them with their musical abilities along with other more titillating delights. And by midnight a general state of inebriated carouse was well under way. While the Prince of Wales swore his devotion to Mrs. Fitzherbert, he was easily dissuaded from the path of faithfulness if she was absent, and tonight a dancer from the corps de ballet was piquing his interest. She not only danced but sang extremely well, charming the Prince, who delighted in music of all kinds and singing in particular.
The party had just finished a rousing second chorus of a drinking song when the Prince cast a glance at Dermott, who alone was without female company, and cheerfully called out, 'No cunt tonight, Dermott? Should I send for the doctor?'
'I'm on a rest cure.'
'Venus's revenge got you?'
Dermott shook his head as he lay sprawled on a silk-covered chaise with peculiar crocodile feet. 'I've found religion,' he drawled, his voice rich with liquor.
'Oh, ho! And maybe I've a notion to take back my wife,' the Prince hooted. [3] 'Although it might be a tad crowded in bed with all her lovers.'
A roar of drunken laughter greeted his statement.
'Ain't like you, Bathurst, that's all.' Beau Brummell spoke into the lessening guffaws and chuckles in the same fastidious tone with which he dressed, his cool-eyed gaze keen despite a night of drinking. [4]
'But then, variety is the spice of life,' Dermott murmured, his dark eyes clear and challenging. 'Any argument there?'
'Acquit me, Bathurst,' Brummell casually disclaimed. 'You know how I dislike intense physical activity early in the morning, not to mention the risk of bloodying my linen.'
The sudden silence that had fallen at Dermott's quiet query evaporated in a communal sigh of relief.
'There, there,' the Prince interjected. 'What we all need is another bottle.' Snapping his fingers brought a number of footmen on the run, and the noisy carouse resumed.
But everyone took note of Dermott's departure shortly after, although no one dared question his motive when he rose from his chaise and exited the room.
'He's blue-deviled,' the Marquis of Jervis remarked as the door closed on the earl's back.
'Must be a woman.'
'Not with Bathurst. He don't care for any of 'em enough.'
'Did he losh a race today?'
'No races today, Wiggy,' a young baronet interjected. 'You're too drunk to remember.'
'Naw drunk,' the Duke of Marshfield's heir slurred.
'Maybe he's bored,' Brummell noted, his sobriety conspicuous in the sea of drunkenness.
'Never saw Bathurst bored with cunt before.'
A general nodding of heads greeted the remark.
'A pony says he's hors de combat.' A young man winked.
'Never happened before. I'll raise you a pony against it.'
The state of Dermott's health continued in heated debate until the betting included most everyone in the room, for or against, a coin toss deciding who would talk to his doctor in the morning. No one considered asking Bathurst personally.
Not in his current ill temper.
When the earl found himself at Molly's several hours later, wet from the rain falling outside and more sober than he would have liked, Kate was waiting. She welcomed him with a smile despite the late hour, and he followed her to bed, trying not to let his moodiness show. He performed well because he always did and because he didn't wish her to suffer for his own black humor, and once he'd pleasured her and found his own relief, he fell asleep like a man dead to the world.
She wasn't without insight, and she sat up afterward and watched him in the candlelight, wondering what demons were driving him. She knew of the death of his wife and son; was tonight some anniversary? But it had happened years before, and even Molly said he was over it as much as anyone can ever be over such a devastating loss. With female intuition she wondered whether the young lady taking up residence in Molly's quarters might more likely figure in his moodiness. Call it a hunch or a bit of gossip revealed by one of the maids, but if she were a betting woman, she'd say Dermott's newest fancy was contributing to his ill humor. And if she were anything but a sensible young woman who understood earls didn't marry courtesans, she might allow herself to mourn the imminent loss of his company.
But she was eminently pragmatic; she was also very near her financial goals, thanks to Dermott's generosity, and soon she would put period to her life here and return to her young daughter in the country with enough money to live the life of a genteel widow.
Dermott was dear to her. She lightly stroked the gleaming black of his hair spread on the pillow and leaned over to gently kiss his cheek.
He woke at her touch, gathered her in his arms, mumbled something affectionate, and fell back to sleep.
She would miss him, she thought, lying in his warm embrace. He was the kindest of men.
Chapter Five
ISABELLA'S EDUCATION BEGAN the following morning. A bath was brought in after her breakfast, and she was bathed and dried in so leisurely and sensuous a manner, she felt as though she were adrift in a dream. And while she was supposed to pay attention to all manner of technique mentioned by Molly, her concentration was fixed, rather, on exquisite sensation. After her bath, she was escorted to a narrow daybed, where she lay down for the next lesson in a tyro courtesan's life. Warm jasmine-scented oil was trickled over her skin, each heated drop like tingling bewitchment as it struck her. With the gentle stroking massage on her flesh artfully heating her senses, her attention wandered once again, Molly's voice explaining the mysteries of amour fading away, the slow, tantalizing hands roving her body too delectable to deny. She found herself substituting her favorite lush fantasy for the sound of Molly's voice, experiencing instead the soul-stirring feel of Bathurst's strong hands gliding over her softly- squeezing, rubbing, drifting in a slow, luxurious rhythm downward until, breath held, she felt her cleft eased open and the sensation of warmth melt into her pulsing tissue.
The intense, spiking pleasure snapped her eyes wide.
'Always see that you are sweet scented everywhere,' Molly calmly remarked.
'I see,' Isabella murmured, half breathless.
'Bathurst is particular.'
His name alone caused a new surge of heat to curl inside her, the perfumed flesh between her legs throbbing anew. 'I'll remember,' she whispered, remembering as well how Bathurst had looked aroused. How she'd trembled at the sight of his rigid length and size. 'Is he here?'
'It doesn't matter.'
Half rising, she rested on her forearms. 'Is he with someone?'
'He's always with someone.' Molly spoke plainly. There was no point in deceiving the young woman.
'Then I shall have to pay more attention, shan't I,' Isabella said, lying down again, 'if I wish to engage his interest.'
'Is that what you wish?' This young girl was refreshing-neither alarmed nor confused.
Isabella smiled. 'I do most fervently.' Images of Dermott's stark beauty had saturated her dreams, not only just moments earlier but through the night past, and she found herself wanting him with a fevered indiscretion that overlooked all but her urgent desires. Desires she'd not known existed a mere day before. 'I almost feel as though I should thank Uncle Herbert and Harold for their villainy in driving me here.'
'Such uncomplicated thinking will serve you well.'
'Exactly. I'll have my fortune
