Temporary Mistress (22 page)

Over coffee and a light breakfast, Isabella conferred with her assistants, offering them an edited account of her activities the past month and thanking them for handling her affairs in her absence. For the next hour they discussed all that had transpired of importance during her absence. She asked questions and took notes, promising to confer with them again the following week. Should they have any questions for her before that time, they were free to come to Grosvenor Place and see her. After they'd all agreed on their instructions, and when the activities related to the house, bank, and shipping business had all been dealt with, Isabella said, "I think you all deserve a bonus for carrying on so well during very difficult circumstances. I think twenty percent would be fair. Will you see to that, Morgan? And something for the employees and household servants as well. Whatever you think adequate."

"You're very generous, Miss Isabella," Morgan replied, his expression pleased.

"And the best of luck, darling," her housekeeper, Mrs. Homer, said, beaming. "To think our little Izzy is going to make a splash in the ton. Your grandpapa would be so proud."

"It's not a splash, Homie, but only a little ripple, I fear."

"Not if they've eyes in their head," she remonstrated. "You'll outshine them all."

"Our very best, Miss Isabella," Mr. Lampert offered. "We'll be watching the society columns for news of you."

Isabella laughed. "You'll be wasting your time, but thank you for the compliment. I
am
looking forward to the experience."

"All good wishes from the employees at the bank and docks, Miss Isabella. It's a proud moment for us all."

Once Isabella was alone again, she smiled at their notions of her consequence. In their small world she may be looked upon as singular, but in the dazzling world of the ton, she doubted she'd garner much notice.

In the following days, Molly concerned herself almost exclusively with the details of Isabella's wardrobe. Since she and Isabella had moved into her home in Grosvenor Place, each morning brought another visit from the dressmakers. By the end of the week, the armoires were beginning to fill with magnificent gowns of every color and fabric, along with all the accompanying fripperies, a sufficient number that Isabella could be set up in the latest fashion. The time had arrived for a call on Lady Hertford. Lord Moira came to fetch Isabella in his carriage, and on the way to their meeting with the marchioness he calmed her nerves with his grace and charm.

"The Marchioness of Hertford is the Prince's lover and in that capacity is sure to have his ear. With Barbara as sponsor, everyone will understand that you are in effect sponsored by the Prince of Wales. But she's very easy to talk to, not pretentious in the least. And most important, she's more than willing to do this favor for the Prince."
⁶

"I'm on pins and needles nonetheless. You can't imagine what a tremendous change this will be from my life with Grandpapa."

"You'll be a great success, Miss Leslie. Rest assured, you'll have every man in the ton begging for your attention."

For the briefest moment, Isabella thought that she would willingly relinquish all that adulation for the favors of a single man. But as quickly, she chided herself for such foolishness, and when she turned her smile on Lord Moira, she was once again in command of her feelings. "I can't thank you enough for all your help in this endeavor, Lord Moira. I'm deeply in your debt."

"Nonsense, my dear. I'm pleased to be of service. You'll be a most beautiful addition to society."

And when Isabella met the marchioness, she was all that Moira had described—gracious, without affectation, delighted to be of service to her prince. And over tea and sherry that afternoon, Isabella listened while she was apprised of the astonishing array of entertainments she would attend. Breakfast routs, tea parties, musicales, garden parties and balls, the opera and theater.

"When does one sleep?" she playfully inquired, astonished at the number of events scheduled each day.

"One sleeps very little, my dear." Lady Hertford smiled. "But it's all such a great deal of fun, you scarcely miss your bed. And with your dazzling beauty, you're going to be much in demand. I suggest," she teasingly noted, "that you sleep as much as you can this week, for after that it all begins."

Molly and Isabella sat up after dinner that night, making lists of all that still required attention.

Isabella was taut with excitement.

Molly took pleasure in that excitement, pleased to offer the young woman she'd come to love entree into the
grande monde
.

"I'm going to have to practice all the various curtsies and graceful phrases and the dance steps too. I'm not sure I'm ready," Isabella nervously said.

"Nonsense. You're very accomplished and quite up to the mark."

"Tell me again, what I should do if I chance to meet my relatives at any of these functions?"

"Follow Moira's advice. Cut them cold. Dermott sent a note telling me they'd been warned off, as you know. I expect that will be sufficient to protect you from any unwanted overtures."

"And if I see Dermott?"

"Do as you wish, of course. But if I were you, I'd make sure he saw that you were enjoying yourself."

"Might he become jealous?"

There was such a wistfülness in her voice, Molly didn't have the heart to disavow that possibility. Although after the account of Moira's meeting she felt there was a chance Dermott's feelings might be involved. Nevertheless, she warned, "Dermott's plagued by demons you and I can't understand. It's difficult to determine what he feels."

