Temporary Mistress (29 page)

"How optimistic you are." Isabella found it possible to smile back, and pleased with her lightening mood as she contemplated a return to her familiar environs, she added, "Who knows, maybe Dermott will give up his profligate life, be transformed into a white knight, ride up to my country house, and carry me away."

Molly laughed. "Send me a message directly that occurs. I very much want to believe in miracles."

"In the meantime," Isabella noted, "I shall busy myself with more mundane activities. Like seeing to my money."

"See to anything you wish now that you have protection from your relatives. I'll summon Joe and you may discuss your needs with him."

Dermott had his own activities to see to. After leaving Molly's, he proceeded to find his friend Lord Devon, who agreed to be his second. Protocol required the challenge for a duel be given by the seconds, so the two men went together to search out Lonsdale. They began with his home, although Dermott hardly expected to find him there. The marquis was more likely to be found at his gambling clubs or vice-ridden haunts. Since Dermott knew them all, they drove from one to the other, making inquiries, asking questions, bribing retainers where necessary, scouring the City to find the man and exact revenge.

They finally tracked him down at a Covent Garden coffee house that also served as a tavern and brothel. Lonsdale was in the back room, gambling with a table of rogues and rakes, all the men well into their cups.

"Can you stand, Lonsdale?" Dermott growled, filling the doorway like an avenging angel.

The marquis's gaze languidly came up, raking Dermott with a drunken glance. "Don't know, Bathurst." He shrugged. "Probably not, come to think of it."

"Make sure you can by tomorrow morning."

"Will you accept a challenge from Lord Bathurst?" Devon asked, playing his part.

"This is about the Leslie piece?" Lonsdale drawled, his heavy-lidded gaze insolent.

"Mention her name again, and I'll kill you where you sit."

"Not armed, Bathurst. Shame."

"Maybe I don't give a damn."

"Bad form, Bathurst." The marquis winked at him. "Think of your fine reputation for honor on the dueling field."

"Fuck you, Lonsdale."

"You must want her more than I do." The marquis surveyed his companions with a smirk. "Wouldn't think a cunt was worth dying for."

Dermott gritted his teeth, tempted to shoot him where he sat but not capable of such cold-blooded murder. "I'll see that you're at Morgan's field at six tomorrow morning," he grimly said, "and you'll find out if it is or not." His glance swept the group at the table. "One of you should be sober enough to remember. Remind him. Six tomorrow, and if he doesn't appear, I'll come and kill him wherever he is."

"She must be damned good in bed," Lonsdale murmured.

"I'll shut your vulgar mouth tomorrow," Dermott growled, and turning abruptly, he walked away, Devon beside him.

"It must be love," one of the men mocked, "for Bathurst to fight over a woman."

"I'd say she's a hot piece he doesn't want to share."

"She's a hot,
rich
piece," Lonsdale murmured. "Incentive to kill the bastard tomorrow. I could use her money
and
cunt."

WORD OF THE DUEL spread though the ton like wildfire. Molly heard of it through Mercer, and she debated whether to keep silent or tell Isabella. But the decision was taken out of her hands when Lady Hertford sent Isabella a note, understanding how she felt about Dermott, warning her of the event. Lonsdale was not to be trifled with, she noted, suggesting Isabella might wish to talk Dermott out of risking his life.

"He can't do this," Isabella protested, showing the note to Molly. "I have to stop him."

"It's not likely you can. Once he's challenged Lonsdale, he can't back down. Nor would he wish to, I suspect."

"If this is about me, I forbid it. Does he think I want him to risk his life over someone as base as Lonsdale?"

"Men have grievances and a sense of honor that takes precedence over reason. This isn't the first time Dermott has faced someone across the dueling field."

"Good God, does he have a death wish?"

"A temper, without doubt, and perhaps a death wish as well."

"I'm going to see him."

Molly glanced at the clock. "I'll doubt you'll find him at home."

"Then I'll find him somewhere else."

Molly sighed. "You might not wish to see where he is."

"You know."

"No. But at nine at night, he's not in church, you can be sure."

Isabella took a deep breath, steeling herself against the possible embarrassment and pain. "I don't care. I wish to talk to him."

"Very well. I'll have Joe find him and come back for you."

Shortly after eleven, a large, burly man entered Molly's drawing room, and Isabella met Joe Thurlow. He was massive, his shoulders as broad as an ox, his neck a pure column of muscle, his arms and thighs bulging. His hazel eyes remarkably kind, his smile boyish and charming.

Once introductions were complete, he said, "I found Bathurst at the Green Abbey."

"Is it far?" Isabella had been watching the clock, and she was concerned it might soon be too late to stop Dermott. The site of the duel was secret, as was usual, so the authorities wouldn't interfere. While duels often occurred, they were illegal.

"About a half hour from here."

Isabella turned to Molly. "Thank you again. I'm continually in your debt."

