"When Grandpapa died, I felt such loneliness. I can't imagine how one would survive the loss of a wife and child."
"He's haunted by the memory; it affects his whole life. But consider, dear," she coaxed. "There are a number of other handsome, charming men in the ton without Dermott's afflictions. Perhaps you'll find one you fancy."
"Perhaps…" But Isabella's dreams continued to be of Dermott, and in her bluest moods she wondered how long it took to fall out of love.
"Let's decide what jewelry you'll wear with your lavender gown," Molly declared, intent on distracting her protegee from melancholy thoughts.
Isabella smiled. "My mother's amethysts, of course."
"With that new pearl tiara."
"And the bracelet you found with the flower clasp."
"Perfect. We should have a portrait painted of you in that magnificent gown. You look as grand as a princess."
Isabella laughed. "If only Grandpapa could see me now. He would tell everyone at the bank and everyone who came into the bank, and all the sailors and workers at our warehouses and docks. 'Look at Izzy,' he'd say. 'She's taken on the ton.' "
"And so you shall," Molly cheerfully replied. "Beginning next week."
Chapter Thirteen
THE EARL OF MOIRA had given Isabella's schedule to him out of roguish sport, Dermott didn't doubt. But he wasn't about to rise to the bait.
In fact, he made a point of having plans the night of her coming-out ball. But in the course of Lord Falworth's revel that evening, he was more aware than he would have wished of the special event transpiring at Hertford House. At midnight, with the bacchanalia in full swing, Dermott looked up from the chaise where he lay with a beautiful cyprian-one of several Falworth had brought in for the occasion-and glanced at the clock chiming the hour.
The lovely woman lying beneath him regained his attention in a particularly arousing way, bringing his perceptions back to amorous play, and he renewed his gratifying rhythm. The private room in the tavern was furnished with a number of chaises-all occupied by young lords and their fair companions, and the consumption of liquor had had its effect on the guests. The level of dissipation had reached an unbridled state of orgy.
From which Dermott felt oddly detached.
Not that the lady beneath him had any reason for complaint. He operated automatically after so many years, instinct and skill taking over when his attention was otherwise engaged. Although, after bringing her to climax once again, he disengaged himself with well-bred courtesy-the phrases second nature to a man who never stayed long-excused himself and rose from the chaise.
Prompted by rash impulse, he swiftly dressed, making himself presentable with an adeptness acquired from countless hasty departures. And after leaving his companion a sizable purse and a gracious smile, he exited the debauch.
With a pronounced feeling of relief.
Twenty minutes later, he was mounting the stairs to Hertford House.
Standing on the threshold of the ballroom a few moments later, he was announced by the marchioness's august majordomo. A great number of guests turned their heads to stare. Not that he was overlate, for balls rarely began before eleven.
But, rather, that he was there at all.
And, they noted, in a state of mild dishevelment.
Even from a distance it was evident he'd not just come from his valet. Although the earl had a certain cachet that drew the eye regardless of the state of his dress. He wore a black swallowtail coat, an elegant waistcoat of embroidered silk, and knee breeches, the required dress for balls. And while his neckcloth might be a shade wrinkled, the beauty of his face and form eclipsed even that most reprehensible of sins. He ran his hand through his hair in a casual gesture as he stood in the doorway, the cynosure of so many eyes, and surveyed the guests with a raking gaze.
His appearances were rare at society functions, although he was known to make the exception when he was intent on making a new conquest or charming a current one.
It had to be a woman.
Who was she? everyone wondered.
And then his gaze came to rest on Lady Hertford's honored guest, and the conjecture ceased.
The earl strolled forward.
Isabella had seen Dermott the minute he'd stepped through the doorway, before he'd been announced, before he'd seen her, and her heart was racing.
His progress across the large room engaged everyone's attention, although he seemed not to notice. And when the men surrounding Isabella moved aside enough to allow him access to her and he saw her fully, his mouth curved into a smile.
An intimate smile that suggested he and Miss Leslie were well acquainted.
That made it clear to those who knew him best.
"Miss Leslie, I understand," he said, his voice deep and low, his salutation careful not to openly acknowledge their prior friendship. "Lord Bathurst at your service." He bowed with exceptional grace.
And while protocol demanded he wait to be presented to her, no one was surprised at his audacity.
She should take offense at his insolence, but he looked so beautiful, she could scarcely breathe.
But then she smelled the heavy fragrance-a woman's scent that rose from his hair and clothes-and an inexpressible rage filled her senses.
"How dare you," she murmured, aware of the attention his appearance had evoked but unable to suppress her anger.
"I didn't realize you were such a stickler for convention, Miss Leslie. Should I find someone to introduce us?"
"Don't let me keep you, my lord. You perhaps wish to return to your lady friend."
"Not in the least. I apologize for my unkempt state. It was unavoidable."
"As is my next engagement. Excuse me, gentlemen. I've promised Lady Hertford a moment of my time." She made to walk away.
Dermott stepped in her path, his half-smile offering challenge. "Barbara won't mind waiting. Dance with me, Miss Leslie."
All eyes were on their exchange, and even those on the opposite side of the ballroom recognized a contretemps.
Isabella smiled tightly. "The musicians aren't playing, my lord. Perhaps some other time."
"An oversight, I'm sure." Gripping her hand, he stepped out onto the floor enough so the resting musicians saw him, and signaled for them to begin. They were separated from the other guests by a small distance now, their words not as likely to be heard.
"You're annoying me," Isabella snapped.
"Strangely, I feel the same way."
"Then I'll thank you to unhand me."
"I don't care to. Are you willing to make a scene at your coming-out party?" he softly jibed, drawing her into his arms as the strains of a danse à deux began. "Think of what you have to lose. Ail those potential suitors. A position as reigning belle. You're dazzling in that lavender gown, darling," he murmured. "I'm sure you know that." Pulling her closer, he gazed down at her with a cheeky grin.
"How kind of you to notice, my lord," she replied sarcastically, trying to ease backward.
"Kindness has nothing to do with it." His grip tightened as he smoothly moved them into a turn. "Your breasts are quite magnificent mounded in plump display above that very risque neckline."
"Low décolletage is the fashion, my lord. As you well know, I'm sure, considering your major source of interest."
"As I recall, it was yours as well."
"People change. Although I see you're still in form. Who was your lover tonight? She uses perfume liberally."
"Actually, I forget."
He didn't even have the decency to deny it, she hotly reflected. "But then, you make a point of forgetting your light o'loves, don't you."
"Not always. I'm here tonight."
"Am I supposed to be flattered?" How beautifully he danced, damn him, effortlessly.
"You should be."
"You arrogant bastard!" she hissed, his cool nonchalance galling. "Is this where I'm supposed to fall into your arms and offer myself to you?"