Temporary Mistress (4 page)

"I'm not sure disgrace matters to them so long as they can seize Grandpapa's fortune."

"If you were
publicly
ruined, would that put another face on their plans?"

Isabella smiled despite her apprehensions, beginning to understand the gist of Mrs. Crocker's proposal, understanding deliverance might be within reach after all. "It would have to be exceedingly public. I'm not sure disgrace alone would be sufficient."

"Say you were not only morally disgraced but pregnant? I could see that such a tidbit was placed in the gossip columns. Would you be persona non grata then?"

"Pregnant?" Isabella whispered. "I couldn't."

"In theory only, my dear. You needn't fear."

With her heart racing because she was anticipating the answer, she quietly asked, "What exactly would be required of me?"

"In return for the temporary security of my house and a ruined reputation conspicuous enough to deter your relatives' plans, I would ask you to agree to a limited role as a courtesan."

"A courtesan!" She'd thought—good God! She didn't know what she'd thought—but a courtesan! Impossible, for a thousand reasons that had to do with sense and rationality and her dear grandfather's memory. "I couldn't… really, I couldn't."

"It would involve a very limited role, my dear. And if you wish, your relatives could be informed of your denouement quietly, with a warning of public exposure only should they threaten you. It could be handled very delicately. Few need know beyond a very limited circle—all of whom could be relied on for their silence."

"Couldn't we—I mean, couldn't we just say that—"

"With so much wealth at stake, your uncle might require evidence of your altered state."

Isabella's spine went stiff. "Surely, you can't mean that!"

"You heard of the Westmore scandal last season, where Lady Jane's fiancé insisted on a doctor's examination before marriage. In his case, he was questioning her virginity. Your uncle might question your avowal of ruin, and should he press the issue in court, he could have you examined."

Suddenly the flashing images of a dozen black-robed judges staring down at her with undisguised lechery along with stout Harold, hideously nude, waiting for her in the marriage bed, caused bile to rise in her throat. Forcing back the urge to vomit, she swallowed hard and drew in a steadying breath. "Considering the alternative, your proposal begins to take on a degree of merit. I know my relatives are utterly ruthless. I would have been married tonight against my wishes and the minister's protest if I hadn't run away." She took another deep breath, exhaled, and gazing squarely at Mrs. Crocker, asked the damning question. "What would I have to do to implement your plan. Please be frank."

"You'd have to sleep with one of my clients."

"Sleep?"

"Make love to one of my clients."

"And what would you get out of this?" She knew of course; she simply wished to gauge the candor of her hostess.

"Money, of course. The price for a virgin is dear."

"What makes you think I'm a virgin?"

Molly could have been blunt and told her the truth—that her innocence practically glowed like a nimbus above her head. But diplomatic in the delicate negotiations, she said instead, "Let's just assume you are. And whatever the personal price of your experience here, it would be considerably less than being married to your cousin for the rest of your life. The liaison I'm suggesting would be of a finite duration."

"How finite?" She felt as though she were bargaining for the future of the universe. Or her universe at least.

"We could discuss it with the client."

Isabella's voice turned brisk. "A night, a week, a fortnight? Tell me, what is the usual commitment?"

"No more than a fortnight. Probably more likely a day or so."

"A day or so…" The price of her freedom suddenly looked more affordable. She cared little for her virginity if losing it meant thwarting her relatives' plans. Not that they'd care whether she was a virgin or not if they could get their hands on her fortune. But the pregnancy suggested by Mrs. Crocker was ingenious. If she was ruined, ostensibly pregnant
and
publicly exposed—or threatened with the possibility—they'd be forced to give up any thought of Harold marrying her. Their position in society was already insecure with the stench of trade in their backgrounds. It would be untenable should the scandal surrounding her sojourn in Mrs. Crocker's house become known. Particularly with Amelia and Caroline in the market for husbands.

"My options are limited, aren't they?"

Molly tipped her head in acknowledgment. Lifting the plate of cakes, she offered it to Isabella. "Should you agree, your independence would be assured."

"Is that chocolate?" Isabella pointed at a diamond-shaped petit four glazed with pink icing.

"Chocolate with raspberry crème filling."

She smiled and picked up the small cake. "This is ever so bizarre, Mrs. Crocker."

"But of benefit to us both."

Isabella took a bite of the cake and shut her eyes against the sublime taste. When she opened her eyes a moment later, she indelicately spoke through a mouthful of chocolate and raspberry. "I'd be rid of them once and for all, wouldn't I?"

"I'd bet a large sum on that eventuality."

"A pleasant thought." Isabella gazed into the dancing flames for a contemplative moment, and when she turned back to Mrs. Crocker, a new determination shone in her eyes. "Very well, I'll do it."

"You're sure?"

"Considering the alternative…" Isabella softly drawled.

Molly smiled. "A wise choice."

And so the bargain was made.

Dermott's head rested against the rim of the marble tub, the steam rising around him, a pleasant sense of lassitude permeating his senses. He'd been up for days, thanks to Olivia's sexual demands, the race had taken its toll on his energy levels, and after a half dozen brandies downstairs, the warm water was putting him to sleep.

