good possibility they wouldn't notice what they were eating.

The dining room positively gleamed, Isabella thought as they entered the large chamber—the polished cherry-wood walls, the massive silver plate on the sideboard and table, the crystal goblets marching in a row beside the two services set on the polished mahogany table, the gilt frames on the paintings adorning the walls, the twin chandeliers of Russian crystal that dripped from the high coffered ceiling. She felt as though she'd entered a shining Aladdin's cave.

"Do you always eat in such splendor?" she asked, slightly in awe of such magnificence.

It took him a moment to answer because he rarely ate at home, and when he did, he generally shared a tray with Shelby in his study. "Actually no." In fact, he couldn't remember when last he'd eaten in this room. "Would you rather have dinner somewhere else?"

In bed with you, she thought, still trembling from his touch, but it wouldn't do to be so forward. Bess had said men never liked women to give orders. "This is very nice. Really."

"Would you like a glass of champagne?" he asked because he badly needed a drink.

"Oh, I would very much. Thank you."

With a nod, he indicated Pomeroy serve them. "The room seems warm, or I'd suggest we sit by the fire, although you're probably not warm," he added with a smile, surveying her scantily dressed form.

"Actually I am… dreadfully warm, I mean—the room is indeed warm…"

Her stammering innocence was charming. "So we'll sit away from the fire."

"Yes, please, I'd like that."

Suddenly she seemed very young, very different from the seductive minx in the entrance hall, and he felt an odd disquiet. "How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

His sigh of relief brought a smile to her face.

"I didn't realize age mattered."

"It's bad enough—just set the tray down, Pomeroy, we'll serve ourselves." As the butler walked away, Dermott said, "It's bad enough you're a virgin; I'm not, however, about to bed some adolescent child." A grin broke across his face. "Although you definitely don't have the look of a child, Miss Leslie. And I mean it in the most complimentary way." He handed Isabella a stemmed goblet of champagne.

"Molly thought you'd like the gown," Isabella said, a half-smile lifting the corners of her mouth. "Do I look sufficiently seductive?"

"In that dress? Completely, wholly, exuberantly. And white—interesting," he murmured over the rim of his glass.

"A metaphor, I believe." Her blue eyes sparkled. "Molly's idea again."

"She sets the stage well."

"I am also well trained, sir," she sportively noted. "Although not to your standards perhaps. Your reputation is formidable."

He slid lower in his chair, his gaze taking on a faintly disgruntled expression at the reminder of their disparate lives. "I wish you weren't a virgin."

"I could relinquish my virginity to someone else first if you like."

"No," he snapped.

"You could watch," she suggested, innuendo in her tone.

"Not likely," he growled.

"Or we could get this over as quickly as possible."

"You have a sense of humor, Miss Leslie."

"I watched
you
one night."

He glared at her. "Damned Molly should have kept you in your room."

"Don't blame her. I was quite alone, and what better teacher than you, after all. Although you were selfish. I'm not sure the lady enjoyed herself."

He relaxed marginally. Obviously, she hadn't stayed long. He was grateful for that. "I'll try not to be selfish with you."

"Molly says I'm allowed to be as selfish as I wish because you can take care of yourself."

"Meaning?" he asked, grinning.

"Meaning you are an accomplished libertine."

"I can't argue with you there."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why do you do it?"

What a startling question. "Why not?"

"You engage in debauch without thinking?"

He shrugged. "Mostly."

"
I've
thought quite a deal about tonight."

"In your case, I have too. Don't look so surprised. I
don't as a rule,"—he smiled—"engage in debauch with virgins. So you see, tonight is different."

"How different?"

One dark brow rose, amusement in his eyes. "Is this a catechism?"

"Do you know?" She wanted her question answered.

"As a matter of fact, I don't. I don't have the vaguest notion why you fascinate me."

"I fascinate you?"

He shrugged again. "It seems so."

