Temporary Mistress (18 page)

"You're very welcome. And when you're sufficiently rested, I was wondering—if you didn't think me too forward—"

His gaze came up, and he waited with interest.

"Whether we could have some of that chocolate dessert that we left on the tray in your dressing room."

He laughed. "I fear I'm losing my touch."

"Not in the least. In fact, I was trying to think of a way we could—do them both."

"Since I'm not particularly interested in chocolate dessert, perhaps something could be arranged," he murmured. "Although I have the perfect wine for your chocolate. Come," he said, rising and offering his hand.

He led her first to the dressing room, where he picked up the dessert plate she wished, and then, drawing her along, traveled through the large bedroom and drawing room, down the hall and staircase. Turning to his right, he ignored the hall porter dozing in his chair and walked down a lengthy corridor to a small door set oddly in a corner. "Watch your step now." Opening the door, he slowly led her down a narrow staircase, a coolness immediately apparent as they descended, and at the bottom of the stairs he opened a door into a well-lit wine cellar.

Obviously, he spent some time there, for a small anteroom entirely of brick was furnished with an elegant table and four upholstered chairs, a bow-fronted console, and a cupboard gleaming with glassware. Waving her into a chair, he set the dessert plate on the table, rummaged in a drawer for some flatware, produced an ornate fork and knife along with an embroidered napkin, and placing them beside the plate, bowed with an impudent grin. "If Mademoiselle will allow me a minute more, I can assure her a pleasant interlude."

"But of course," she playfully replied with a cheeky grin of her own. "So far I'm most impressed with your qualifications. All the gossip is quite accurate, my lord."

"As for you…" His voice was like velvet. "You've more than lived up to expectations."

"Perhaps you should thank Molly's tutelage."

He gently shook his head. "You're just a hot little puss."

"Then we're well matched." Her brows rose faintly. "And I mean it in the most specifically sexual way."

His smile would have dazzled from a furlong away. "We'll have to explore that sexual specificity."

"I was hoping you wouldn't mind, although," she gently added, glancing at his robe jutting outward rather than falling in silken folds to the floor, "it looks as though I needn't worry."

"The only thing you need worry about is stopping me. I seem to be obsessed tonight."

"Not so unusual, according to rumor. Haven't you set all the sexual records of late?" The girls at Molly's had delighted in telling her.

"Not that I know of." He never had sex for records, only for pleasure.

"So modest, Bathurst."

"Dermott."

"Dermott." For the briefest moment it felt as though his name on her tongue gave her claim to him. She savored the fleeting impression for an unrealistic second before coming to her senses.

Bending low, he brushed her mouth with a kiss, touched by that same dizzy sensation. "I'll be right back," he murmured against her lips, because his propensity for sexual adventuring was well established in contrast to his lesser-used sensibilities and he easily reverted to type. "And then I'll make you come."

Leaning back in the soft chair, Isabella luxuriated in pleasurable anticipation, giving thanks as well to the benevolent hand of fate that offered her such a delectable means of securing her inheritance. What good fortune that she'd run down that particular lane and caught sight of Molly's blue door. What glorious luck that Dermott had been there—had seen her… and wanted her. And instead of being chained forever to her hideous cousin, she was here tonight—blissfully enchanted.

When Dermott returned a moment later with a dusty wine bottle, she looked up. "Have you ever considered yourself in the role of savior? Because you definitely are forme."

He had been for hundreds of women but not exactly in the manner she was implying. "I'm pleased to be of service," he murmured with a well-bred smile. "But acquit me of such philanthropy. I'm self-indulgent in the extreme. And to that point, let me get this bottle open. You'll like it with your chocolate." He roguishly winked. "I'll like it with your chocolate." Lifting a towel from a rack on the wall, he wiped the bottle clean and deftly opened it, the strength in his wrists as he twisted the cork free sending a little frisson down Isabella's spine. He was utterly exquisite, tall, powerful, more beautiful than even Michelangelo's
David
, which had always been her ultimate measure for male beauty. He was perfection. In every way, she reflected, recalling his ravishing sexual expertise and the rapturous pleasure he bestowed. Lost in her reverie, she glanced up when his hands closed on her waist.

