© 2000

Dear Reader,

Temporary Mistress came to life as a fleeting image in my mind. In a shadowed room with candles flickering and malice heavy in the air, an elderly lawyer is reading a will. A young woman is weeping, her grandfather having died only recently. But her relatives are untouched by sorrow, for their niece and cousin is delegated sole heir of a fortune they wish for themselves, and bitterly resentful, they regard her with hatred.

That was the first time I saw Isabella Leslie and I could tell she was going to need some help.

At the same time, Dermott Ramsay, Earl of Bathurst, is gambling in London's finest brothel, unaware of Isabella or her problems and indifferent, in any event, to all but the pursuit of pleasure.

An unlikely pair to ever meet.

Except for the hand of fate and the feeling I had that they'd enjoy getting acquainted.

I hope you enjoy the course of their friendship too.

Best wishes,

April 1802

THE STEADY DRIZZLE had turned to a downpour ten minutes earlier and the lady clinging to Dermott Ramsay on the high-lurching seat of his racing phaeton was not only thoroughly drenched but furious. Which meant he'd have to set her down at the next inn, practically ensuring Hilton a win in their race to London. Damn Olivia anyway. He'd not wanted to bring her along, but she'd coaxed with such enticing fervor as they lay naked in her absent husband's bed that morning, he'd found his better judgment overruled by lust.

Again.

Damn.

He squinted into the driving rain, the road barely visible through the deluge, but his Thoroughbreds were running strongly despite the rough going, and if his racing phaeton didn't snap an axle, by the grace of God and some damned fine driving he would have won the race.