"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 you want; the devil with what he wants." Much as she loved Bathurst, he was a seasoned player in the world of amour. He could take care of himself. This young mite needed all the help she could get.

"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?"

"Exactly."


The two men were at the top of the staircase about to descend to the entrance hall and dispose of their vases when the front door opened and Isabella stepped into the grand marble entrance hall.

Dermott swore at the bad timing.

She looked up.

The butler looked up as well and, wide-eyed, surveyed his employer with a large vase of lilies in his hand.

"Are those for me?" Isabella sweetly inquired.

Dermott grinned. "If you want 'em. Although I warn you, they smell," he said, moving down the stairs.

"I'd be surprised if they didn't. Don't you like Mies?"

"Not this many." Reaching the bottom of the stairs, he offered them to her with a bow. "For your pleasure, my lady."

"One of many tonight, I presume." Her warm gaze met his over the lilies.

"Your wish is my command," he murmured.

"What a charming concept. I do look forward to the evening."

"As do I, Miss Leslie." He handed the vase to Pomeroy and reached for the ties on her cloak, a possessive gesture, symbolic perhaps of the fact he was the taker and she the takee. Standing very close as he untied the velvet ribbon, he said so low the words were for her alone, "I've waited a long time."

"I pray you won't be disappointed." But her tone was playful rather than conciliatory, and his gaze came up from the tangled knot.

"No chance of that," he whispered. And slipping the bow open, he slowly undraped the cloak from her shoulders as though he were unwrapping a personal gift.

The young footmen audibly gasped, but none received a reproach from their superiors, for all eyes were trained on the young lady. Isabella's white lace gown was so sheer, the shadow of her body was only partially concealed, the risque décolletage more in the nature of a tenuous support for the plump mounds of her breasts, the entire garment held in place with two small silver shoulder bows, the imminent threat of gravity adding a delicious element of suspense to the ensemble.

"My compliments, Miss Leslie," Dermott murmured. "You have taken all our breaths away."

"As do you, my lord. You quite turn my head." He looked large and powerful dressed in perfectly tailored black superfine, his tall, rangy form shown to advantage, his linen, crisp and white, gleaming in the candlelight, the diamond at his throat so large, it could have come only from India.

"Might I offer you"-the heat fairly crackled in the air-"a glass of champagne?"

"That would be very nice," she purred, "for now…"

He acknowledged the delectable purr with an appreciative smile and offered his arm. "Miss Leslie."

"My lord Bathurst." Dipping a small curtsy, she placed her hand on his strong wrist and they both felt the heated jolt.

Inhaling deeply, Dermott wondered how in the world he was going to repress his carnal urges when his hard-on was embarrassing him in front of his staff and the little minx was deliberately leaning into him so her breasts were almost spilling out of her gown. Dinner, he thought. "Dinner," he said to Pomeroy. "We'll have dinner now."

"Now, my lord?" The schedule had been specific. Champagne and brandy first, then dinner at nine.

"Now."

"Yes, my lord." Pomeroy moved forward to escort them to the dining room, knowing the chef was going to tear his hair out with dinner pushed up two hours. On the other hand, he reflected, the earl and his lady seemed oblivious of all but each other. There was a good possibility they wouldn't notice what they were eating.

The dining room positively gleamed, Isabella thought as they entered the large chamber-the polished cherry-wood walls, the massive silver plate on the sideboard and table, the crystal goblets marching in a row beside the two services set on the polished mahogany table, the gilt frames on the paintings adorning the walls, the twin chandeliers of Russian crystal that dripped from the high coffered ceiling. She felt as though she'd entered a shining Aladdin's cave.

"Do you always eat in such splendor?" she asked, slightly in awe of such magnificence.

It took him a moment to answer because he rarely ate at home, and when he did, he generally shared a tray with Shelby in his study. "Actually no." In fact, he couldn't remember when last he'd eaten in this room. "Would you rather have dinner somewhere else?"

In bed with you, she thought, still trembling from his touch, but it wouldn't do to be so forward. Bess had said men never liked women to give orders. "This is very nice. Really."