"Your dessert's ready for you," he whispered, lifting her from the chair, holding her with effortless strength as he took her place. Arranging her comfortably on his lap, he brushed a blond curl from her temple. "Would you like me to feed you?"

"Do I have a choice?"

She spoke in a flirtatious contralto that made him conscious, however briefly, of the possibility of miracles. "Not at the moment," he softly enjoined. "Open your mouth."

She did with such languor, his erection surged, and her gentian eyes held his for a highly seductive moment as he placed the forkful of chocolate torte into her mouth. She gently sighed as the flavors tantalized her taste buds and Dermott's erection pressed into her bottom.

"I think I'll fatten you up with chocolate," he whispered. "And keep you filled with cock as well."

"You must read minds," she breathed, licking a fragment of chocolate from her plump bottom lip. "I do adore chocolate and you," she murmured, shifting gently, rubbing against his arousal.

"Then we'll have to accommodate you."

"And you?" Her smile was lush with suggestion.

He grinned. "I'm there… except for the chocolate." Setting the fork aside, he lifted her slightly and turned her so she was facing him, straddling his thighs. "Up," he softly ordered, lightly touching her bottom, and as she rested her hands on his shoulders and raised herself on her knees, he pulled open the skirt of her robe and his. "Now then…" His voice was velvety. "How much do you want it?"

She smiled into his dark eyes. "About as much as you."

His soft chuckle vibrated under her palms.

"No sense in waiting, then," he whispered, guiding his erection into place. And before he had time to adjust himself, she slid downward, more impatient in her tyro state.

"There now," she whispered, her mouth only inches from his, her eyes shadowed in the candlelight. "That's a very good fit."

He thrust upward fractionally, impaling her that last distance more, and they both sighed in unison. "Tailor made," he murmured when next he caught his breath.

"You'll have to come and see me sometime—later when I'm back home," she breathed, undulating gently so she felt him on every sleek bit of tissue. "So I can feel this…"

He had no intention of sending her back anytime soon. "Maybe I'll keep you."

"And add me to your legions of lovers? I don't think so."

"Maybe I'm not asking." Grasping her around the waist, he raised her until she was balanced on the crest of his erection.

"Don't…" She squirmed, trying to lower herself, bereft of the ravishing pleasure.

"What do you say to my keeping you?" He resisted her struggles, holding her aloft without exertion, the powerful muscles in his arms flexing under her weight.

"You're cruel," she protested, her mouth set in a pouty moue.

"Just selfish. Answer me and you can have it."

"Yes, yes, yes… whatever you want."

"You don't mean it."

"I do at the moment."

"Not good enough, darling."

She shut her eyes against the aching urgency, and when she opened them again, she gazed at him with smoldering ire. "I'm going to send you to the Sandwich Islands on one of my ships and leave you there if you don't—"

"I never respond to orders." He was smiling.

"Oh, very well, have your way. I capitulate."

He didn't believe her, but it really didn't matter, game or no game, because he would have her when and if and for however long he wanted her. With or without her permission. "Now, there's a sweet puss," he murmured, releasing his grip, allowing her to slip downward, enjoying the exquisite ecstasy as much as she. And he matched her rhythm as she braced her hands on his shoulders and rode him. Gloried in the feel of her, in the fevered eagerness of her passion. Waited and watched and met her as she climaxed, the sound of her exultant, panting screams muffled by the solid brick walls.

Moments later, she lay replete in his arms, a sleepy novice, a lush beauty, and his, he uncharacteristically mused, captivated when he never was, charmed by her sweetness, by her gratifying propensity for sex. He kissed her cheek as she rested her head on his shoulder. "Would you like to go upstairs and sleep?" he whispered.

She moved her head in negation, the warmth and strength of his body, her sated senses, heavenly.

"A sip of wine?" Oddly, he wished to care for her, when he was the least likely person to experience such feelings. When he'd cared only for himself since his return from India.

