DERMOTT WOKE to find Emma Compton in his arms and silently groaned. Easing her head from his shoulder, he slowly slid away, hoping he could escape her bed without a scene. While Emma may have been tempting last night when he'd drunk enough to put most men under the table and wished retaliation against Isabella, in the cold light of day he cursed his stupidity.
'Ummmm…' She reached for him in her sleep.
He lay utterly still until she quieted again, then carefully rose from the bed and tiptoed away. After gathering his clothing scattered about the floor, he quickly dressed save for his shoes, which seemed to have disappeared. Surveying the overgilded room, he searched the boudoir without success.
Perhaps he'd go home in his stockings, he thought, his need to flee urgent. He didn't want to talk to Emma; he didn't want to be reminded of all they'd done the night before. He particularly didn't want her to ask when they'd meet again.
The activities of the previous night had left a sour taste in his mouth. Despite Emma's agility and ready talents, he'd not enjoyed himself. He felt as though he'd reached some distasteful level of surfeit. Tired of women or sex, perhaps only of Emma, he stood in the middle of her pink-and-white boudoir, shoeless and empty of feeling.
Then he softly swore, because he realized the true reason for his discontent.
And he had no intention of acting on that knowledge.
In the end, Emma woke up because he accidentally kicked over a bottle left on the floor, and it required a delicate politesse along with a promise to buy her a brooch she wanted to placate her demands for more of his time. The jewelry was a small enough concession in his current mood; he would have offered anything to make his escape. He finally discovered his shoes under the puddle of magenta tulle, and with an evasive promise to call on her soon, he left her perfumed boudoir.
A few moments later, he stood on the pavement outside, feeling like a man just let out of prison.
Dressed, coiffed, standing in the doorway to the drawing room, Isabella viewed the scores of bouquets with amazement.
'They began arriving at eight this morning,' Mrs. Homer declared. 'I think we'll have to move some of them to the other reception rooms, for each knock on the door brings more. You're the belle of the ball, my dear,' she added with a smile. 'And the billets-doux. I counted twenty-two already.'
'Oh, dear.' Isabella's soft exclamation was composed of both astonishment and dismay. While it was gratifying to be the recipient of so much attention, she wondered how she was going to politely elude her suitors' regard. None of the men attracted her in the least. In fact, she felt a poseur, for she couldn't possibly return any of their affection.
A strong inclination to bolt and run overcame her as she surveyed the vast array of flowers.
Although she couldn't, she knew.
Not after all Molly had done to see that she had a season. Not after having witnessed Dermott's shameless behavior with all the ladies at Lady Hertford's.
Dermott would see she could enjoy herself as well as he.
And to that purpose Isabella conscientiously read each enclosure sent with the flowers, each billet-doux. Should she meet any of her admirers at the Venetian breakfast, it would be necessary to properly thank them. She had every intention of taking part in the full gamut of society's pleasures with as much gusto as Dermott.
The Earl of Bathurst was absent from the Holland breakfast, for which she was grateful, she told herself. Although she periodically searched the crush of people-in some inner recess of her soul, hopeful of seeing him. But on the surface she performed well, accepting the role of belle as though she'd been born to the part. And perhaps she had, with a mother known for her flamboyant personality and a grandfather who had indulged her like a princess.
In the course of the festivities she found herself diverted at least, conversing with countless people, accepting flattery with grace and charm, amusing and entertaining with an easy fluency. Her unusual education allowed her to discuss feminine pursuits or business affairs with equal competence; she also understood the world of bluestocking women and was sensitive to the erudite issues they espoused. While her ready sense of humor amused without malice.
'You've introduced a most charming young lady into society,' the Duchess of Kendale remarked to Lady Hertford as they surveyed the milling scene from comfortable chairs in a small flower-filled alcove.
'She's a darling, is she not?' Barbara smiled. 'And quite in love with Dermott, I surmise.'
The duchess lifted one brow. 'A rather useless endeavor, from all accounts.'
The marchioness shrugged faintly. 'That remains to be seen. He was wooing her most assiduously last night until she gave him his conge.'
'Is she so clever as to make him beg?'
'Apparently there is some discord in their relationship. But not so long ago, I understand, it was quite-shall we say… cozy.'
'She's not a young gel, is she?'
'No. But an heiress of vast fortune.'
'So she can afford to offer challenge.'
'Or perhaps she's as prideful as he.'
'Either way, their courtship should offer an interesting piece of drama.'
Lady Hertford shook her head. 'Surely not a courtship with Bathurst. Although, I admit, I find it amusing that at last he's found a lady who refuses to succumb to his enormous charm.'
'Perhaps it's time. He's been untroubled by female rejection his entire life.'
'And Isabella may decide to favor one of her many suitors instead. Who knows how practical her motives.'
'A practical woman would never waste time on Dermott.'
Barbara flicked her fan open with a snap of her wrist. 'And he's not likely to change.'
'A rake rarely reforms,' the duchess pronounced softly.
Barbara sniffed. 'Really, Clarissa, be sensible. They
'Mama!' Caroline Leslie cried, her plump cheeks quivering with the intensity of her feelings. 'It's the most ghastly thing ever! Her name is in almost every paragraph of the society columns! I can't bear it!'
Seated with her daughters at the breakfast table, Abigail Leslie clutched a copy of another news sheet, her thin lips tightly pursed, twin spots of red coloring her sharp cheekbones. 'Somehow Isabella has managed to show herself to advantage,' she grimly murmured.
'The Prince of Wales, Mama!' Amelia wailed. 'How vexatious and provoking! The little bitch knows the
'Mind your tongue, my dear. I doesn't suit a young lady of fashion.'
'As if we even are, Mama,' Amelia crossly replied. 'The only parties we're invited to are ones given by mushrooms or arrivistes. There hasn't been one viscount or baron or even a knight at any of them. And that
'You know very well, your papa has been warned off by the Earl of Bathurst. Would you wish him killed in a duel?'
Both daughters stared at their mother without speaking, their selfishness curtailing an immediate reply. And then Caroline begrudgingly said, 'I suppose not.'
'Why does Bathurst have a say in our lives anyway?' Amelia petulantly inquired. 'Can't Papa just tell him to mind his own business?'
'Would he really, actually, shoot Papa?' Caroline queried, a hopeful note in her voice.
'I don't think your papa cares to find out whether he will or not,' Abigail snapped.
'We're never going to get husbands,' Amelia cried. 'And next season we'll be old goods. It's not fair,
