Sexy As Hell (10 page)

She laughed. “Rest easy. But your love-at-first-sight fiction
is
useful to me for another reason.” She took a small breath, glanced away, clearly discomfited.

“Go on, darling,” Oz prompted. “I’m unshockable.”

“It’s not actually shocking.” Her voice was subdued. “In fact, it’s quite common I suspect—a betrothal gone awry.”

His brows lifted. “Yours, I presume.”

She nodded. “It turns out”—she grimaced—“the man I planned to marry had been promised by his family to another. He felt honor bound to marry her.”

“In this day and age?”

“Country ways are more traditional.”

“Ah.”

“It’s true,” she insisted.

He put up a hand. “I didn’t mean to disagree.” He smiled. “As I understand it then, you’d like
your
husband—me—to be head over heels for you as compensation for all the local gossip you had to endure with this, er, foiled betrothal.”

She looked down briefly before she met his gaze. “Do I seem silly and foolish?”

“Not at all.” He knew about wanting things that could never be, about the cruelty of gossip.
Do you love him still?
he thought, knowing how much he missed Khair. Not that any of it mattered. “In truth, posing as your lovesick husband will actually serve as explanation for my extraordinary behavior. I was a confirmed bachelor; everyone knew it.”

She smiled, relieved for inchoate, possibly stupid reasons. “Thank you. It shouldn’t be for long in any event.”

“No.”
Especially after I scare the hell out of Compton.

“Now then,” she said, cheered by Oz’s casual chivalry, “do you think we’ll have many visitors?”

Shoving himself upward, Oz reached for a bottle Achille had conveniently left for him. “I know we will,” he said, uncorking the bottle.

And he set about fortifying himself for the ordeal.

CHAPTER 6

BEFORE LONG, THE busybodies, scandalmongers, and a great many of Oz’s inamoratas came to call, all morbidly curious to see the clever, artful woman who had managed to lure Lennox into the marriage trap. They smiled and bowed and offered their felicitations; they took tea and made idle conversation—all the while frantic to know the reason for Lennox’s marriage.

“She’s but a child,” the matrons whispered, Isolde’s girlish gown offering up an image of innocence. “And clearly unworldly, wearing a simple gown like that without a speck of jewelry. Where did she come from? Where’s her family?” And then their eyes would narrow, as if the answer to this odd marriage would be revealed with closer scrutiny.

The men discounted innocence, their focus instead, male-like, on sex. “Lennox lusted after that buxom, young maid,” the men murmured, surveying Isolde’s curvaceous body with heated gazes, envying Oz his voluptuous, new bride.

“The bitch. The clever bitch,” Oz’s resentful lovers hissed under their breaths, their veiled glances sullen. How had she brought him to the altar when so many had failed? Although, she’d have competition soon enough they didn’t doubt. Which thought consoled and heartened them.

“Have you known each other long?” the visitors invariably asked, each arrival—thanks to Nell’s
on dits
—sensible of the startling suddenness of the marriage.
It must have been a necessitous marriage
, they all thought.
Why else would a cheeky young profligate like Lennox marry?

The first time the question of their acquaintance was posed, Isolde turned to her husband. “Oz likes to tell the story,” she said with a smile. “It’s quite romantic.”

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” he blandly lied—repeating the fiction often in the course of the day. “A family connection—distant, of course. Isolde always wrote to me over the years, didn’t you, darling,” he fondly murmured, lifting her hand to his lips at that point for a gentle kiss. “And then suddenly, I found my little Isolde all grown up and I fell head over heels in love.”

She blushed prettily.

The room always went quiet for a second at such blatant affection from a man who’d seduced women far and wide but never loved them.

“She’s shy,” he’d say, smiling fondly at his bride. “An admirable quality in a wife.”

Another moment of shocked silence would ensue.

Oz had always preferred audacious women.

And so the at-home visit went, Isolde smiling through it all, accepting society’s spurious good wishes and pointed glances at her belly with grace, Oz discharging his role of doting husband with careless panache. All the while the servants keeping the cake plates and teacups replenished.

It was a long, albeit productive day.

Until finally, an old roue made the mistake of saying, “If I was twenty years younger, Lennox, I’d vie for the lady’s favors myself.”

“If you were twenty years younger, Wilkins, I’d call you out,” Oz said, his expression uniquely unpleasant. “Consider yourself lucky.” As if suddenly reaching some indefinable breaking point, Oz rose to his feet, surveyed the social herd he despised, and said with cool precision, “My wife is fatigued. I trust you know your way out.”

No one debated staying with the grim set of Lennox’s mouth.

The room emptied in minutes.

“No one else gets in, Josef,” Oz ordered, nodding at his majordomo, who’d held the drawing room door open for the departing guests. “Not God himself.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like a brandy?”

“Another bottle if you please.” He’d moderated his drinking while they had guests, fearful of losing his temper before all the breathless voyeurs. But he’d finally run them off, and dropping onto the settee beside Isolde, he unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat and loosened his cravat.

“Champagne for the mistress?”

Oz glanced at Isolde.

“Cognac, please.”

Oz grinned. “We deserve it.”

“Indeed. You were everything a loving wife could wish for. Thank you.”

“You may thank me later in a more personal way.”

She laughed. “My pleasure.”

He grinned. “I know.”

But when the fresh bottle arrived, she watched him drink with a kind of reckless speed that was disconcerting. Noticing the apprehension in her eyes, he lifted his glass to her and offered her a glittering smile. “After hours of posturing and guile, darling, I need to wash the bad taste from my mouth. Don’t be alarmed. I’m never difficult until my third bottle.”

