'Yes, you certainly will. Tell her you have the best racing stable in Gloucestershire and she'll be sure to come. Even girls from the City like horses.'
His mother assumed everyone loved horses. 'I'll tell her,
The thought stayed with him on his journey back to London, when he'd never before considered asking a woman to his country home. There was no explanation, although he tried mightily to make sense of his wish to bring Miss Leslie home to meet his mother. Maybe she reminded him of youthful hope or of happier times when he was young. Maybe there was no explanation for his longing. Like the riddles of the universe.
His feelings wouldn't sensibly fall into some judicious clarity no matter how he rationalized, but it had been so long since he'd acknowledged any feeling other than transient pleasure that he wasn't sure he'd recognize real emotion anyway. But of one thing he was sure. He didn't wish to spend his first night with Miss Leslie in a brothel. No matter the act he was about to commit was businesslike and sexual. It was also more.
It was the first time since Damayanti died that he'd looked forward to a lady's company. He quickly warned himself not to have too high expectations, not to set too great a store on a young woman who was willing to coolly dispense with her virginity in order to safeguard her fortune. Perhaps a good lawyer would have worked for her as well.
She could turn out to be cold and calculating. Although that persona didn't seem to fit the blushing young lady he'd met at Molly's. Not that women weren't capable of the most deceitful theatrics. That he knew from personal experience.
Time would tell, he noted practically. And if sated lust was the only consequence of his liaison with Miss Leslie, he couldn't in good conscience expect more. But he sent a note to Molly on his arrival in London. Miss Leslie was requested to present herself at Bathurst House at seven.
Molly concealed her surprise when she conveyed the contents of Dermott's request to Isabella. 'Apparently, he'll feel more comfortable at his own home,' she stated, when she and Isabella both knew Dermott spent more time at Molly's than he did at Bathurst House.
'Very well,' Isabella politely replied, her degree of nervousness already intense when the agreed-on date finally arrived. The last week had been a frantic round of activities. Her body felt as though it had been washed and massaged and perfumed with such an eye to detail, she could have been presented to the sultan of sultans without disgrace.
Molly stood in the doorway of Isabella's room, Dermott's note in her hand. 'I don't think I can teach you anything more.'
'You've been very kind, really.' Isabella shut the book she'd been trying to read for the past hour.
'Bathurst will send his carriage at half past six.'
'I'll be ready.' She stood as though matching activity to words.
'We sound as though you're about to mount the guillotine.'
Isabella forced a smile, her nerves on edge. 'Hardly. Tonight will, in fact, insure me a peaceful life.'
'I remind myself of that when I'm in doubt.'
'Please,' Isabella enjoined, moving toward her hostess, 'don't feel responsible for what I'm about to do.' Taking one of her hands in hers, she gently squeezed it. 'I'm of age and relatively sound mind,' she added with a smile. 'I'm quite capable of taking responsibility for my actions.'
'Nevertheless, I shall warn Bathurst to treat you well or incur my wrath.'
'That won't be necessary if all the stories the ladies have been telling me are true. He apparently is the kindest, most amorous and gentle of lovers.'
'Hmpf,' Molly grumbled, drawing Isabella into her arms. 'Take care, my sweet,' she murmured. 'He may be kind and sweet, but for all that, he's still a man, and I'm not so sure any of them can be trusted.' Patting Isabella's back lightly, she stepped away and smiled at the young girl who had captured her affection. 'And despite all the damnable training this week, you do what
'Yes, ma'am,' Isabella playfully replied, dropping a polite curtsy to her protector. 'I shall be the soul of selfishness.'
'Good for you,' Molly said gruffly. 'Now I'll have Mercer send up a nice half bottle of wine for you to steady your nerves. And I'll help you dress.'
Chapter Seven
HE WAS NEVER NERVOUS. It was impossible he could be nervous. Good God, where was his valet when he needed him? This neckcloth was impossibly wrong. 'Charles!' he shouted. 'Dammit, what were you thinking when you tied this thing!'
'Sorry, my lord,' Charles apologized, coming back into the dressing room at a run, six fresh neckcloths draped over his arm. 'I'm sure the next one will be tied to your satisfaction.'
But it wasn't, of course, because nothing at the moment was completely satisfying, and when Dermott was finally dressed to an acceptable degree of correctness, Charles disappeared downstairs to regale the servants with a detailed account of the earl's toilette, down to his three changes of evening coat and the crushing of the offending neckcloths under his heel.
'She must be somethin' real special,' a footman said. 'He ain't never had no-'
'Hasn't ever,' the housekeeper corrected him.
'Ain't never,' the footman repeated, wrinkling his nose at the housekeeper, who considered herself the superior person below stairs, 'had no light o'love to Bathurst House. And what with the cook cooking for hours now and the wine steward ordered to serve only the very best-'
'And the flowers,' the upstairs maid declared with feeling. 'I've never seen so many flowers.'
'I'd say she's a Venus for sure,' another footman maintained. 'Or like that Helen of Troy, whose face launched a thousand ships, they say.'
'Well, we'll soon see, will we not,' the butler, Pomeroy, intoned in his haughty basso. Rising to his feet, he surveyed his staff with a piercing gaze. 'Places, everyone,' he ordered. 'She's due to arrive in fifteen minutes.' After a meticulous straightening of his shirt cuffs, he turned from the table and moved to the stairs that would bring him into position in the entrance hall.
Dermott stood at the window of the north drawing room, his third glass of brandy in his hand, his gaze on the street below, feeling as though he were going into battle. His pulse was racing, his nerves were on alert, and the tension in his shoulders strained the superfine fabric to a degree that would be unsuitable to his tailor. Draining the glass of liquor, he felt the heat flow down his throat with a kind of relief, as though at least one familiar sensation struck his brain when all else was chaos. The clock chimed the hour, and he glanced at the bronzed winged victory with a timepiece between her feet. Where the hell was Miss Leslie? It was seven.
Had she changed her mind? Had Molly changed it for her? Had he thrown his entire establishment into turmoil for nothing? The scent of lilies suddenly overcame him, and glancing about the room, he saw a great number of very large arrangements-like a funeral, he thought. 'Shelby!' he bellowed.
His secretary came around the corner so instantly, he must have been standing outside the door. 'Have the maids take some of these damnable flowers away,' Dermott barked. 'They smell.'
'Yes, sir. Would you like to greet your guest in some other room? The scent may linger even if the vases are removed.'
At Shelby's propitiating tone, Dermott realized how rude he'd been. 'Forgive me, Shelby,' he apologized. 'You can see how out of practice I've become at paying court to a lady. And no, this room is fine. Here, you take one of these,' he said, handing his secretary a large vase of flowers, 'and I'll take another, and that will be sufficient to make this room look less hire-'
'A funeral?'