"Just be careful. Don't let her out of your sight, Joe," she ordered.

He nodded. "Not a chance, Molly."

Near midnight, shrouded in a black hooded cape, Isabella was escorted from her carriage up a short bank of stairs into a house bordering Green Park. The small entrance hall was deserted, although it was well lit with a crystal chandelier in the Venetian style. Joe indicated she follow him up the carpeted staircase to the main floor, where he turned to the left and preceded her down a long corridor illuminated with wall sconces. Opening a door at the end of the hallway, he ushered her into a room that looked as though it served as an office. "Wait here," he said, and left, shutting the door behind him.

Isabella quickly surveyed the small room illuminated only by a low fire. An elegant desk, a richness of Turkey carpets on the floor, a number of Chippendale chairs, two bookcases. It was obviously a workplace, but an opulent one. Her assessment of the office didn't long curtail the overwhelming anxiety plaguing her, and she soon began pacing, moving between the desk and the fireplace in short circuits, unconsciously wringing her gloved hands. She was nervous about interrupting Dermott in his night's amusements. This house was more than a gambling club, she suspected. He would think her interfering. She dreaded the thought of his coldness. But if she didn't at least try to stop this fearful duel, she'd forever regret her cowardice.

The door opened and she turned from the fire with a start, her cape billowing out at her sudden movement. Her heart was pounding in her chest.

Dermott stood in the doorway, framed by the light from the hallway, his ruffled hair limned by candleglow, his face in half shadow, his white neckcloth a pale accent in the darkness of his evening clothes. "You shouldn't be here," he gruffly said, annoyance in his tone and rigid posture, in the small impatient gesture he made with his hand.

"I need to talk to you." She tried to hide her apprehension, but her voice trembled at the end.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Please?" It was the merest whisper, unutterably pitiful.

He shot a glance at Joe standing behind him. "Is your bodyguard for me or you?"

"For me. After the events today, Molly insisted."

"Good for her." Dermott seemed to relax.

"If you'd just give me a moment of your time," Isabella quickly said, taking advantage of what she perceived as a small forbearance. "I won't keep you from—"

"My amusements?" The faintest smile flashed for a second, and then, taking a step forward, he crossed the threshold, pushed the door shut, and leaned back against it. "I'm glad you have a bodyguard."

"I am too." She felt some of her tension ease. He hadn't walked away.

"You could have been seriously hurt this afternoon."

"I know. The events in Chelsea made me realize some kind of protection was necessary. Molly's insistence only reinforced my feelings. And I've decided to forgo the season as well," she added, "so that should diminish my public visibility. Although I certainly appreciate everything that Molly"—her voice suddenly sounded loud in the quiet of the room—"did for me," she finished, unnerved by his detachment.

A small silence fell.

Dermott hadn't moved from the door.

"I don't know how to begin," Isabella finally said.

He didn't answer.

"You're not helping."

"I didn't want to talk to you, if you recall."

"You're making this very difficult."

He shrugged.

"I heard about your duel," she blurted out.

That painful silence.

"I came to try to dissuade you from such foolishness."

"Thank you for coming. I'll bid you good night." Pushing away from the door, he bowed faintly and turned to leave.

"Dermott, wait!" Isabella cried, running toward him.

He stood with his back to her, the tension in his shoulders visible even in the dim light, his hand arrested on the door handle.

"Don't go."

She stood only inches from him; he could smell her perfume, she could feel the warmth from his body, potent memory brutalizing their senses.

"I can't bear the thought of you dying…" She reached out and touched his arm.

For a breath-held moment with the feel of her hand bombarding his brain, he tried to review all the reasons for leaving, all the pragmatic, sane, rational ones.

"Please, Dermott, hold me…"

Her soft voice drifted around him, caressed him. He fought against his desires, knowing he'd only hurt her again, knowing he couldn't give her what she wanted, and then he felt her arms slide around his waist. For a second more he controlled his impulses, and then his hand slipped away from the door handle.

Gently unclasping her arms, he turned to face her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't beg. You must be so tired of women doing that to—"

"I can't just hold you," he interrupted. "You know that, don't you?"

"I don't care."

He briefly shut his eyes against the intensity of his feelings, and when his lashes lifted, he said, "I won't be able to stay long."

"I don't care about that either."

"You might later." He drew in a shallow breath because he seemed to be suffocating. "I'm trying to be—honest…"

"I understand."

"And this won't change my mind about the duel, if that's what you're thinking."

"Fine," she conceded.

"Bloody hell…" His voice was gruff, heated, an undertone of resentment in the expletive. And then he suddenly gripped her shoulders, his fingers biting into her flesh. "We shouldn't be doing this. We shouldn't even be talking about—"

"I'll take responsibility."

"For everything?" His dark gaze was turbulent, fierce. "I don't have protection here. This isn't a room for assignations." He was baiting her, capable of controlling his ejaculations, but restive, angry, he wished to give her no quarter.