"Will you make love to me again?"

"Now?" He moved inside her, his arousal still in full fledge.

She shook her head and softly groaned. "Later…" She wanted to know she could hold him, touch him, feel what she was feeling again.

"You tell me when," he softly said, gently stroking her back.

They made love twice more before he carried her upstairs, lay her on his narrow bed, and tucked her in. She fell asleep almost instantly, fatigued by excess, unfamiliar with such sustained intensity. And he sat beside the bed, his feet up on the coverlet, a brandy in his hand, his gaze resting on her.

He should take her back to Molly's instead of gazing at her like some love-struck moonling. But he wouldn't. Draining his glass, he reached for the liquor bottle placed conveniently on the floor beside his chair and poured himself another drink, at a loss to explain his motives or her outrageous appeal. And as the bottle emptied, he debated Miss Leslie's place in his life. But no palatable answers came to mind, no easy resolution disentangled his muddled feelings.

With dawn breaking, he was no further along in solving his dilemma.

He softly swore.

He should send her back. It was as simple as that.

He inhaled deeply. If he could.

Suddenly she rolled over, opened her eyes, and catching sight of him, smiled.

And it seemed as though the sun had suddenly risen.

He didn't return Miss Leslie that morning, nor the following day. In fact, late on the afternoon of their third day together, as they rested in the marble tub amid the decorative fauna and flora, he said, "Come down to Richmond with me. I have a small home there with no neighbors."

"I'll go wherever you want."

She always surprised him with her directness. A reaction, perhaps, to all the other women he knew who never said what they meant.

"I'll have Molly pack your things. We'll leave in a closed carriage in the event your relatives are on the outlook for you."

"Tell Molly I'll thank her properly when my problems are resolved and I can travel about undisturbed. Tell her too," Isabella added with a smile, "I owe her a portion of my pleasure."

"We both do."

"And I'm learning so much," she murmured, a teasing light in her eyes.

He was as well—about unsatisfied desire and continuous rut. And in his infrequent cooler moments, he'd berate himself for his susceptibility.

Out of courtesy, he went himself to fetch Isabella's belongings. "We shouldn't be in Richmond long," he explained to
Molly. "But at the moment, I find myself unwilling to relinquish her. So if you'd see that some of Isabella's things are packed…" He shrugged. "Not much, I wouldn't think."

He went on to deliver Isabella's message and an edited account of their activities as Molly began assembling a number of gowns and other necessities, his conversation desultory, fractured, the focus of his thoughts obviously elsewhere as he paced the room.

Once the two valises were ready, Molly snapped the latches shut and faced Dermott from across the bed Isabella had used. "You should bring her back instead. Clearly, you're unsettled about this, wondering, I surmise, why the customary boredom hasn't set in."

Dermott came to a standstill and offered her a tight smile. "You know me too well."

"I know what most men of your class want. Pleasure without attachment. But you shouldn't lead her on. She's going to be hurt when you decide you've had your fill."

"If I could let her go, I would." He shifted uncomfortably. "But right now that's not possible. I felt I should at least give you notice before I take her away."

Molly looked at him with displeasure. "You're being utterly selfish, of course. She already adores you, doesn't she?"

He moved back a step, as though avoiding the significance of her words.

"And the longer you keep her, the more attached she'll become." Her gaze took on a critical assessment. "What if Isabella were to become pregnant? I don't suppose you care to consider that either?"

"Lord, Molly, give me some credit. I wouldn't do that to her."

"At least you haven't lost
all
reason."

"Not quite." He raked his hand through his dark hair. "She's not at all what I expected."

"You saw her here. You knew she was innocent."

"You're wrong. That she's not."

"And your lust has found a kindred spirit?" She spoke with a nice degree of cynicism.

He gently shook his head. "If it were only that simple. Lust I understand. It's sustained me for the last few years. But she's more than carnal sport. She talks of business like a merchant banker, and her knowledge of maps—" He smiled. "We've been working on my additions to the maps of northern India. She has a sure hand and an artist's eye. And she likes many of the books I do. And of course—"