"When Grandpapa died, I felt such loneliness. I can't imagine how one would survive the loss of a wife and child."

"He's haunted by the memory; it affects his whole life. But consider, dear," she coaxed. "There are a number of other handsome, charming men in the ton without Dermott's afflictions. Perhaps you'll find one you fancy."

"Perhaps…" But Isabella's dreams continued to be of Dermott, and in her bluest moods she wondered how long it took to fall out of love.

"Let's decide what jewelry you'll wear with your lavender gown," Molly declared, intent on distracting her protegee from melancholy thoughts.

Isabella smiled. "My mother's amethysts, of course."

"With that new pearl tiara."

"And the bracelet you found with the flower clasp."

"Perfect. We should have a portrait painted of you in that magnificent gown. You look as grand as a princess."

Isabella laughed. "If only Grandpapa could see me now. He would tell everyone at the bank and everyone who came into the bank, and all the sailors and workers at our warehouses and docks. 'Look at Izzy,' he'd say. 'She's taken on the ton.' "

"And so you shall," Molly cheerfully replied. "Beginning next week."

THE EARL OF MOIRA had given Isabella's schedule to him out of roguish sport, Dermott didn't doubt. But he wasn't about to rise to the bait.

In fact, he made a point of having plans the night of her coming-out ball. But in the course of Lord Falworth's revel that evening, he was more aware than he would have wished of the special event transpiring at Hertford House. At midnight, with the bacchanalia in full swing, Dermott looked up from the chaise where he lay with a beautiful cyprian—one of several Falworth had brought in for the occasion—and glanced at the clock chiming the hour.

The lovely woman lying beneath him regained his attention in a particularly arousing way, bringing his perceptions back to amorous play, and he renewed his gratifying rhythm. The private room in the tavern was furnished with a number of chaises—all occupied by young lords and their fair companions, and the consumption of liquor had had its effect on the guests. The level of dissipation had reached an unbridled state of orgy.

From which Dermott felt oddly detached.

Not that the lady beneath him had any reason for complaint. He operated automatically after so many years, instinct and skill taking over when his attention was otherwise engaged. Although, after bringing her to climax once again, he disengaged himself with well-bred courtesy—the phrases second nature to a man who never stayed long—excused himself and rose from the chaise.

Prompted by rash impulse, he swiftly dressed, making himself presentable with an adeptness acquired from countless hasty departures. And after leaving his companion a sizable purse and a gracious smile, he exited the debauch.

With a pronounced feeling of relief.

Twenty minutes later, he was mounting the stairs to Hertford House.

Standing on the threshold of the ballroom a few moments later, he was announced by the marchioness's august majordomo. A great number of guests turned their heads to stare. Not that he was overlate, for balls rarely began before eleven.

But, rather, that he was there at all.

And, they noted, in a state of mild dishevelment.

Even from a distance it was evident he'd not just come from his valet. Although the earl had a certain cachet that drew the eye regardless of the state of his dress. He wore a black swallowtail coat, an elegant waistcoat of embroidered silk, and knee breeches, the required dress for balls. And while his neckcloth might be a shade wrinkled, the beauty of his face and form eclipsed even that most reprehensible of sins. He ran his hand through his hair in a casual gesture as he stood in the doorway, the cynosure of so many eyes, and surveyed the guests with a raking gaze.

His appearances were rare at society functions, although he was known to make the exception when he was intent on making a new conquest or charming a current one.

It had to be a woman.

Who was she? everyone wondered.

And then his gaze came to rest on Lady Hertford's honored guest, and the conjecture ceased.

The earl strolled forward.

Isabella had seen Dermott the minute he'd stepped through the doorway, before he'd been announced, before he'd seen her, and her heart was racing.

His progress across the large room engaged everyone's attention, although he seemed not to notice. And when the men surrounding Isabella moved aside enough to allow him access to her and he saw her fully, his mouth curved into a smile.

An intimate smile that suggested he and Miss Leslie were well acquainted.

That made it clear to those who knew him best.

"Miss Leslie, I understand," he said, his voice deep and low, his salutation careful not to openly acknowledge their prior friendship. "Lord Bathurst at your service." He bowed with exceptional grace.

And while protocol demanded he wait to be presented to her, no one was surprised at his audacity.

She should take offense at his insolence, but he looked so beautiful, she could scarcely breathe.

But then she smelled the heavy fragrance—a woman's scent that rose from his hair and clothes—and an inexpressible rage filled her senses.

"How dare you," she murmured, aware of the attention his appearance had evoked but unable to suppress her anger.

"I didn't realize you were such a stickler for convention, Miss Leslie. Should I find someone to introduce us?"