"And so you should be, Bathurst. Miss Leslie is a jewel of the first water, a rare beauty we're all grateful to have in our midst. Is that not true, Barbara, my dear?"

"Without a doubt, Your Highness. Why not join us for supper, Dermott. I'm sure Miss Leslie would enjoy your company."

"Thank you. I will." The smirk he turned on Isabella was one of brazen-faced impudence.

"We still have plenty of time before supper to test our competence in the card room," the Prince of Wales cheerfully declared. "Come, Bathurst. You always bring me luck."


In the interim before supper, Isabella danced with any number of the horde of men intent on claiming her company. She gaily accepted their compliments and requests to visit on the morrow, hoping to diminish the impact of Dermott's appearance tonight by welcoming their attentions, thinking she could forget his rudeness in the arms of other men.

Adoring men.

Flattering men.

Men who wanted her for more than sex.

She smiled and laughed and flirted outrageously, wanting to pretend Dermott didn't matter, wanting to obliterate the image of his smug smile, thinking if she played at amour as shamelessly as he, she might feel a spark of interest in one of the many men who wooed her.

But no matter how handsome or charming the men, no matter their dancing skills, regardless of their title or flowery blandishments, her feelings remained sadly untouched.

She might have been made of stone.

But she steeled herself against the counterfeit joy that Dermott offered, reminding herself that all was only transient pleasure with him and the sense of loss at his leaving was too unbearable to repeat. If she were sensible-and prior to meeting Dermott she'd prided herself on her reason-she'd take advantage of her miraculous entree into society and concentrate on the amusements of a London season with single-minded purpose.

Not an easy task with Dermott so much on her mind. But the sheer number of entertainments together with her numerous gallant and enthusiastic admirers should keep her busy from morning to night. And in her present peevish mood she welcomed distraction above all else.

Gazing up into the handsome face of the Marquis of Lonsdale, she said with feigned warmth, "I'd very much like to take the ribbons of your high-perch phaeton. Say early next week? Monday?"

"Delighted, Miss Leslie," the young lord suavely replied.

"Perhaps four o'clock?"

"Four o'clock it is." His smile had charmed from a very young age. "I consider myself most fortunate, Miss Leslie."

"Au contraire, Lord Lonsdale. The pleasure is mine."


Dermott won at the gaming tables, of course, which didn't help her annoyance. Did he ever fail at anything? The Prince had won as well, and both men were in good spirits when they escorted the ladies into supper.

"Do you gamble, Miss Leslie?" Dermott inquired, his eyes asking something else entirely as he sat down beside her.

"I did once, to my chagrin," she pointedly replied.

"A shame. Perhaps it's like being thrown from a horse. It's best to simply try again."

"In this case, my lord, I doubt the horse has learned any better manners."

"How would you know without riding him again?"

The double entendre brought a flush to her cheeks, but her voice, when she spoke, was chill. "Some rogue horses can't be broken of their bad habits."

"What horses?" the Prince of Wales inquired in a jovial tone. "Did you buy yourself some new prime horseflesh, Dermott?"

"Miss Leslie and I were speaking metaphorically, Your Highness."

"Oh, ho! Poetry already, Bathurst. You don't waste any time. I'll drink to that, eh, Barbara, my dear. To love and romance, hear, hear!"

And there was nothing for it, but that they must join him in his toast.

Isabella tried to ignore Dermott as they were served their food by a phalanx of footmen, the menu gargantuan-like the Prince of Wales's appetite. But Dermott insinuated himself into the proceedings, indicating to the flunkies what to serve her, having her wineglass refilled as she emptied it, watching her eat each course with approval as though he had a proprietary right, touching her hand on occasion and her leg under the table with great frequency.

She tried to distance herself, but there was little room to physically move with the other guests at the table and the eyes of the Prince and Lady Hertford often trained on them. She didn't dare make a scene on her first night in society.

And Dermott knew it.

When the purgatory of supper was finally over, Dermott took her hand in his and drew her from her chair. "Miss Leslie has asked me to dance again." His smile to the table at large was sunny. "How can I refuse?"

And after the courtesies of taking their leave were complete, she was led away.

