Temporary Mistress (23 page)

"Don't let me keep you, my lord. You perhaps wish to return to your lady friend."

"Not in the least. I apologize for my unkempt state. It was unavoidable."

"As is my next engagement. Excuse me, gentlemen. I've promised Lady Hertford a moment of my time." She made to walk away.

Dermott stepped in her path, his half-smile offering challenge. "Barbara won't mind waiting. Dance with me, Miss Leslie."

All eyes were on their exchange, and even those on the opposite side of the ballroom recognized a contretemps.

Isabella smiled tightly. "The musicians aren't playing, my lord. Perhaps some other time."

"An oversight, I'm sure." Gripping her hand, he stepped out onto the floor enough so the resting musicians saw him, and signaled for them to begin. They were separated from the other guests by a small distance now, their words not as likely to be heard.

"You're annoying me," Isabella snapped.

"Strangely, I feel the same way."

"Then I'll thank you to unhand me."

"I don't care to. Are you willing to make a scene at your coming-out party?" he softly jibed, drawing her into his arms as the strains of a
danse à deux
began. "Think of what you have to lose. Ail those potential suitors. A position as reigning belle. You're dazzling in that lavender gown, darling," he murmured. "I'm sure you know that." Pulling her closer, he gazed down at her with a cheeky grin.

"How kind of you to notice, my lord," she replied sarcastically, trying to ease backward.

"Kindness has nothing to do with it." His grip tightened as he smoothly moved them into a turn. "Your breasts are quite magnificent mounded in plump display above that very risque neckline."

"Low décolletage is the fashion, my lord. As you well know, I'm sure, considering your major source of interest."

"As I recall, it was yours as well."

"People change. Although I see you're still in form. Who was your lover tonight? She uses perfume liberally."

"Actually, I forget."

He didn't even have the decency to deny it, she hotly reflected. "But then, you make a point of forgetting your light o'loves, don't you."

"Not always. I'm here tonight."

"Am I supposed to be flattered?" How beautifully he danced, damn him, effortlessly.

"You should be."

"You arrogant bastard!" she hissed, his cool nonchalance galling. "Is this where I'm supposed to fall into your arms and offer myself to you?"

He smiled. "You're already in my arms." With a cordial nod he acknowledged an acquaintance dancing by. "Although I'm getting the distinct impression you won't be offering yourself in the next few minutes," he murmured, his attention returned to her.

"How astute. It must come from your vast experience with women. For your information, I won't be offering myself at all."

"Really."

Another nod, a smile. He seemed to know everyone. "Yes, really," she said in a pettish tone that took issue with both the public display of adulation directed at him and his casual acceptance of it. "You're too assured, my lord. You've had your way too long."

"And you haven't?"

"Not with such selfish abandon." Most pertinently, she refused to be number two hundred and ten or one thousand fifty or whatever the sum of his conquests. The female fragrance on him tonight forcefully reminded her of his reputation for inconstancy.

"Do you wish to be courted? Is that what you want?"

"What I want, my lord, isn't within your power to give."

"You never complained before—about my giving," he dryly murmured.

Her cheeks turned red. "I have some pride, Dermott. Consider—how long would you keep me if I returned? A week, two weeks? When would you tire of the game? Because it's only a game with you. And I no longer care to play."

"Are you angling for a husband?" His voice had taken on an edge. "Is that what this is all about? This season and your newly found virtue?"

"What difference does it make."

"Tell me," he brusquely ordered, no longer nonchalant, the thought of her married to someone else insupportable.

"Unless you're thinking of proposing, I don't see how it can possibly matter what my plans are."

"So you
are
on the market." His grip on her hand hardened.

"Whether I am or not has nothing to do with you."

"I could take you away. You couldn't stop me. No one could."

"To what purpose?" Her brows rose infinitesimally.

He didn't answer.

"You see," she whispered. "Back to square one. Now, if you would stop acting like some spoiled young boy, I'd be grateful if you'd return me to Lady Hertford."

"Fine," he curtly said. Twirling them in grim-mouthed silence and flawless pirouettes through the numerous dancing couples, he came to rest directly before Lady Hertford.

