Sexy As Hell

CHAPTER 19

WHEN THEY REACHED Oak Knoll, Oz helped Isolde alight. In the presence of grooms and footmen, with Dimitri looking on, he said with cultivated grace, “Would you like me to call your maid?”

“I’m perfectly capable of calling my maid,” she said, bristling at his cool detachment.

He smiled tightly. “If you’ll excuse me then, I’m going for a ride. Don’t hold dinner for me.” He found himself addressing the air. Isolde had turned and was walking away.

He wasn’t obtuse; he understood her anger. But he needed time to sort out the turmoil in his brain, come to terms with the burden of his past. Reconcile what was to have been a temporary marriage with this current dilemma.

As the door closed on Isolde, he swiftly made for the stables. Too restless to wait while a groom saddled his horse, Oz rigged and harnessed Sukha himself. A chestnut stallion from the mountains beyond the Hindu Kush, Sukha had been bred for speed and endurance, and once horse and rider cleared the stable block, Oz let the leathers slip through his fingers. With extended rein and curbless mouth, Sukha was soon racing flat out over the downs.

Literally escaping entanglement, Oz rode fast and hard over the green hills and dales, eyes narrowed against the wind, his hair disheveled by the breeze, his ears deaf to the thunder of calamity riding his coattails. He didn’t want to reason or debate, referee or adjudicate; he just wanted to bolt.

Evade and avoid.

Until he no longer could.

The banner of defeat hoisted itself at the signpost for the village of Upper Framton, where his exhausted mount stumbled and nearly went down. Leaping from the saddle, Oz apologized to Sukha, who’d carried him across most of India as well as along London’s fashionable gallops, and turning back, he walked his lathered horse until the huge chestnut was rested enough to take his weight again.

His return to Oak Knoll proceeded at a gentle pace, the March light slowly fading, a light mist rising in the low ground as evening approached. No matter how often he tried to flee-whether from formidable memory or disquieting emotion-Khair’s memory remained fixed in his mind: beautiful and full of grace, her skin like alabaster against her dark hair, her eyes smiling, her soft voice teasing and playful. They’d grown up together at the court in Hyderabad, had always assumed they’d marry. But his suit had been rejected, her family committed to a union that would ally them to a powerful northern prince. Not that her family had had a hand in her death, but they’d been the reason she’d taken her own life rather than marry a man she didn’t love.

A part of him had died with her that day, and in the years since, he’d not found the means to salvage his life. Immediately after Khair’s funeral, he’d fled to England, where he’d dealt with his anguish in his own dissolute way. He was there when his father and mother had died, both prey to a summer fever that decimated the Anglo community. And ironically, while his English ancestry had cost him the woman he loved, the fact that his grandmother had been a native of Hyderabad permitted him to inherit the largest bank in India. Not adequate compensation for so heavy a loss of those he loved, but at least his road to destruction was paved with limitless gold.

Long accustomed to his particular method of escape, he was case-hardened to withdrawal, untaxed by the sensibilities that touched other men, thick-skinned with practice, and wholly selfish. Devoted to no living soul, when he finally came to a decision apropos Isolde, it was unequivocal. His certainty would have come as no surprise to those who knew him.

The moon was pale on the horizon when he rode into the stable yard, all turmoil and doubt resolved.

Isolde, unable to evade the behemoth in the room, had spent the ensuing hours fretting and stewing and in general working herself into a pet. It wasn’t that she was blaming Oz completely; naturally, she shared responsibility. Nor was she irrational when it came to the necessary decision making if-there was still the remote possibility she was jumping to conclusions-if she should be pregnant. However, she didn’t think herself unduly difficult in expecting Oz to discuss the situation. Although that might be too demanding for a man who’d apparently avoided permanence in his relationships. More to the point, a man who’d offered her his name with the clear understanding that there existed an express time limit to the offer.

It was her mistake, she ruefully thought, to have become so enamored and infatuated that she’d surrendered completely to passion and neglected the most fundamental prudence. Resting her head against the chair back, she softly groaned.

She should have known better.

The door to the small drawing room opened so softly, she wasn’t sure for a moment whether the sound was real or imagined. But the familiar voice, drawling and languid with impudence, brought her head around.

