'And you're available,' she gibed, trying not to look at the tempting dimensions of his erection.
'Always for you,' he said.
'This is all for me?'
His mouth quirked in a faint smile. 'I wish I were so unselfish.'
'And then what? I mean-what exactly happens after this interesting encounter?'
'Do you want a signed contract?' he sardonically asked.
'Would I get one if I wished?' Equally sarcastic, she gazed at him.
'We both want the same thing. I don't understand your equivocation.'
'Surely a man of your finesse knows better than to so bluntly propose intercourse.'
'I'm sorry.' He grimaced. 'I find myself unable to deal with you casually.'
'And if you could, I'd be better wooed?'
He pushed himself upright and his gaze was suddenly stripped bare of indolence. 'If I didn't want you so,' he gruffly said, 'I could say anything you wished to hear.'
'And if I didn't want you so,' she countered, as hindered and buffeted as he, 'I wouldn't care what you said.'
He sighed and sprawled back again. 'I'm at a complete loss. Nothing glib comes to mind.'
'You might try 'I missed you.' '
A low growl escaped him. And then another sigh. 'I did.'
The two words were so reluctantly uttered, Isabella found herself smiling. 'Then I might indulge you after all.'
His gaze slowly came up and met hers. A moment passed, two, the hush of indecision palpable. And then without speaking, he opened his arms.
Standing in the middle of the room, she understood and didn't understand and at base, perhaps, was as selfish as he because she wanted what he wanted. 'I suppose I should take off my bonnet,' she said because the words were safe and innocuous and the truth would never do.
'Let me,' he softly replied, coming to his feet.
They made love that afternoon with a suppressed desperation, as though they both knew their fleeting moments together might be all they had, that the world and the past and their uncompromising sensibilities precluded a perfect future. They were at once selfish and generous, indulgent and self-indulgent, caught up in a frantic sense of wonder and fevered exaltation. And when at last Isabella took note of the time, or the clerk did, or she'd just imagined the knock on the woodwork, Dermott reluctantly kissed her adieu.
But later, dressed once again, standing outside the shop, neither knew what to say.
He offered her his thanks and a number of graceful phrases of leave-taking. Although even as he spoke, he was assailed with an uncustomary sadness.
'I understand,' she said, capable of pretext as well, when nothing made sense at the moment, when it felt as though she were falling off the edge of the world into nothingness.
He nodded, words failing him, his emotions in chaos.
And then he walked away.
Isabella returned home and canceled the rest of her engagements for the day. Self-pity overwhelmed her, and even Molly knew better than to interfere after talking to Sam and John. Retiring to her room, Isabella locked her door, lay on her bed, stared at the ceiling, and tried to bring her feelings into some semblance of order. She loved Dermott-an appalling, wretched fact. Like a dozen other women, no doubt-or hundreds. And there wasn't a hope in the world that he would reciprocate her feelings. That he was even capable of loving someone again.
So the question was-how best to overcome her unrequited love and get on with her life? Ever practical, she understood the pathetic liabilities in loving him. And in the course of her hermitage that evening, she considered a great number of options, none of which, unfortunately, soothed her current misery. Although there was comfort in knowing Dermott cared for her at some level other than sex. Of that she was certain. It was small recompense for her sadness, but a degree of solace, however minute, that she desperately needed.
It was a shame he had so many demons in his past, she reflected at least a thousand times that night.
In a more perfect world, she might have met him sooner.
In a more perfect world, neither would have suffered loss.
In a more perfect world, he would have returned her love.
And unalloyed bliss could have been theirs.
By morning, Isabella had reconciled fact and fantasy and had sensibly put what had passed between herself and Dermott into perspective. He wasn't about to change his life-nor should she. There was no purpose in wishful dreams. When dealing with Dermott Ramsay, cold practicality was not only critical but essential.
For her part, considering the circumstances in which she found herself, she'd decided diversion would best serve her purposes.
And so she conducted herself that weekend as though frivolous society offered her the greatest delight, as though flirtation were her raison d'etre and there weren't enough hours in the day to satisfy her penchant for pleasure.
Chapter Sixteen
ON MONDAY, under Molly's watchful eye and with the help of her maid, Isabella dressed for her drive with the Marquis of Lonsdale. She wore a simple muslin gown, tucked and pleated with green ribands, a short riding jacket of bottle-green wool completing the ensemble. Calling for her driving gloves, she set a small turban of striped silk on the back of her head while her maid went to fetch the gloves. Turning to Molly, she lightly asked, 'Will this do? For one must show well, mustn't one?'
'You'll show very well indeed. Everyone in the park will take note.'
'Which is the point, is it not-to see and be seen,' Isabella observed. 'In yet another gown, on the arm of yet another man.'
Isabella was deluged with suitors and callers, the drawing room thronged with hopeful men whenever she was at home. 'Are you becoming weary of the scene?' Molly gently asked, hearing the discontent in Isabella's voice. 'You need but say it and we'll fold up our tent.'
Isabella looked at her friend and smiled. 'I'd be fainthearted to cry off so soon.'
'Perhaps you should be more selective. Accept only a few invitations.'
Isabella made a small moue. 'At the moment, I feel a great need for distraction'-her smile was brittle-'and amusement.'
'Perhaps not with the marquis, however. He's a bit of a rogue,' Molly warned, 'and deep in debt. I should have said something before. I almost wish you might cry off today.'
'And so I might if I'd not agreed to this in order to spite Dermott.' The marquis for all his lack of money was a great favorite of the ladies. 'Not that Dermott will take note anyway. He's probably entertaining some lady, as usual.' And who better than she to understand his allure?
'Not Mrs. Compton in any event, Mercer reports.'
'And how would Mercer know?'
'Because I told him to keep watch on Dermott for me.'
'Then, tell me, where has he disappeared?' With the exception of the duchess's musicale, he'd been absent from society since her ball.
'Are you sure you want to know?'
Isabella grimaced. 'Another woman, I suppose.'
'Dermott doesn't like to be alone.'
'A convenient excuse. Who is it this time?' Even as she asked, she didn't know if she really wished to hear.
'Helene Kristos. An actress at Covent Garden.'
