Susan Johnson - Temporary Mistress

"What if she's forgotten you?"

"Then I'll do my best to refresh her memory."

"She may want you to beg," Molly tartly submitted. "And I wouldn't blame her."

His dark gaze was unambiguous. "Then I'll beg. I'm dead serious, Molly."

She smiled for the first time since he'd entered the room. "The thought of you on your knees, pleading, almost makes one wish to post to Higham and see for oneself."

"She's at Tavora House?"

"Since the day of your duel."

"With Joe," he murmured, suddenly thinking Isabella and her bodyguard had been together a very long time. He and Joe had met occasionally at debauches, the heavyweight champion welcomed into the male preserves of the beau monde.

"And Mike is there as well," Molly reminded him. "You may have to convince them both of your sincerity."

"Really." One brow rose faintly. "Are they her duennas?"

"At the moment, yes, and Joe's resentful of your cavalier treatment of Isabella. She cried for weeks after they reached Tavora House, he said."

The earl inhaled softly. "I see."

"Just a word of warning."

"You don't think I can take on the heavyweight champion?" he dryly noted.

"Not in your present condition. How much weight have you lost?" Dermott was noticeably lean.

He smiled. "Not as much as Lonsdale."

"Point taken, but I wouldn't suggest you irritate Joe."

"It sounds as though he has a tendre for my wife-to-be."

"Perhaps she's your wife-to-be."

"You don't think I can prevail?"

"I wouldn't lay any bets on it."

His smile was the familiar, warm smile she'd missed.

"Fifty guineas says I win this one," Dermott playfully challenged.

"I'm not sure I care to bet."

"Don't want to lose your money?"

She glared at him for a moment. "Probably not," she relented with a sigh. "You damnable rogue."

"I'm not a rogue anymore, darling."

"Humpf," she snorted, clearly skeptical.

"My bride and I will come and call on you when we return to the City."

"And how long will the honeymoon last, I'm wondering."

"So cynical, Molly, when I'm in love."

He'd never uttered those words since his return from India, and that simple phrase did more than a thousand arguments to change her mind. "Say it again," she ordered.

"I love her," he quietly repeated.

Her smile this time was affectionate. "Then you might just manage to get your way."

"No might about it, Molly." Walking over to where she sat, he bent down, kissed her cheek, and whispered, "Thank you for bringing her to me."

JOE AND ISABELLA WERE WATCHING the new foals in the pasture. Standing next to each other, leaning against the high wooden fence that surrounded the pasture, they were talking in a desultory way about the gamboling frolics of the young Thoroughbreds, the beauty of the day, their trip to Higham the next morning. The occasion was no different from countless others during their sojourn in the country.

Until Joe reached out, cupped the back of her head in the palm of his hand, and bending close, gently kissed her.

How long had it been since she'd been kissed? She thought. How long had it been since she'd felt the warmth of a man's body close to hers? But she couldn't offer Joe what he wanted, no more than she could make herself happy again, and a moment later she gently pushed him away.

He acquiesced when a man of his size wouldn't have had to.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

He brushed his hand through his fair hair, a quick, nervous gesture like that of a young boy. "I shouldn't have taken liberties." His voice was low, apologetic. "If you fire me, I'll understand."

Such a huge, strong man capable of such sweet earnestness brought tears to her eyes.

"And now I've made you cry with my stupidity," he muttered in self-reproach.

"No, you haven't made me cry because of that. I'm just touched." She gazed up at him, overcome with melancholy. "And if I could ever love anyone again, dear Joe, it would be you. But-"

"You still love Bathurst." Taking out his handkerchief, he carefully held it out to her when he wished he could wipe away her tears himself.

"I don't know if I do or not, but I can't forget him." Even while she understood all the liabilities in loving Dermott. Her eyes held Joe's over the crushed linen of his handkerchief. "And you're not fired. What would I do without you?"

It was scant comfort for a wounded heart, but he said with good grace, "I'm glad, because I wouldn't want to leave."

She handed his handkerchief back. "So we shall muddle on here at Tavora as best we can."

He smiled. "Fair enough."

"And I liked your kiss very much," she softly said.

"Then, that makes two of us."

She laughed. "Good God, life is complicated."

"No one ever promised it would be easy."

"How selfish of me to whine about every little thing when you've literally fought your way to all your successes."

"I was lucky to have survived. Tony Marshall didn't."

"Your friend. Molly told me about it."

He nodded. "So you see, we're both lucky to be here enjoying the sunny day and looking forward to more."

"We are, aren't we? And you're going to take me to Higham and I'm going to buy a great number of bonnets because new bonnets always put me in a good mood."

"You're damned easy to please," Joe said with a chuckle.

"Someone else once said that to me," she murmured.

He could hear the poignancy in her voice. "Probably not just like that."

"No."

"Bathurst might not be dead," he offered, trying to console her. "There's been no announcement in the papers. While Lonsdale's obituary and will were both published."

"That lack of information does make me hopeful."

"Do you want me to try and discover what happened to him?"

She shook her head. "No. It doesn't matter, because he didn't want me in his life."

"The man's a fool."

She smiled. "I agree."

The dowager countess's letter arrived a short time later, having been delayed by the necessary rerouting from Isabella's London house.

