Then one morning Dermott seemed preoccupied, and when Isabella questioned him, he casually dismissed her queries. But he disappeared late that afternoon while she napped, and when she found him he was seated in the library, a bottle of brandy in hand.

"Have I done something?" Frightened at his odd behavior, she watched him, hoping she might read further meaning in his expression.

He looked up and seemed not to see her at first.

"I've been looking for you."

His gaze focused on her and he smiled, a distant smile without the intimacy she'd grown to expect. "I'm just having a drink." He spoke calmly, as though he did this often.

"Would you rather be alone?" Each word was fraught with anguish.

He hesitated and then answered no, when his expression said otherwise.

"I could wait for you on the terrace." The door was open, the sunshine bright even as her world was turning cold.

He softly sighed. "No, don't. I've had enough." His smile this time held some warmth. "Should we walk into the village? Are you as hungry as I?"

She agreed. She would have agreed to walk to the moon if he'd asked, stricken and fearful, feeling that her happiness was disappearing. But Dermott was charming and gracious on their excursion into the village, conversing about subjects that amused her, making her laugh as they ate and drank the local cider, restoring her good spirits.

When they returned to the house, they made love with a special tenderness that almost broke her heart. It was over, she kept thinking, not knowing how to bring him back, feeling him drifting away. And later that evening when she fell asleep, he quietly left the bed.

She found him in the library again at two o'clock in the morning. But he wasn't sitting in the chair by the window this time. He was seated before an open cabinet alight with votive candles, tears running down his face. The small shrine held a portrait of a beautiful Indian woman with a young boy in her lap. She wore luxurious native garb and fabulous jewels, and the little boy looked out from the portrait with the most beautiful eyes. Dermott's eyes.

He must have heard her, but he didn't look around. He only said, "I'd like to be alone."

It was almost midmorning when he returned to the bedroom, looking drawn, his eyes shadowed with weariness. He stood just inside the doorway, distant, remote, not the man she'd come to love. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice dispassionate, his apology politesse alone. "Perhaps it's time we return to the City."

"Who are they?" Isabella asked, needing to know, fearful of knowing, not sure he'd answer her.

She was curled up in a chair near the bed, and he gazed at her as though seeing her for the first time. As though they'd just been introduced and he was trying to recall her name.

"Tell me, Dermott, please." The sadness in her voice echoed her wretchedness. "Before you send me away, tell me that at least."

"My wife and son. They're dead."

"I'm so sorry." If she'd dared, she would have gone to him and held him in her arms.

"It's been some years now." He drew in a deep breath and seemed to come to an awareness of his surroundings. "Forgive me for involving you. I apologize. Do you need help packing? I'll send for the servants if you wish."

"There's no need. I can manage."

"Good. Say an hour? Is that too soon?"

Too soon to end the happiest days of her life? "It's fine," she calmly said, forcing a gracious smile, her heart shattering in a thousand pieces.

"I'll see you downstairs, then." And like a stranger, he turned and walked away.

She wouldn't allow herself to cry, too proud to be red-eyed with weeping when she met him downstairs. She bolstered her spirits as she packed with sensible reminders-of the ways of profligate nobles, of her understanding from the first that Bathurst wasn't offering permanence. That their arrangement had been one of expediency-a means of insuring her inheritance.

And were it not for the tormenting ache in her heart, such sensible reminders would have been adequate.

But she managed to greet Dermott before the main door with equanimity, and on their ride back to London, she even spoke with a certain casualness. It was a performance equal to the best on the Covent Garden stage, and if she'd not been crying inside, she could have appreciated the stellar quality of her dramatic talents.

Shortly before they reached Molly's, Dermott said, "I'll see that your relatives no longer bother you. My lawyer's been looking into the situation. You should be able to safely return home soon."

"Payment for my services?" Her voice was sharp. "Forgive me," she instantly apologized, understanding it wasn't his fault she'd allowed herself to daydream of more. "It's very kind of you, but not necessary. Molly's plan is sufficient."

"There's always the possibility of scandal with Molly's idea. I'd rather you let me do this for you."

"Soothing your conscience, Bathurst?" she gently inquired.