“Perhaps you should eat something.”

“Very wifely,” he murmured, pouring himself another brandy. “But I’m not hungry.”

A timid knock on the door was shouted away.

Josef was brave enough to open the door and announce, “A Mr. Malmsey, sir.”

“I’ll see him,” Isolde said, jumping to her feet.

Oz lunged and caught her wrist. “Stay. Send him up, Josef. Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Rubbing her wrist, Isolde shook her head.

He gave her credit for courage; he’d have to be more careful. “Why don’t you order us some food,” he suggested in atonement. “I probably should eat. Anything,” he added to the query in her gaze. “You decide.”

He consciously set out to be civil, greeting Malmsey with good cheer, thanking him for his quick service, signing each document without looking at it, his bold scrawl dwarfing Isolde’s fine copperplate script. “Would you like a drink?” he asked when the last paper was back in Malmsey’s leather portfolio.

He caught Isolde shaking her head behind his back and grinned. “My wife is alarmed at my drinking, so I won’t insist you join me. Is there anything else?”

It was dismissal no matter the softness of his voice.

But Malmsey glanced at Isolde, wondering if she required his help.

“I’m perfectly fine, Malmsey,” Isolde said. “My Lord Lennox assures me he’s not difficult until his third bottle.”

Oz lifted the brandy bottle from the table. “Two, Malmsey. Your client is quite safe.”

But he didn’t eat when the food arrived, and when he broached his third bottle, Isolde said, “I think I’ll see about finding a book to read in your library.”

As she made to rise, he put out his arm, forcing her back. “Talk to me instead. Tell me the world is good”—he smiled tightly—“discounting the fashionable world, of course. Parasites all,” he muttered.

“You’ve been too long in the ton. Country society is not so brittle.”

“But is it good? Convince me of that with your betrothed—what was his name?—leaving you at the altar.”

“He didn’t precisely leave me at the altar.”

Oz looked at her and snorted.

“Well, I suppose he did in a way.”

“His name is?”

“I’m not grossly wounded, Oz. His name is Will, Baron Fowler, and you needn’t snarl.”

“I wasn’t snarling. I was grumbling. Achille brought you cake I see. Was it to your liking?”

“Everything he makes is to my liking.”

“Good, because he’s coming with us.”

“When?” The papers were signed.

“Tomorrow morning. The roads at night can be treacherous. Traveling by day is safer for you.”

“You’re not coming?”

He smiled at the hint of wistfulness in her voice. “Of course I’m coming. Would I miss meeting Will?”

“Don’t be difficult now. I’m quite reconciled to the situation.”

“I’m never difficult.”

“You’re always difficult.”

“How soon a wife turns shrewish,” he drawled. “I might have to teach you some manners.”

“You’d have to first know what manners are.”

He laughed. “Then I’ll have to teach you something else.”

“There at least you have competence.”

He dipped his head. “So I’ve been told.”

“By all your lovers who glared at me over tea. How did you manage to service them all?” She’d counted at least a score in the course of the day.

“A robust constitution and a fondness for women.”

“For sex, you mean.”

“Yes, for that.”

“Will they come calling again?”

“Josef won’t let them in.”

“But they’ll try.”

He shrugged. “It won’t do them any good.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I’m a happily married man.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “You were wonderful this afternoon. I mean it.” She kissed her fingertips. “It was a beautiful sight.”

“I’ll surpass what you saw today when Will comes to call.”

“I shouldn’t be so shallow, but—”

“You are,” he sardonically finished. “As would anyone be, darling, in the same situation. I know what country society is like—incestuous, exclusive, everyone knowing everything. Did you go to the wedding?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“There’s your mistake. Never show your feelings. That’s when the claws come out. You must have been bloodied.”

“I have good friends. In some ways, incestuous as country society may be, it’s not so vicious as the ton.”

“Yes, it is. You must be well liked.”

“I like to think I am.”

“I’m curious. Did this Will marry an heiress richer than you?”

“Yes, but that’s not why he married her.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t look at me like that. He didn’t marry her for her money.”

“Does Will have money?”

“Some.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t look so smug. He has sufficient wealth.”

She was becoming distrait. “I need a nap,” Oz said, coming to his feet and holding out his hand to Isolde. “Come keep me company. We didn’t sleep much last night.”

“You shouldn’t have said that about Will,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry. Truly.” Reaching down, he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want.”

“Because you’re so rich you can give me whatever I want.”

He grinned. “As long as we understand each other.”

She punched him.

He dragged her close, wrapped his arms around her, and held her tightly. “We’re two lost souls, darling. Let me entertain you. At least for now.”

Resting her chin on his chest, she gazed up at him, debating whether to take issue with his characterization. Not in the mood for argument, however, she softly sighed. “You
are
entertaining . . .”

“Damn right I am.” He’d honed his skills to a fine art in recent years, dissipation his remedy for painful memory. “And I have what—a fortnight at least to play congenial husband. Maybe more if Compton proves obtuse. You must tell me what you like best in the way of amusement.”

“Surely you know better than I if all the lustful ladies who came to call today are any indication of your competence.”

In his experience, discussing other women with a lover was never beneficial. While disclosing other females’ sexual preferences was not only ill-bred but suicidal. “As I recall, you like to come a few times before you settle into a rhythm,” he offered.

She grinned. “Are you avoiding my question?”