Sexy As Hell

CHAPTER 13

OZ WAS AT his most charming when introduced to Isolde’s staff, so much so that even her butler, Lewis, who prided himself on his dignity, was seen to smile. Mrs. Belmont, less starchy by far, was instantly captivated by Oz, his admiration for her mother’s cameo she always wore at her throat bringing forth blushing giggles that only subsided at a warning cough from Lewis. As for the young footmen and maids, their adulation was plain-a paragon of manliness had come into the family. The staff of the neighboring gentry would be green with envy.

The pleasantries concluded, the newlyweds retired to a small drawing room to await dinner. While still midafternoon, the winter light was beginning to fade, and the blazing logs in the fireplace lent a snug coziness to the chamber. As did the comfortable, well-used furniture from an era long past; it was Isolde’s favorite room.

Oz lounged on a needlepoint settee stitched by some early Wraxell lady of the manor. His jacket was unbuttoned, his booted feet, devoid of spurs now, were draped over one of the curved armrests. An open bottle of brandy, loosely grasped, rested on his chest.

Isolde sat well away from him, framed by an exquisite tracery window purloined from one of the monasteries sacked by Henry VIII. She was doing her best to carry on an essentially one-sided conversation.

“Are you even listening?” she asked after a particularly lengthy period of silence from her husband.

He turned to her and smiled. “You were telling me about your stables. Go on, Miss Izzy,” he added with a grin.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not. I like the name. It suits you.”

As he lifted the bottle to his mouth once again, she marveled at his capacity for drink. He appeared perfectly sober, neither slurring his words, nor becoming disorderly. Her father had held his liquor like that. “You’re drinking my father’s favorite brandy. It apparently meets with your approval.”

“Indeed. He had good taste.” As though to underscore the point, he drank another long draught, after which he said in a ruminating tone, “My father drank claret even though it didn’t travel well. Habit, I suspect.”

“Perhaps it reminded him of home.”

“He was born in India.”

Her surprise must have showed because he added, “As was his father. Our family has deep roots in India.”

“And yet you’re here in England.”

“After everyone died there was no reason to stay.”

His words were almost inaudible. “I’m sorry. Your memories must be painful.”

“Not with this.” He lifted the bottle slightly. “My anesthesia.” He suddenly smiled. “As are you in a much more pleasurable way.”

She dipped her head, responding to his more lighthearted comment in kind. “Pleased to be of service, sir.”

He grinned. “Hold that thought until after dinner.”

“If you must know, I think of little else.”

“Not another word,” he gruffly said, stabbing her with his glance. “I’m barely holding on.”

“Should I leave?”

“No.” Quick and curt. “Talk to me. Distract me with some more benign conversation. What do you read, for instance, or how did your crops fare this year? Does Mrs. Belmont always giggle like that? Who made that hideous traveling gown you’re wearing?”

Her gaze narrowed. “I beg your pardon.”

“Throw it away after dinner. I’ll buy you ten better ones.”

“Tut! Do I complain about your tailor?”

“I should hope not. Poole even manages to make fat Wales presentable.”

He was exquisitely dressed, dusty boots notwithstanding, his tailoring expensive, elegant, and deliberately austere. “I shall tell you what I’m reading of late,” she primly said. “Prepare to be edified.”

He groaned.

Exacting vengeance for his rebuke of her dressmaker, she went on at some length about her recent reading. The books she favored were generally agricultural publications having to do with new crop hybrids and livestock breeds, and when he’d not taken a drink for some time she rather thought he’d nodded off. “So I decided to plant pineapples and bananas on my acres and had a most successful harvest,” she finished with a flourish.

“Unlike you, we actually grow them in Hyderabad,” he drawled, turning his amused gaze her way. “As for edification, I’ve been translating a rare Urdu manuscript, an ancient romance with warring kings and armies on the march. You may read it once I’m finished. Now, when are we going to eat?” He shook the brandy bottle. “This is damned near empty.”

The drawing room door opened as she was about to answer and an agitated footman stood on the threshold. “Lord Fowler, my lady,” he nervously announced, only to be shoved aside by the man she’d once thought to marry.