"It was a pleasure, Miss Leslie," Dermott pronounced in silken accents. "I wish you a pleasant evening."

"And you as well, my lord," she murmured, as capable as he of feigned civility.

"Your party is a great success, Barbara," the earl remarked, smiling at their hostess. "Everyone of consequence is here."

"So nice of you to come, Dermott. I'm sure Miss Leslie is appreciative."

"Bathurst!" The Prince of Wales appeared in the doorway of the card room and waved as he approached. "I see you've been introduced to Miss Leslie," he said with a sly smile as he came to rest beside the marchioness.

And introduced into Miss Leslie as well—as he would be again, Dermott firmly resolved. "She granted me the privilege of a dance, Your Highness," he replied, honey-tongued and insolent. "I'm overcome with gratitude."

"And so you should be, Bathurst. Miss Leslie is a jewel of the first water, a rare beauty we're all grateful to have in our midst. Is that not true, Barbara, my dear?"

"Without a doubt, Your Highness. Why not join us for supper, Dermott. I'm sure Miss Leslie would enjoy your company."

"Thank you. I will." The smirk he turned on Isabella was one of brazen-faced impudence.

"We still have plenty of time before supper to test our competence in the card room," the Prince of Wales cheerfully declared. "Come, Bathurst. You always bring me luck."

In the interim before supper, Isabella danced with any number of the horde of men intent on claiming her company. She gaily accepted their compliments and requests to visit on the morrow, hoping to diminish the impact of Dermott's appearance tonight by welcoming their attentions, thinking she could forget his rudeness in the arms of other men.

Adoring men.

Flattering men.

Men who wanted her for more than sex.

She smiled and laughed and flirted outrageously, wanting to pretend Dermott didn't matter, wanting to obliterate the image of his smug smile, thinking if she played at amour as shamelessly as he, she might feel a spark of interest in one of the many men who wooed her.

But no matter how handsome or charming the men, no matter their dancing skills, regardless of their title or flowery blandishments, her feelings remained sadly untouched.

She might have been made of stone.

But she steeled herself against the counterfeit joy that Dermott offered, reminding herself that all was only transient pleasure with him and the sense of loss at his leaving was too unbearable to repeat. If she were sensible—and prior to meeting Dermott she'd prided herself on her reason—she'd take advantage of her miraculous entree into society and concentrate on the amusements of a London season with single-minded purpose.

Not an easy task with Dermott so much on her mind. But the sheer number of entertainments together with her numerous gallant and enthusiastic admirers should keep her busy from morning to night. And in her present peevish mood she welcomed distraction above all else.

Gazing up into the handsome face of the Marquis of Lonsdale, she said with feigned warmth, "I'd very much like to take the ribbons of your high-perch phaeton. Say early next week? Monday?"

"Delighted, Miss Leslie," the young lord suavely replied.

"Perhaps four o'clock?"

"Four o'clock it is." His smile had charmed from a very young age. "I consider myself most fortunate, Miss Leslie."

"
Au contraire
, Lord Lonsdale. The pleasure is mine."

Dermott won at the gaming tables, of course, which didn't help her annoyance. Did he ever fail at anything? The Prince had won as well, and both men were in good spirits when they escorted the ladies into supper.

"Do you gamble, Miss Leslie?" Dermott inquired, his eyes asking something else entirely as he sat down beside her.

"I did once, to my chagrin," she pointedly replied.

"A shame. Perhaps it's like being thrown from a horse. It's best to simply try again."

"In this case, my lord, I doubt the horse has learned any better manners."

"How would you know without riding him again?"

The double entendre brought a flush to her cheeks, but her voice, when she spoke, was chill. "Some rogue horses can't be broken of their bad habits."

"What horses?" the Prince of Wales inquired in a jovial tone. "Did you buy yourself some new prime horseflesh, Dermott?"

"Miss Leslie and I were speaking metaphorically, Your Highness."

"Oh, ho! Poetry already, Bathurst. You don't waste any time. I'll drink to that, eh, Barbara, my dear. To love and romance, hear, hear!"