Isabella was in her boudoir, selecting a bonnet for a drive with Joe, when her lady's maid answered a knock on the door, took the letter from a footman, and carried it to her. One glance at the name of the sender and Isabella felt a moment of unsteadiness. Forcing her voice to a calmness she didn't feel, she instructed her maid to tell Joe she'd be down in five minutes, shut the door on her maid's back, and sank into a chair before her legs gave way.

Visibly shaking, she held the letter for a few moments, terrified of its contents, fearful it was news of Dermott's death, not sure it wasn't easier not knowing. But she had to read it, she knew, so offering up a prayer of hope, she eased the seal apart, spread the sheet of paper open, and swiftly perused the brief sentences for the word "death."

None.

Inhaling with relief, she then began to read from the beginning.

Dear Miss Leslie,

Forgive me for speaking so plainly, but I wanted to inform you of my son's feelings for you. As you may know, he's been severely wounded [Isabella's heart caught for a moment before the next phrase came into focus] but is now recovering at our home on the Isle of Wight. He feels you may harbor ill will toward him, and I'm very much hoping you don't. He's a good boy who's suffered a great sadness in his past. If you didn't know of this suffering, I was hoping that knowledge might excuse some of his conduct. He tells me his behavior has been less than chivalrous. Do come and see us. I'd very much like to meet the woman Dermott loves.

She'd signed her Christian name as though they were already friends.

Isabella gently traced the word love with her fingertip, happiness flooding her senses. He was alive! And blissfully, he loved her!

Every tear she'd shed in the past weeks was suddenly irrelevant, all her misgivings and uncertainties, her anger and resentment, wiped away by a single word. Paradise was hers, the entire world was hers, never had the sun shone so gloriously, nor the air felt so pure. Carefully folding the precious letter and placing it in her reticule, she ran from her suite and raced down the stairs, screaming for Joe.

Waiting with her phaeton in the drive, he accepted her joyful news with good grace, careful to mask his feelings, well aware of where her heart lay. And when Isabella said "I want to leave immediately," he only asked where.

"To the Isle of Wight. We'll have a change of clothes packed for us. I'd like to leave in ten minutes," she added, intent on departing with all haste.

Joe only insisted that Mike accompany them, and within the allotted time they were on the road south, carrying only light baggage. And early the next morning, after a long, grueling night on the road, just as the sun began to rise, they came to the ferry that would take them to the island.

They found Dermott's house closed except for a small staff of retainers, and Isabella's spirits, sustained at soaring levels during their journey south, abruptly plummeted.

"I'm sorry, miss, but his lordship went up to London and the countess be at Alworth," the housekeeper informed her, taking in the dust-covered state of the visitors' clothing. "If you'd care to clean up, miss, you're most welcome, considering the countess called you here."

"I must have misunderstood," Isabella said, flushed with embarrassment, thinking herself the world's biggest fool for hying south on the merest insinuation Dermott might care. "And thank you, but we have rooms on the mainland," she fabricated, not about to leave herself open to further embarrassment. What if Dermott were to return and find her there? Whatever his mother's motives, apparently he hadn't been informed. And if he were in London, no doubt his health was sufficiently restored that he was back in his old haunts. Having renewed hopes after the countess's letter that her love was returned, the pain of rejection was now doubly hurtful. And Isabella suppressed her tears only with supreme effort.

Joe and Mike were politely silent as they returned to the ferry, but they knew she felt as jilted as though she'd been left at the altar.

Dermott had spent the night in Higham at the King's Arms, having arrived in the area too late to make a social call. He'd barely slept, and by four, he'd given up even trying. Rising, he dressed himself, not wishing to wake Charles so early, and descending to the public rooms downstairs, he surprised the scullery maids who were just lighting the kitchen fires. Asking for coffee, he sat down in the kitchen and waited, making them extremely nervous. Although, as it turned out, he made the coffee himself. Neither of the young girls was familiar with more than her menial chores, while he'd made many a pot of coffee while out on campaign.

He was just pouring himself a steaming cup of fresh brew, when the cook came bustling out of her parlor, having quickly dressed when one of the maids came to warn her that a fine lord was making coffee in her kitchen.

"Good morning, sir," she said, sweeping a hand over her disordered hair. "Would you like something more with your coffee?"

"If it's not too much bother." Dermott couldn't possibly call at Tavora House at four-thirty in the morning, so he might as well eat. A bit of fortification for the coming ordeal probably wouldn't be out of order.

"Are you here for the races?" the cook inquired as she set about her cooking.

"Actually, no. I'm visiting."

"You have friends in the neighborhood?"

"Yes."

"Where might that be?" Mrs. Notkins wasn't known as the most knowledgeable gossip in Higham without reason. She stood looking at him in expectation of an answer.

Amused at her catechism, he debated briefly whether his visit required secrecy. And deciding it didn't, he said, "Tavora House."

"Ah. The beautiful Miss Leslie. Such a shame about her poor dear grandfather, but she seems to have company now in her sorrow. A bodyguard," she reported in a confidential whisper. "Some says it's her relatives she fears. You're not one of them, are you?" Mouth pursed, she studied him and then shook her head. "You don't favor them Leslie men at all. Fat, every one of them, and no one can accuse you o' that."

"She's often with her bodyguard?" The hair on the back of his neck had risen like hackles.

"Of course. Why wouldn't she be? He's there to guard her, and that he does, right and tight. It's her money, you know," she added in the same conspiratorial whisper. "Them Leslies want it."