"You're not allowed." Kate's voice was playful and very close.

His long, dark lashes slowly lifted. Her lithe, curvaceous form, and then her smiling face, met his gaze. "Am I on call?" he teasingly inquired.

"Consider, darling, I haven't seen you for a week." Stepping into the tub large enough to accommodate two comfortably, she eased herself down until she was straddling his thighs. "And you have to stay awake long enough to allow me my pleasure."

"Have to?" One brow rose in sardonic query.

"
Have
to, darling. I'm ravenous for you. And if I weren't so polite, I would have jumped you immediately you entered the room."

"So you should be commended for restraint."

"You should reward me handsomely for my restraint." She grasped his penis and squeezed gently.

"What did you have in mind?" he murmured softly, suddenly fully awake.

"Something large and stiff and capable of—um… darling, is it only that I haven't seen this for a week, or is he really larger than usual tonight?"

"We could better tell," Dermott replied in a throaty growl, "if you'd let him measure the limits of that sweet pussy of yours."

"You're not too tired? You don't mind?"

"Have I ever?"

She feigned a moment of contemplation and then grinned. "Not since you turned fifteen, rumor has it."

"Fourteen, thanks to Harvey Nicols's very attractive mother, who liked to seduce her son's school chums."

"She still has an eye for the men, gossip attests."

"She's distinctly a woman of passion. Like you, darling Kate. Now, come here and I'll show you how much I missed you."

While Dermott and Kate renewed their friendship, Isabella was shown into a pretty bedchamber in Molly's apartments. Two servant girls bustled about, bringing in bathwater and towels, scented soaps, and a tray of food that smelled delicious.

Isabella stood in the center of the room while her bath was arranged, feeling as though she were watching a stage play. As though the sprigged-muslin curtains and bedding, the crème-colored French furniture, the crystal chandeliers, were beautiful props, and the only reason she could smell the scented beeswax candles with such vividness was that she had a front row seat. The servant girls bobbed and bowed to her but didn't speak, and only when the last bucket of hot water was poured into the painted porcelain tub did a voice break into her reverie.

"Would you like a maid to help you with your bath?"

Molly had come in at the last, carrying a robe, and when Isabella spun around at the sound of her voice, it took her a moment to merge the apparent fantasy with stark reality. "Thank you, but I'd prefer to be alone."

"I thought as much, so I had our chef make you a tray you can enjoy by the fire later. I thought this would warm you after your bath," she added, handing over a delicate cashmere robe.

"I appreciate your"—Isabella lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture—"kindness and—"

"You're welcome to change your mind at any time." Molly recognized Isabella's hesitation.

"You're extremely benevolent."

"Just sensible. My ladies are here by choice. I wouldn't have it any other way. Although many are here for reasons that bear a resemblance in one form or another to your situation. Their options, too, were limited; they often are for women in this man's world." Her voice took on an amiable briskness. "Now, make yourself as comfortable as you may tonight, and we'll talk some more in the morning. Nothing is cast in stone. Perhaps you'll think of someone who will serve as advocate for you, and all your despicable relatives can go hang themselves," she finished with a smile.

"Wouldn't that be wonderful," Isabella replied, buoyed by her benefactor's optimism. "I shall rack my brain tonight."

"Don't forget to eat, now. Guillaume pouts when his food comes back to the kitchen untasted."

"You needn't worry on that count." Isabella's smile held a genuine warmth, her mood much improved by Mrs. Crocker's candor. "I'm famished."

"I'll see you at breakfast, then."

The door softly closed a moment later, and Isabella found herself alone.

In London's finest brothel.

And if someone would have told her a day before that she would be so placed tonight, she would have thought them mad.

As Mrs. Crocker noted, she still had time to consider alternatives. But the savory aroma of her supper was causing her to salivate, and even if she hadn't been damp and dirty from her flight through the rain, the hot, scented bath would have been potent lure. She had the entire night to consider solutions to her dilemma. Just then both her supper and bath were getting cold.

Short moments later, she was seated in the luxurious warmth of the bath, the supper tray balanced on the rim of the tub, her mouth full of dover sole that was as near to heaven as culinary art allowed. Guillaume needn't worry about his food coming back untasted. She intended to eat every morsel and perhaps lick the plate as well. She'd eaten very little in the days past with her grandfather's life slipping away, and for the first time she'd become aware of her hunger.

Not until the last fragment of the lemon genoise was gone did she look up with a satisfied sigh and set the tray on the floor. A half bottle of very good champagne had come with the meal, and whether it was the food or wine or the soothing warmth of the bath, she felt lulled and appeased.

After a time, she dried herself, and wrapping the luxurious white cashmere robe around her, rested on a chaise conveniently placed near the fire. Her grandfather's long illness had taken its toll on her stamina. She'd not slept through the night for almost a month. And within minutes, she'd fallen asleep.

Molly quietly came in to check on her some hours later and covered Isabella with a blanket where she lay. The firelight gilded her pale skin and golden hair, the white robe clothed her in softness, the picture of innocence so breathtaking, even Greuze couldn't have improved on it.