her, he raised his glass in salute.
'Should I read to you while you drink? I've a new novel.'
'Later,' he politely murmured, moving toward a chair near the fire. Dropping into it, he slid into a lounging sprawl, tipped the glass to his mouth, and swallowed half the brandy like a man intent on getting drunk.
'Did Shelby annoy you?'
He shook his head. 'He's too damned polite to annoy anyone. Remarkable,' he added with a half-smile, 'considering his heritage. That whole damned family is demented. He must be a by-blow.'
'Should I go to sleep?' She spoke with a pouting moue, her voice velvety and low.
He gazed at her through narrowed eyes. 'Have I ever disappointed you?'
She smiled. 'You're a damned beautiful sight, Bathurst, that's all. I crave your body.'
The firelight gilded his bronzed form, the heavy muscles of his chest and shoulders prominent, his long, powerful legs, strong arms, and hands arresting to the eye. His face was more handsome than God should allow-the perfectly modeled bone structure, fine, straight nose, sensual mouth, his dark, heavily lashed eyes so seductive, a single look could lure a woman to destruction. And not to be discounted among his lavish attributes was his distinguished arousal conspicuous even under black breeches in dim light.
'Another half bottle and you'll have what you crave.'
'Promises, promises,' she playfully replied, rolling off the bed in a lithe, smooth movement. 'Maybe I'll indulge myself another way,' she purred, moving toward him.
'Be my guest,' he offered, leaning over to reach for the brandy bottle. 'I'm completely at your disposal.'
'Not completely-yet…' she murmured, dropping to her knees and sliding between his outstretched legs. She touched the top button of his breeches, sliding her finger over the engraved silver. 'But soon,' she whispered, slipping the first button free.
'You have a charming way about you,' he softly said, half smiling in the firelight.
'And you have what I want.' Another button came free and yet a third.
'Now, this is so much better than the dull farm reports that filled my day.' He gazed down at her and faintly winked.
'While I've been waiting for
He drew in a sharp breath at the touch of her hand.
Isabella did as well at the sight of him.
He was magnificent-immense, towering, flagrantly rigid.
Isabella put her hand over her mouth to curtail her exclamation of astonishment. Her body throbbed with added intensity, the heat rising to her face bringing a sheen to her forehead, and she wondered how it would feel to lie with him, to absorb the enormity of what she saw.
She could scarcely breathe as the woman slid her fingers down his great length, the upthrust head of his arousal stretching, gleaming in the firelight, its size visibly enlarging.
Draining his glass of brandy, Dermott set it aside, leaned his head back, and shut his eyes at the moment Kate's mouth touched him.
He should refuse, he transiently thought, aware of why he was so restless, of why he hadn't wanted to join Kate in bed. But her mouth was drawing him in and he wasn't chaste or incorruptible, especially of late. Suppressing the disturbing images of Molly's newest pet and his own mysterious obsession, he gave in to dissolute pleasure. To a man intent on forgetting, living for the moment was a familiar concept, and he allowed himself to sink into a sea of self-indulgence.
The woman's head seemed to move in slow motion, Isabella noted, her mouth lingering at the crest of the ascent for protracted moments, then sliding down the entire length with silken fluidity. How could she possibly breathe at that point, Isabella wondered, both aroused and furious at the sight, jealousy a nebulous demon in her mind.
Dermott's low, soft moan gave evidence of his gratification, and Isabella's displeasure escalated. How could he engage in sex with this woman when he'd said he wanted her?
But she knew the answer even as she asked the question.
Because a woman was a woman was a woman for the Earl of Bathurst-the exemplary standard and model for casual sex. She would do well to remember that brutal fact. But reality, however brutal, couldn't nullify her heated response, nor her wanting him like any woman who set eyes on him, and seething with resentment, she spun away.
'Where have you been?' Molly was in the sitting room when Isabella returned.
'Enjoying a firsthand view of Bathurst and a woman,' she snapped, swiftly moving toward her bedchamber, her cheeks hot with indignation.
'Oh, dear.' Setting down her pen, Molly pushed aside the ledger she was working on. 'Can I help?'
'No!' Immediately regretting her sharp reply, Isabella came to a stop and forced a polite smile. 'I'd just like to be alone, if you don't mind.'
'No, of course not.'
Turning away, Isabella swiftly proceeded to her room, slamming the door behind her as though such pettiness would allay her anger. And pettiness it was, she ruefully admitted a short time later when her temper had cooled. What possible hold did she have on Bathurst? What possible reason would he have to preserve his virtue for her? It was laughable. He was the most irresistible man in London, and not because of his charming ways at the whist table. Although knowing him, he probably had entertained a lady or two on the card tables as well. She was able to smile then, imagining the scene, and ever practical, before long she had reconciled reality with ridiculous girlish wishes.
That done, she undressed, put on her nightrail, and climbed into bed with a book, but it was impossible to read with the lurid images fresh in her mind. She sighed, frustrated, torn between anger, need, and practicality, her emotions in turmoil. He was even more beautiful unclothed, she recalled, his powerful body perfection. No wonder women craved him. She shut her eyes against the surge of desire that coursed through her. Strange, how ardent longing could overcome minor matters like a libertine's reputation, his lack of constancy, the bizarre oddity of what they were about to do. Stranger yet that she envied his bed partner tonight when moments ago, she'd been cursing her existence. Imagining another scene with herself beside him, she fell asleep, smiling and dreaming romantic dreams.
Later, Molly came into Isabella's room, turned down the lamps, and took away the book that had fallen from her hand. Standing at the bedside for a moment, she gazed at the fresh young beauty who had stumbled into her home. Was she doing the right thing? she wondered. Or would Bathurst hurt her in the end? Should she find Isabella a lawyer with clout? Would such a man be able to protect her from all the predators? And at base, was her scheme too outre both for Isabella and her own sense of justice? No simple answers came to mind, only uncertainty and doubt as she pondered the dilemma of this young heiress facing a brutal world.
Perhaps by morning, Molly thought, some solution would clarify her unsettled thoughts. Certainly, she would talk to Isabella once more to see that she understood completely. Too many of her own emotions were associated with the young woman's plight, too many long-ago wounds that never quite healed distorted her ability to deal rationally with the situation.
But ultimately it wasn't her decision, she knew. There was comfort at least in that.
Isabella would make her own choice.
With a sigh, she quietly closed the door behind her.
Dermott stayed with Kate as long as politeness required, allowing her the pleasure she craved, indulging her senses, skillfully operating on instinct if not emotion. But she seemed not to notice, or if she did, she knew better than to take issue. Either way, he left feeling guilty-a ridiculous sentiment to be experiencing under the circumstances, his friends would attest. But ridiculous or not, he wasn't a happy man when he stalked into Molly's sitting room, glanced at the closed door to Isabella's bedchamber to check that she wouldn't hear him, and said in a low, decisive voice. 'I'll be back in a week. Get her ready. But I mean to have her when I return, ready or not.'
Molly pushed her chair away from the small desk. 'I won't have her forced.'
