Free Temporary Mistress by Susan Johnson Page A

smiling. "Grandpapa spoiled me considerably."
    "Not necessarily a liability in your case," Molly noted. "You seem to know what you want."
    "I find myself quite enamored of these feelings that heat my body. Once tasted, as they say… I rather look forward to continuing the pleasure."
     
    Isabella was kept busy most of the day with various lessons that would make her more comfortable in the boudoir—how to dress and sit… or lie, how to serve food should a man require it, how to offer him a bath should the occasion arise, what exactly were the degrees of acquiescence most necessary to a woman intent on pleasing a client. Her instructors were all pretty women no older than she who directed her schooling with a casualness and humor she found entertaining.
    They had orders not to speak personally of themselves, so she learned little of their background and reasons for occupying Molly's house, but none seemed disturbed to be there and all were enthusiastic about her coming liaison with Bathurst.
    "Does everyone know?" Isabella asked when the subject was broached yet again.
    "Only a few. We who are helping," a woman named Bess replied. "Molly is strict about that. For your own privacy, she says. But you're really going to like Bathurst. There isn't a woman alive who doesn't."
    "So I've heard. Why is he so highly regarded? Beyond his startling good looks, of course."
    "He likes women. It shows in everything he does—lucky you. Although he and Kate are pretty exclusive now." She shrugged. "So he's been out of circulation for the rest of us. But he wasn't always. Now, look, let me show you what he particularly likes."
    By evening, Isabella was nervously pacing the room. It was all well and good to treat lovemaking like some kind of business of skill and expertise, but she wasn't completely emotionless, nor were her senses. And by the time her round of studies had concluded that day, she was acutely aware of her body's responses to amorous suggestion. She'd been feeling blissfully heated for hours, her skin felt as though the merest touch would suffocate her, images of Bathurst were prevalent in her mind, and the thought of seeing his strong body unclothed when at last they met in bed was so titillating to her senses, she feared she would forget all she'd learned and collapse in a puddle at his feet.
    On edge, restless, she felt an irrepressible need to escape her room, or better yet, the house, although she knew it was impossible. Another half hour passed, her agitation heightening, inchoate desires bombarding her senses. Perhaps she could at least do her pacing in the corridor or breathe some fresh air on the small balcony at the end of the hall. Following her impulse, she quit her room, strode through the empty sitting room, and walked out into the hallway. Molly's personal apartments were separate from the business of the house, and quiet.
    She heard his voice first and then his laugh, and she was drawn to the sound as though he were the magnet of her desires. And then she heard the low, throaty female voice, and somehow shocked when she should have known better in a house of pleasure, she halted in her tracks.
    It would be discourteous to eavesdrop; she should return to her room. But even as she acknowledged the most fitting conduct, she was moving toward the low sounds of conversation.
    The door at the end of the hall was ajar. Stopping just short of it, she leaned forward and peered inside.
    A luxurious candlelit room lay before her gaze. A more luxurious room than hers, one designed for lovemaking, with soft chairs and plush carpets and an overlarge bed on which a beautiful nude woman lay.
    Bathurst was pouring himself a drink from a small liquor table. He wore riding breeches, as though he'd just come in from the country, and his boots had been kicked off near the door. A chamois coat and linen shirt were draped over a chair back, his stockings tossed beneath it. She took note of each item of clothing as though it mattered