Temporary Mistress

'A bonus no less,' one of the footmen gleefully remarked. 'It sure be worth it when the master fucks a beauty like her. He be in a right fine humor afterward.'

'Who wouldn't be?' another flunky noted. 'She be as fine a piece as I ever saw-and scarce dressed at all, with her boobies near to fallin' out.'

A third man pronounced with relish, 'I hear tell she were trained at Molly Crocker's by the very best and she be able to do most anything at all that a man do want.'

'The kitchen maid at that there brothel where the master spends so much time,' another said, adding his tidbit to the stew of gossip, 'told her cousin at the Duke of Portland's, who told her cousin Meg downstairs that that beauty we all saw with hardly no clothes on be herself a great heiress.'

'That will be enough of such ridiculous gossip,' Pomeroy ordered. 'An heiress indeed. A female dressed in such a fashion is far from an heiress. Now, I want everyone downstairs immediately, or you won't see a shilling of that bonus. The master doesn't wish to be disturbed-you heard him. And if a word gets out about his visitor tonight,' he warned, 'I'll sack you all.'

Everyone nodded respectfully, but everyone also knew the story would be about town by breakfast the next day, the tittle-tattle of society's indiscretions the lifeblood of daily conversation. From the breakfast rooms of dukes to the penny sheets sold on the street to the common man, gossip was adored, dissected, embellished, and passed on. And the Earl of Bathurst did more than his share to fuel the salacious flames of scandal.

Chapter Nine

'I SOMETIMES THINK I have too damned many servants,' Dermott grumbled, walking toward the bed. 'You can come out, darling,' he added, glancing at the shape under the coverlet. 'They're all gone.'

Isabella's blond curls first appeared, then her flushed face, and last her creamy shoulders. 'You do have too many servants,' she agreed, the coverlet clutched to her chest, wary still of visitors. 'I suppose they heard everything.'

'No, not at all,' he lied. 'I told them I'd bring in the trays myself. So you needn't see anyone. I'll bring in bathwater as well. I have a pool and steam room downstairs along the lines of the Roman ones at Bath, but I don't suppose you wish to go down there.'

She looked alarmed. 'And have everyone see me?'

He nodded. 'I thought not. You should probably stay in bed… with-that is, until you feel better… and can bathe. I'll bring the trays to you.'

She sat up and he placed the first tray on her lap. 'I suppose… it hurts,' he gently said, looking apologetic. 'I feel like hell about-well, about what I did.'

'I'm not very sore… really,' she appeased. He looked so uncomfortable. 'You were very kind.'

He grimaced, feeling awkward in his role of despoiler. 'I don't know how… there are men who have a proclivity for virgins. I've never understood it.'

'In this case, you did me a real service. Don't feel guilty.'

'Lie down and I'll take the sponge out. Thanks to Molly, I've a good supply.' And as she lay down, he slipped his fingers inside and drew out the sponge, tossing it onto the bloodied sheet he'd pulled from the bed. 'Should I have the housekeeper find some salve or balm?'

'I'd be terribly embarrassed,' she answered, reaching for the hand he held out for her, easing into a seated position.

'You might need it.'

'Let's wait until after the bath. Do stop apologizing though. I'm very pleased, not only that the deed is accomplished but that there was so much pleasure in it. You are very talented, my lord,' she teased.

That he knew, but he was pleased she was in such good humor. 'I'll get the rest of the food.'

'Then join me, darling. You must be hungry, too, after all your work.' Her grin was infectious.

He was smiling as he walked from the room, the word darling having a particularly intoxicating sound when she uttered it. He began re-counting his drinks, wondering if he was that drunk or just that happy.

Isabella knew she was happy. But then, every woman he made love to felt that way, she suspected. A shame he was so unavailable.

Knowing better than to dwell on the unattainable though, she lifted the silver covers from the plates before her and took note of a luscious array of tiny shellfish on a bed of aromatic chutney, a compote of tropical fruit obviously greenhouse grown, and scallop-shaped buttered toast. Picking up a steaming shrimp with her fingers, she dipped it into the chutney and popped it into her mouth. Reality was quite pleasant enough without further contemplation of the earl's inconstancy. The mingled flavors were delectable on her tongue, she was about to be fed with a degree of luxury that matched the splendor of Bathurst House, the delicious heat of her recent orgasm was still shimmering through her senses, and in short order the beautiful Dermott Ramsay would return to entertain her.

If this wasn't paradise, it was verifiably close.

Bearing a second tray, the earl reentered the room. 'You like the food.'

Her warm gaze met his. 'I could be smiling for other reasons.'

'I'm reassured, then.'

'That you haven't lost your touch?'

'That whatever pain I caused you has diminished.'

'Rest assured, I'm feeling no pain, my lord. Au contraire.' She waved a hand over her tray. 'Your sous-chefs are outstanding.'

He set the tray down on a small table, then lifted the table nearer the bed so she could easily reach the food. 'I hope you're hungry. There are three more trays.'

'Then I hope you like plump women.'

He looked at her propped up against his pillows, pink and flushed from lovemaking, her nudity only half covered by the disarray of bedclothes. 'I like you any way at all.'

'How charming you are. I almost feel as though you mean it.'

'I do.'

A small silence fell while the earl speculated on his novel honesty and Isabella wondered if she could allow herself to believe so graceful a rogue.

He glanced away first, uncomfortable with such frankness when his liaisons of late had studiously avoided sincerity. 'I'd better get the remaining food.'

'Of course.'

Her cool murmur brought his gaze back. 'What?'

'Nothing.'

'You're angry.'

'No.' She had no right to take offense. They both had agreed to what they'd agreed.

'You're not angry?'

'I'm not angry.'

'I'm glad you're here.'

She inhaled faintly and smiled. 'Me too.'

'Friends?' Strangely, it mattered.

'Of course.' Her voice was different now, warm, not cool, pleased.

He felt relieved, when he hadn't cared about much for a very long time. 'Good.' Grinning, he dipped her a small bow.

'I'm glad we had this talk,' she teased, lifting a scallop of buttered toast from the tray.

He laughed. 'You're a demanding woman.'

She flung the toast at him.

He caught it midair, his reflexes superb. 'If you want to fight that way, darling,' he murmured, 'I'd be happy to accommodate you…'