"I don't have a conscience. I thought you knew that."

"Of course, how naive of me to forget."

"I didn't intend for this to happen," he quietly said. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize." She managed a small smile. "I enjoyed myself." Pale words for the resplendent pleasure he'd given her, the blandest of thanks for introducing her to paradise.

"As did I." He didn't smile; he looked at her, seated across from him, with a shuttered gaze. "I'll send a message to Molly's as soon as it's safe for you to go home."

He didn't escort her into Molly's. He only helped her down from the carriage, bowed faintly, and said, "It was a pleasure, Isabella."

"Yes, very much," she answered, curtailing her tears with superhuman effort.

Mercer had a footman pick up her valises.

Dermott glanced at the man and then, turning his attention back to her, said, "Thank you again." Swinging back toward his carriage, he ordered "Bathurst House" in a clear, strong voice, and stepping up through the door held open by one of his grooms, he entered his carriage.

"This way, my lady," Mercer murmured, conscious of her stricken look.

Isabella took a deep breath and turned. How many times had he said good-bye to a ladylove, she wondered, in that cool, well-bred way. She entered Molly's through the blue door that had once offered her refuge on a wet, dark night and surveyed the resplendent marble entrance hall. She'd first seen Dermott there. It seemed like a hundred years ago. In another lifetime-when she'd not yet tasted the sweet ecstasy he dispensed with a prodigal hand, when she'd not known the agonizing torment of unrequited love. When she was an untried maid.

"Isabella!"

Molly's voice rang down the staircase, and looking up, Isabella smiled at the woman who'd given her so much.

They met midway on the stairs and hugged, and then Molly escorted her to the drawing room. "Sit down now and tell me everything." She smiled. "Or at least what you wish. Oh, dear," she added, taking note of Isabella's quivering lip as she took a seat on the brocaded settee. "He's broken your heart."

"I didn't expect he could," Isabella whispered as the tears spilled from her eyes.

"He deserves a thrashing," Molly exclaimed, moving to enfold Isabella in a comforting embrace. "I was afraid of this."

"It's not his fault."

"Of course it's his fault. I told him not to take you to Richmond."

"But I wanted to go."

"He's too wretchedly charming. As always. Dear, dear," she soothed. "Don't cry for him. He's far from worth it."

Isabella looked up, her eyes filled with tears. "Did you know of his wife and son?"

"He told you?"

"I found him this morning crying before their portrait. He has a shrine of sorts in the library."

"They died four years ago today," Molly softly said. "He's not been able to forget. And for that reason and others I implore you to not pine for him."

"I've told myself as much, but it's not quite so simple."

"With time, my dear, you'll find other pleasures."

Sitting up straight, Isabella wiped away her tears with her shawl. "I told myself that as well," she said with a small smile.

"I have something of interest that might distract you from your melancholy."

"Not another Dermott?" A tentative teasing note colored her voice.

"Something less disastrous. You know the season is just beginning."

"You jest, surely. You know my life was of the simplest before Grandpapa died."

"It would be an opportunity to show Dermott you're capable of surviving without him."

"I doubt he'd notice or be concerned."

"Would you like him to?"

"Notice me?"

Molly shrugged. "It depends how you feel about him."

Isabella pursed her mouth. "Sad and angry both. But hardly hopeful of more. You said yourself he's not worth pining over."

"Good. What say you to perhaps finding a suitor who would return your love?"

"In the ton? I'm not sure I'd be accepted."

"If I made it possible, would you be interested in being launched this season?"

"Me?" The notion was preposterous and yet in some faint degree intriguing.

"You're beautiful, wealthy-once your relatives are thwarted-and of good birth on your mother's side. Why not you? Heiresses are much in demand, you know."

Isabella smiled. "I suppose they are. Dermott said that he'd take care my uncles were no longer a danger to me."

"I've begun inquiries as well through my lawyers. Between Dermott and me, we should be able to return you to your home with your fortune intact. Especially with our trump card." She winked. "We can always threaten to expose your indiscretion and taint all the Leslies with the scandal. And most important, I have a sponsor for you with unimpeachable credentials."