"Because of this?" She swept her hand over her gown.

"Definitely a factor," he said with a boyish grin.

"I confess your good looks are a most potent lure for me."

"Then we can both be accused of being shallow," he sportively affirmed. Although he knew better. He'd slept with scores of great beauties and never felt what he felt right now.

"Do you actually want to eat?"

His heart missed a beat. "You decide," he carefully replied.

"I'd rather not eat—right now. I'm too excited."

He set his glass down, slid upright in his chair, and gazed at her with a look that was faintly quizzical and wholly carnal. "What would you like to do instead?"

She bit her lip, debating how to ask, and then in a rush said, "May I see your bedroom?"

His pulse rate leaped, but he schooled his expression to a well-bred courtesy. "Certainly," he said, coming to his feet.

"If you don't think me too forward. Bess warned me that men don't—"

"It's not a problem." Offering her his hand, he drew her up from the chair.

"I wish I could be calm. I'm so nervous."

Her hand was small and warm in his, and it took effort to maintain his composure. "Should I bring a bottle of champagne with us?" He smiled. "For your nerves."

"Maybe you should, although I already had some wine at Molly's before I left—to calm myself… and I'm not sure when I'll get tipsy."

"You may get tipsy if you like," he genially offered, picking up the bottle from the iced container. "I've always found the world looks considerably better after a bottle or so."

As they stepped into the hall, Pomeroy materialized from the shadows.

"Postpone dinner," Dermott instructed. "I'll ring when we're ready."

"Very good, sir." The chef was going to burst into tears.

"I wonder if I might be a
little
hungry," Isabella apologetically said; the smells of dinner were wafting up the dumbwaiter in the hall.

"Something light?" Dermott suggested.

"That would be wonderful. I think I smell chicken."

"A little of everything," Dermott ordered.

"Now, sir?"

Dermott looked at Isabella, then back at Pomeroy. "Now," he said.

"I do apologize," Isabella remarked as they began ascending the stairs.

"No need. Pomeroy will take care of it. That's what he does."

"Our household was rather small—compared to yours. And not so formal. I confess, I'm quite intimidated."

"By Pomeroy? Don't give it another thought. If you're hungry, you can eat. It's as simple as that. What else do they have to do? Hell, I'm hardly ever home."

"Don't you like your home?"

He glanced around the cavernous staircase and entrance hall, a multitude of ancestors staring down on them from the walls, the cupola fifty feet above them. "I suppose I do. Never thought about it."

"And yet you're never home."

"Too quiet."

"You require stimulation?"

He laughed. "You might say that, darling. Come, this way." Tugging on her hand, he led her down the corridor toward a huge painting of a man in Elizabethan dress with a hunting dog.

He'd called her darling. The word strummed through her brain, warming her senses even while she told herself to discount charming words from charming men.

He stopped before two massive carved doors just short of the huge painting, and tucking the champagne bottle under his arm, opened them. "Welcome to my wing, Miss Leslie," he said, ushering her into an enormous drawing room.

"This can't be your bedroom."

He nodded toward another set of double doors. "It's in there. The earls of Bathurst apparently used this room for—" He grinned, interrupting himself. "I haven't the foggiest idea. Come, I'll show you my bedroom. It's built on a slightly more intimate scale."

Only slightly, she realized as he opened the doors into the bedroom. The idea of intimacy must have been in terms of royal levees. The bed was mounted on a dais, crowned with a gilt coronet draped in crimson brocade. Enormous gilt chairs covered in a similar brocade were placed along the walls, as though courtiers had watched their master sleep. Windows ten feet high were draped in swags and tassels and more of the crimson brocade. A large desk sat in the middle of a Persian carpet off to one side. Obviously a working desk, papers were strewn over its surface. The ceiling must have been twenty feet high, the mural adorning it that of a bacchanal.

"Do you actually sleep here?"

"Cozy, isn't it?"

"For two hundred people maybe."