And there was nothing for it, but that they must join him in his toast.

Isabella tried to ignore Dermott as they were served their food by a phalanx of footmen, the menu gargantuan—like the Prince of Wales's appetite. But Dermott insinuated himself into the proceedings, indicating to the flunkies what to serve her, having her wineglass refilled as she emptied it, watching her eat each course with approval as though he had a proprietary right, touching her hand on occasion and her leg under the table with great frequency.

She tried to distance herself, but there was little room to physically move with the other guests at the table and the eyes of the Prince and Lady Hertford often trained on them. She didn't dare make a scene on her first night in society.

And Dermott knew it.

When the purgatory of supper was finally over, Dermott took her hand in his and drew her from her chair. "Miss Leslie has asked me to dance again." His smile to the table at large was sunny. "How can I refuse?"

And after the courtesies of taking their leave were complete, she was led away.

"You missed your calling," Isabella snapped, finally able to speak her mind. "You should have been on the stage."

"While you could have played the part of a sulky miss," he sportively replied. "How do you hope to bring a suitor up to scratch if you don't put yourself forward in a more flattering way?"

She cast him a steely glance. "Are you a suitor?"

"Acquit me, darling. I was speaking in an advisory capacity."

"Advice from you on courtship, my lord? I would think advice on seduction more your style."

"You don't need any advice on that, puss. You seduce in the most blatant way."

"I'll take that as a compliment, coming from a man of your repute."

"I'd rather have you take something else from me."

"Acquit me, darling," she mocked, repeating his phrase. "I've given up making love to faithless rakes."

"You knew what I was when you agreed to dispense with your virginity, so don't take on the airs of an affronted maid," he said with disagreeable calm. "I never promised you anything."

"Of course. How stupid of me to have overlooked the facts of our"—her brows rose—"agreement. Forgive me."

"Happily." Content with the lady's clearer understanding, his soft murmur turned indulgent. "Now, tell me, darling, how I can make you happy?"

It was the most tempting of questions but not one she cared to answer honestly. "If only you could," she sweetly drawled, abruptly coming to a halt just short of the ballroom, resisting the tugging of his hand. "Unfortunately, I have no intention of changing my mind."

He looked at her from under drawn brows, his gaze highly charged, examining. And when he spoke, his voice was unutterably soft. "You're sure?"

"Very."

Releasing her hand, he stepped away. "Then there's no point in wasting our time. Good evening, Miss Leslie," he murmured with the ceremonial courtesy of a stranger. And he walked away without a backward glance.

The earl danced the rest of the evening with women of every description, dispensing his charm with democratic conviviality, flirting shamelessly with the crowd of ladies that hovered around him between dances, ignoring Isabella. And when the guests were beginning to take their leave, he followed suit, coming to pay his respects to his hostess with a lovely raven-haired woman on his arm.

Lady Hertford and her guest of honor were seated with several others, indulging in champagne ices after a lively mazurka. The ladies were fanning themselves, the men wiping their brows with their handkerchiefs, and at Dermott's approach conversation trailed off. He and his companion were a stunning couple, both dark, tall, the stylish woman sumptuously provocative. She was dressed in a revealing magenta tulle gown that showed off her pale skin and black hair to perfection, and the manner in which she clung to Dermott flaunted their intimacy. Every man there envied him his night of entertainment. Mrs. Compton's beautiful mouth was reputedly one of her greatest assets.

On reaching the seated group, Dermott smiled and bowed to his hostess. "You've outdone yourself again, Barbara. The party was a veritable crush." He winked at her. "Your usual triumph."

"Thank you, darling. So nice of you to come." Her glance was amused. "You always add a bit of drama to any assembly."

"I live to entertain you, marchioness," he lazily drawled, a teasing gleam in his eye.

"And a good many others as well, you sweet man."

Ignoring her drollery, Dermott turned to Isabella. "Much success in your season, Miss Leslie." He bowed faintly. "I wish you every happiness."

With the lady on his arm fairly melting into his side, Isabella found it difficult to subdue her jealousy, and she kept her voice steady only with effort. "Thank you, my lord."