"You missed your calling," Isabella snapped, finally able to speak her mind. "You should have been on the stage."

"While you could have played the part of a sulky miss," he sportively replied. "How do you hope to bring a suitor up to scratch if you don't put yourself forward in a more flattering way?"

She cast him a steely glance. "Are you a suitor?"

"Acquit me, darling. I was speaking in an advisory capacity."

"Advice from you on courtship, my lord? I would think advice on seduction more your style."

"You don't need any advice on that, puss. You seduce in the most blatant way."

"I'll take that as a compliment, coming from a man of your repute."

"I'd rather have you take something else from me."

"Acquit me, darling," she mocked, repeating his phrase. "I've given up making love to faithless rakes."

"You knew what I was when you agreed to dispense with your virginity, so don't take on the airs of an affronted maid," he said with disagreeable calm. "I never promised you anything."

"Of course. How stupid of me to have overlooked the facts of our"-her brows rose-"agreement. Forgive me."

"Happily." Content with the lady's clearer understanding, his soft murmur turned indulgent. "Now, tell me, darling, how I can make you happy?"

It was the most tempting of questions but not one she cared to answer honestly. "If only you could," she sweetly drawled, abruptly coming to a halt just short of the ballroom, resisting the tugging of his hand. "Unfortunately, I have no intention of changing my mind."

He looked at her from under drawn brows, his gaze highly charged, examining. And when he spoke, his voice was unutterably soft. "You're sure?"

"Very."

Releasing her hand, he stepped away. "Then there's no point in wasting our time. Good evening, Miss Leslie," he murmured with the ceremonial courtesy of a stranger. And he walked away without a backward glance.


The earl danced the rest of the evening with women of every description, dispensing his charm with democratic conviviality, flirting shamelessly with the crowd of ladies that hovered around him between dances, ignoring Isabella. And when the guests were beginning to take their leave, he followed suit, coming to pay his respects to his hostess with a lovely raven-haired woman on his arm.

Lady Hertford and her guest of honor were seated with several others, indulging in champagne ices after a lively mazurka. The ladies were fanning themselves, the men wiping their brows with their handkerchiefs, and at Dermott's approach conversation trailed off. He and his companion were a stunning couple, both dark, tall, the stylish woman sumptuously provocative. She was dressed in a revealing magenta tulle gown that showed off her pale skin and black hair to perfection, and the manner in which she clung to Dermott flaunted their intimacy. Every man there envied him his night of entertainment. Mrs. Compton's beautiful mouth was reputedly one of her greatest assets.

On reaching the seated group, Dermott smiled and bowed to his hostess. "You've outdone yourself again, Barbara. The party was a veritable crush." He winked at her. "Your usual triumph."

"Thank you, darling. So nice of you to come." Her glance was amused. "You always add a bit of drama to any assembly."

"I live to entertain you, marchioness," he lazily drawled, a teasing gleam in his eye.

"And a good many others as well, you sweet man."

Ignoring her drollery, Dermott turned to Isabella. "Much success in your season, Miss Leslie." He bowed faintly. "I wish you every happiness."

With the lady on his arm fairly melting into his side, Isabella found it difficult to subdue her jealousy, and she kept her voice steady only with effort. "Thank you, my lord."

Dermott's gaze turned from her and swept the group. "We'll say our adieus, then. I'm sure we'll all see one another again-at some other crush." He turned to his companion. "Are you ready, darling?"

The resplendent beauty answered with a breathy, soft response that brought a smile to every man's lips and a disapproving severity to each woman's mouth. Isabella felt as though she were suffocating.

As the couple walked away, Lady Blandford sniffed. "How fortunate for her, Mr. Compton prefers his little bit of fluff in Half Moon Street."

"For access to the Prince of Wales's circle, Compton is more than willing to allow his wife her freedom," one of the men remarked. "That connection has nicely profited his financial firm."

"She's a bit fast even for the Prince of Wales's set," a young matron chided. "And I hardly think her dress suitable for a ball."

"More suitable to the boudoir," another woman taunted, "with her bosom so blatantly exposed."

"Come, come, Caro, your son has had his fill of her now," a gentleman noted.

"And the lady must feather her nest while she may. Her dark, sultry looks will soon fade."