"A banker's daughters?" Moira's brows rose in mild derision. "Would they be moving in the same circles?"
"Occasionally… possibly. I'm trying to consider all contingencies."
"Miss Leslie must be a very special young lady," Moira quietly said.
"Unique." Molly cast him a warning glance. "And I don't want you to charm her, Francis. She doesn't need any more ineligible suitors."
"You want her happily married to some peer of the realm, in a fairy-tale fashion."
"I'm not so naive. But I'd like her to have the opportunity to see if she wishes that world. She has background, wealth, and stunning beauty. Whomever she bestows her affection on will be a fortunate man."
"You're a manipulative darling," Moira playfully said. "I can see there's nothing for it but that I must accede to your wishes."
"You'll talk to Mrs. Fitzherbert?"
"Let me talk to the Prince first. He may have some other hostess more comme il faut who's willing to take this young lady in hand." His gaze narrowed. "Are you sure she wishes this? If she's under Dermott's spell, she may refuse."
Molly softly snorted. "He won't keep her. You know that as well as I. And once she's been discarded, as his sexual playmates invariably are, I think I may be able to convince her-to pay him back, as it were."
"A woman scorned…" Moira smiled. "I shudder to think of the consequences." His expression sobered. "But consider, do you want Bathurst as an opponent? Does she? He won't back down."
Molly's gaze was equally serious. "Right now I'm not concerned with Dermott. He's very capable of taking care of himself. I'm doing this exclusively for Isabella. For her future happiness."
"Very well. You have my support, of course." While Lord Moira was in debt to Molly for a variety of favors, they'd become friends as well over the years. And he genuinely liked her. He suddenly grinned. "Would you care to make a small wager on whether Dermott responds to the lady's entrance into society"-his brows flickered in sportive query-"with his usual indifference?"
"You might lose on that. Think, Francis, when has he taken a lover to his house at Richmond, or, more to the point, to Bathurst House?"
"Not Bathurst House!" His eyes widened in astonishment. "You don't mean it."
She smiled.
"So you might have other plans as well," he murmured. "Like bringing Bathurst up to scratch another way."
"It's time, I think, that he experiences an unselfish feeling."
"You're going to reform the rake that's bedded half of London since his return from India?"
"I'm not sure Isabella requires reform so much as commitment."
Moira groaned. "Never, Molly… you aim too high."
"We'll see," she murmured, more aware than Moira of Dermott's response to the beautiful Miss Leslie. "In due time, Francis, perhaps all the ton will have a front row seat at the spectacle."
He laughed, his hearty guffaw a boisterous sound in the elegant rococo room. "Damn, Molly, I tell you, I wait with bated breath." He drained his brandy and set the glass down. "With such a drama in the offing, I'm in haste to set the wheels in motion. You'll hear from me soon."
"Thank you, Francis. This is important to me."
Rising, he gracefully bowed. "Then we shall see the lady launched, my dear. You can count on it."
Unmindful of the plans en train for their return to the city, the lovers dwelt at Richmond in an idyll of sensual delight and joy. Some days they never left their bed, the sunny springtime viewed through the open doors to the terrace, the scent of fresh air only a light wafting breeze on their heated flesh. On other days they lay in the meadow behind the ancient orchard and absorbed the sun like pagans aligned to the rhythms of nature and made love as though they were alone in the world.
They swam in the river and fished and even played croquet one night when the moon was full. They made love later in the cool grass and wondered if ever two people were so happy. Dermott had dismissed his servants, unwilling to share Isabella, and they ate haphazardly from the food left for them each morning or attempted occasionally to master the most rudimentary culinary skills. Twice they walked into the nearby village and ate at the inn, shocking the locals by hiring a private dining room and not reappearing for hours.
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.