"While you have no need of money? Is that what you're not so subtly implying?"

"What I need from you, Miss Leslie," he murmured, "is without price."

"And also not available to you."

"We'll see."

His smile was gratingly assured. "No, we won't," she ascerbically noted. "And I'd thank you to leave me in peace."

"Do I disturb you?" he asked with unctuous good humor.

"Not in the least. I'm busy, that's all." She leaned forward to speak to her driver. "John, Bond Street, please." She had no intention of going home if he was to follow her in. Better a public venue.

"Ah, a lady's major entertainment. Shopping."

"Unlike yours, my lord." She settled back in her seat, her raking gaze as insolent as his. "You prefer more personal amusements."

"I wouldn't discount the personal nature of some ladies' shopping experiences," he drawled.

She blushed, recalling the illustrations in Molly's book. "I'm sure I don't know what you're alluding to."

"I could show you if you like," he silkily offered.

"No, thank you."

"Why don't I tag along anyway." His grin was cheeky. "In the event you change your mind."

"You may disabuse yourself of that notion. Under no circumstances will I change my mind." Her voice, intended to be sharp, wavered minutely at the end when Dermott recrossed his legs, and for a fraction of a second his arousal was evident.

An irrepressible heat flared inside her, a flutter rippled through her vagina as though her body automatically responded to the sight of his erection. Clasping her hands tightly together in her lap, she steeled herself against the sudden turbulent desire.

A few moments later, when the carriage came to rest midway down Bond Street, ignoring her protests Dermott helped her descend, the warmth of his hand, the firmness of his grip, heightening her agitation.

Fully aware of her response, practiced at gauging female arousal, he tucked her hand under his arm, and holding it securely, began strolling with her down the busy street.

In desperation, she entered the first shop they passed, needing to separate herself from his searing closeness, distance herself from the familiarity of his powerful body and all it provoked in terms of heated memory. Once inside, however, she found herself disastrously in a shop awash with lingerie. Every conceivable style of chemise and petticoat, nightgown and robe, was displayed, the silken garments, the intimate implications of the apparel, bringing a blush to her cheeks.

"May I help you?"

She looked up into the handsome face of a young, virile man, and recall of Molly's erotic book came shockingly to life. "I'm… that is-I'm just… looking at the moment." Were there no female employees in the shop? Quickly glancing around, she found none and turned to leave.

Dermott's grip tightened. "Show us some petticoats. Lace ones," he said with a quiet authority. Turning to Isabella, he pleasantly smiled, as though he weren't holding her captive. "White lace becomes you."

Under the clerk's regard, Isabella curtailed her impulse to scream at him. "Perhaps we could do this some other time," she replied coolly.

"No time like the present, darling." Dermott's grasp was unyielding.

"But, darling," she returned, oversweet and pointed, "we don't have time with Auntie's party at five."

"You know I'm her favorite." His grin held a distinct impudence. "She'll overlook our late arrival. That one, I think," he added, indicating with a nod to the clerk a frothy confection of chantilly lace. "And the pink one over there."

Disregarding her resistance, he drew her toward a bank of curtained alcoves. "You can try them on in here." Apparently familiar with the layout of the store, he pulled back an elegant drapery and stepped aside so the clerk could set the two garments on a small table. "This shouldn't take long." Directing a nod at the young man, he pulled Isabella inside and closed the curtain.

"How dare you!" she heatedly whispered, jerking her hand away from his relaxed hold, wondering if she dared run.

"I wouldn't suggest it," he murmured as though he could read her mind. "You wouldn't make it to the door."

"The clerk is an accomplice?" she hissed, her gaze hot with resentment.

"Let's just say he knows how best to earn his living." [7]

"From you?"

He shrugged. "Try on a petticoat," he suggested as though she weren't bristling with umbrage. Dropping onto a convenient chaise, he offered her a sweet smile. "I'll buy them for you; I'll buy out the store for you."

"You can't mean to go through with this!" Her voice was deliberately muted, but her rage was unmistakable.

"With what?" His expression was innocent.

"I'm not in the mood for your games, damn you!"

"What are you in the mood for? Honestly."

She drew in a steadying breath, his query uncomfortably relevant. "You just have to appear and I'm supposed to immediately succumb to your charm?"

"I don't think either one of us is much interested in charm right now." He lounged in a lazy sprawl, his erection blatant even in the subdued light. "Are we?"

She wondered if he could hear the powerful throbbing between her legs.

"You're flushed," he said, his voice exquisitely mild.

He knew. "What do you have in mind?" she snapped. "Five minutes and then we'll be on our way?"

"I doubt you'll be satisfied with five minutes," he gently said. "As I recall, you always wanted more… and more"-he smiled-"and more."

"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.