“I see you’ve eaten with your usual appetite.” His dark gaze surveyed the remnants of several dishes on the small table near the fire as he walked into the room. “You must be feeling restored.”

Isolde had eaten supper in the cozy chamber as was her habit prior to Oz’s arrival. “I do feel better, thank you. And you?” She was capable of sarcasm as well. “You look wet.”

His hair and clothes were damp from the evening mist. “It’s always wet in England.” He stripped off his gloves as he approached and tossed them on a chair.

“Should I apologize?”

“Not unless you control the weather as well as my passions.”

Her brows rose at the caustic edge to his voice. “Allow me to set your mind at rest concerning the weather at least.”

“As to the other, I’ll contrive to master that myself.” He stood before her now, his large form silhouetted against the firelight, his face half in shadow, a restiveness to his stance. “I’m not staying.”

“Fine.”

“What do you mean, fine?” His surprise showed for a fleeting moment before, more clear-eyed, he saw his advantage.

“Did you think I’d beg and plead for you to stay?” She held his gaze for a moment. “On the contrary, should I be pregnant, it’s my problem, not yours.” She’d had plenty of time in his absence to deal with the practicalities. You could no more hold Oz in bondage than you could shackle the wind.

“You might not be pregnant at all.” He stood there splendid, half-tamed, unencumbered.

“I agree.”

“Naturally, if you are, I’ll assume any financial responsibility,” he said, cool and businesslike.

“There’s no need. My fortune is considerable.” She smiled faintly. “And thanks to you, secure. Sincerely, Oz, I’m most grateful.” Her smile widened, and her eyes sparkled in the firelight. “For all your many services rendered.”

He forced himself not to move, even as powerful lust urged him to pick her up, carry her over to the sofa, and fuck her until hell froze over. “I think I’ll leave tonight.” Sheer self-preservation. What had appeared sensible and reasonable on his ride back no longer seemed so astute, logic and lust seriously at odds.

“I’ll have Lewis help with your departure.” She picked up a small bell. “Although Betsy and Jess should wait until morning before they set out for London.”

For a flashing second he debated plucking the bell from her fingers and changing his plans.

They’d been together long enough that she read that small hesitation.

And out of hope, she waited a second more.

“I’ll have Sam tell Betsy,” Oz said in a neutral voice. “And if you need anything at anytime, don’t hesitate to let me know. My resources are at your disposal.”

A shame you aren’t, she thought, although he’d been clear about his role from the start. “If I should prove to be with child, would you mind if the divorce waited until after the birth? As a matter of clarity.”

How often he and Khair had spoken of having a family. And now he might become a father by a woman he’d known a few weeks. A sudden disquieting thought raced through his brain. “As a matter of clarity since Will’s already married and your child needs a father, you mean?” His voice was suddenly soft with malice. “I don’t recall you having your menses since we wed.”

A blush of disbelief washed up her face, replaced an instant later by a look of burning outrage. “How dare you suggest such a thing!”

“Then tell me,” he said, unsympathetic and hard as nails, “how do I know this child is mine?”

“There might not be a child,” she cooly replied.

“One can but hope,” he drawled.

She went utterly still, her eyes held his for a stark moment, and with an equal measure of sarcasm, she softly said, “I’ll thank you to shut the door behind you when you leave.”

He was as motionless as she, his gaze knife sharp. “Coloring like mine runs true.” He flicked a finger toward his face. “We’ll find out the identity of the father soon enough.”

“All I need from you is a divorce.” Clipped and curt.

Anger flickered through his eyes. “Except not just now.”

“Anytime,” she said grimly. “I’ll send Malmsey directions.” She took a small breath, and her eyes were dark with rage once again. “Do you think I care what people say? If I did, I’d never have spread my name in all the scandal sheets. So you’re free to go back to London and your women-”

His dark eyes, full on her face, narrowed. “And you to Will.”

“No. Unlike you, I don’t break up marriages.”

“Nor do I,” he said suavely. “I just make life bearable for the wives.”

“How commendable,” she said, ten generations of ice in her voice. “I wish you well in your benevolence. Now, if you won’t go, I will.” She came to her feet.

“Relax, darling,” he said without inflection, a faint smile on his lips. “I’m leaving.”