“What the hell’s this about you marrying!” Striding into the room, tracking mud with each step, his gaze hot with temper, Will Fowler bore down on Isolde like a man possessed. “The news is all over the neighborhood!”

“This must be Will.”

A man’s voice, languid and softly mocking, brought Lord Fowler to a standstill, and Isolde thought, Oh dear.

Spinning around, Will saw a man undraping himself from the settee and lazily coming to his feet. “Who the hell are you?” A rhetorical question, fractious and cross as a bear.

“Will, allow me to introduce my husband,” Isolde quickly interposed before someone tossed down the gauntlet. “Osmond Lennox, Baron Lennox; Will Fowler, Baron Fowler.”

Will’s gaze swiveled to Isolde. “You never told me about him,” he snapped.

She bit back a similar comment about his wife, unwilling to enter a verbal skirmish of no practical use to anyone.

“Ours was a whirlwind love affaire,” Oz said sweetly, setting down the bottle he was holding. “The moment we met, we fell head over heels, didn’t we, darling?” A ghost of a smile on his face, Oz inclined his head slightly toward Isolde.

“Indeed, we did,” Isolde agreed, performing her role.

“Ah, the magic of love-easy as falling off a log and yet more baffling than the riddle of the universe. Would you care to stay for dinner?” Oz continued with exquisite grace, ignoring Isolde’s forbidding look. “I’m told we sit down to table soon.”

“I’m sure Will is expected home for dinner. Aren’t you?” The pleasure she derived from her innocent query was tawdry perhaps but wholly satisfying.

Oz watched his wife with a discerning gaze, and playing the indulgent husband, pressed Lord Fowler to stay. “Why not send Lady Fowler a note so she needn’t worry? Isolde was telling me I must get to know the neighbors.”

How wicked and sweet of Oz, Isolde decided, exchanging a whimsical glance with her husband. “One of the grooms can ride over with the note, Will. Do stay.”

“I can’t,” he retorted, his voice still brusque with temper, his gloved hands clenched in chafing rage. “We have guests coming for dinner.”

“A shame. Some other time perhaps,” Oz murmured, walking over to Isolde and curling his arm around her shoulder. “Although, we may be keeping to ourselves rather more than not,” Oz roguishly added, pulling Isolde close and holding her gaze. “You promised me a full month for our honeymoon, didn’t you, dear?”

“Hush, darling, you’re embarrassing me.” A demur glance for effect.

“Nonsense, my sweet. Lord Fowler understands a man’s needs are a man’s needs.” Oz surveyed Will with good humor. “Isn’t that so?”

“I’ll talk to you later, Isolde.” Taut and curt, Will choked out the words, then whirling around, stalked from the room.

“Dear Will reminds me of Nell’s tantrums,” Oz murmured, releasing her and moving back to the settee and his bottle. “Some lovers take issue with a fait accompli. Don’t they know possession is nine points of the law?”

“If your many lovers who came to call in London are any indication, I’d say no,” she drolly replied.

“Nor did Will appear ready to give up his ownership stake,” Oz gently observed.

“Too bad.” Dropping back into her chair, she contemplated her lounging husband with fondness. “Thank you, by the way. You were superb.”

“You’re more than welcome. Since Will seemed unwilling to relinquish his claims, I thought it only right that he be made aware of our deep and passionate regard for each other.”

“And so you did most excellently. Although I very much doubt Lady Howe or any of the other ladies who came to call are ready to give you up, passionate regard or not.”

“Ah, but he’s close and they’re not.”

“I doubt he’ll be back.”

“I guarantee you he will.”

Strangely, she didn’t care. For the first time since Will’s marriage, she no longer experienced a feeling of loss or having been forsaken. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. Something was different today.” She smiled. “You were here as buffer, I suppose.”

His grin flashed. “You also took pleasure in his discomfort.”

“Yes. Is that so bad?”

“Not at all. In fact I wish him pleasure in his richer-than-you heiress. Gold is little satisfaction in the end. That I know.” At which point, he upended the bottle, drank the remaining dregs, and setting the bottle on the carpet, said with a touch of weariness in his voice, “Ring for someone. I want dinner now.”