Sexy As Hell (18 page)

“Or perhaps we’re two remarkably clever men,” Oz countered gallantly.

“I’ll drink to that.” Fitz raised his glass.

“I’ll drink to anything tonight,” Oz said, lifting his glass to Fitz.

The men drained their brandies, the ladies exchanged conspiratorial glances, and Oz rose to refill their glasses. “The champagne’s not to your liking?” He nodded at the women’s untouched drinks. “Josef can bring something else if you wish.”

“My stomach is uncertain at this stage,” Rosalind said in demur.

“I don’t dare drink too much or I might be excessively rude to someone,” Isolde declared.

Oz glanced at Fitz as he walked away. “Then it’s up to us to maintain the family honor.”

Groveland laughed. “Never a hardship, especially at times like this. How many curious guests are you expecting?”

“Two hundred.”

Isolde gasped. “You never told me.”

Oz turned from the liquor table. “I didn’t dare. You scream.”

“I
certainly
do not.”

“I’m sure you have good reason,” the duchess sweetly observed. “And disregard Fitz’s rudeness. We’re pleased to be here. As for these men, I’m sure they need someone to scream at them from time to time. They’re much too familiar with male privilege.” While Rosalind had never met Oz, Fitz had mentioned they were good friends and she knew what that meant for men of their repute. Or in her husband’s case, his previous repute.

Isolde couldn’t help but smile at Rosalind’s pithy viewpoint. “I’m afraid my husband has an excessive need for authority,” she mockingly lamented.

“Mine as well,” Rosalind agreed with playful forbearance.

“You forget I’ve promised to be on my best behavior tonight,” Oz pointed out, returning with two very full glasses. With the blood sport about to begin, he needed a bracing tonic.

Isolde grinned. “Rest assured, I shan’t forget.”

Oz rolled his eyes. “As soon as you marry them, they start giving orders.”

“And yet the trade-offs are exceedingly pleasant,” Fitz said with a lift of his brows.

“Agreed.” Oz smiled, Isolde blushed, and a sudden silence fell. “Speaking of trade-offs, two or three hours in society is my limit. After that everyone can go to hell.”

“If we can help in any way to ward off the obnoxious,” Groveland offered, responding to Oz’s note that had asked him to do just that. “Consider it done.”

“Thank you.” Oz held Fitz’s gaze for a telling moment. “If I’m called away for a moment or two, I’d appreciate you stepping in.”

“We’ll be Isolde’s phalanx against the unruly rabble,” Rosalind submitted. “I’m becoming wider every day, and Fitz can be masterfully rude. His mother tells me he had much too much practice,” she added with a bright smile for her husband.

The duke accepted his wife’s assessments with a beneficence any of his friends would have found incomprehensible short months ago. Groveland had been distinguished for his shameless indifference to his lovers; as for his rudeness, his mother was right. “We’ll protect Isolde, never fear.” He expected Oz was concerned about his former lovers who’d try to lure him away from his wife. “Do you have any cognac?” Fitz asked, rising to his feet.

Oz quickly stood. “Of course.”

As the men strode away, Fitz quietly said, “I wished to mention Compton. You must have heard what he’s saying.”

Oz nodded. “He concerns me. It’s the main reason I’d like you to stay by Isolde’s side if I’m absent. Compton’s creditors are about to become vindictive I understand.”

“Does he harbor expectations even now?”

“So I gather. He claims the marriage is a hoax, which implies that even if Isolde has a child, he remains the legitimate heir.”

“Is he serious?”

“I’m not sure. But with someone like him—” Oz shrugged.

“I know . . . a cheat and a bounder. It might take more than threats to send him on his way.”

Oz looked up from his pouring. “An excellent idea. I have ships regularly leaving London.”

“Think about it then. If you’re concerned with the niceties”—Fitz raised one brow to discharge the consideration; they were both men of unlimited power—“you might think of it as saving Compton from his creditors. A benevolence as it were. If you recall, he tried to extort money from Topham last year, threatening to inform his wife of the little wench Topham had set up in St. John’s Wood.”

“And?”

“You know Topham’s temper. He paid Compton a visit. In any event, no one would miss the scoundrel.”

“But his mother,” Oz drawled.

The duke smiled. “Maybe she’d enjoy an ocean voyage as well. Beresford spent a year abroad in involuntary exile after the Tranby Croft affair, as have any number of other nobles who’ve unwisely strayed from the path of righteousness,” he sardonically murmured. “And surely Compton is not in the least righteous, nor is his dreadful mother.”

They were both men of enormous wealth who understood the advantages allowed those of great fortune. The world was neither democratic nor fair, nor—sacred opinion aside—did the meek inherit the earth.

Oz dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll let you know how things transpire.”

“Just send me their sailing date. I’ll understand. By the way,” Fitz added with a grin, “those bruises and bites will draw comment. I expect your wife requires protection from leers and snickers on that score as well.”

“If you don’t mind.”

Fitz grinned. “I expect it was worth it.”

Oz grinned back and handed Fitz his drink.

While the men quickly tossed off their cognacs and had another, Rosalind and Isolde conversed with comfortable ease. They were both women who’d lived lives of relative freedom.

“I don’t know if Oz told you,” Rosalind said, “but Fitz and I married as precipitously as you. Against all reasoned practicalities, he managed to sweep me off my feet. I couldn’t say no.”

“I can understand why. He’s not only gorgeous, he obviously dotes on you. Even on short acquaintance that’s evident.”

“Fitz
is
a sweetheart. Although it seems that Oz was as insistent on marrying you.” She smiled. “Neither man has any regard for convention. They rather do as they like. You hadn’t known Oz long, had you? Fitz didn’t think so,” she added, seeing her question had unsettled Isolde. “Forgive me. I’m sure it’s none of my business.”

“No, really, it shouldn’t matter. I was simply debating whether to present the fiction Oz had promoted at our first appearance in public.

“If it helps, Fitz told me you’re not related.”

Isolde exhaled in relief. “Then I needn’t dissemble. The truth is that we met at Blackwood’s Hotel quite by accident and married the same night.”

“How wonderfully romantic,” Rosalind exclaimed. “Love at first sight—a thing of beauty! I once wrote romances, so I firmly subscribe to the notion. Although Fitz and I rather disliked each other on first meeting.”

“Obviously that changed.”

Her smile was affectionate. “Fitz can be very persuasive.”

“Oz as well,” Isolde softly replied, not altogether sure she wasn’t beginning to care too much for a man whose genius for persuasion was apparently much in demand.

“Your delightful story is safe with me and rest assured with Fitz as well. Fitz and Oz were quite close in their prodigality; two of a kind,” she added with a grin. “Or rather I should say,
were
two of a kind.”

How to respond when her husband was still the prodigal rake?

“He’ll change with marriage,” Rosalind assured Isolde, as if reading her thoughts. “I had my reservations as well. Who wouldn’t with men like them?”

“You’re happy, I can tell,” Isolde said rather than deal with the brevity of her and Oz’s future.

“Over-the-moon happy. My life had been one of struggle, so I’m grateful beyond words for Fitz’s love.”

Such unalloyed happiness triggered a wretched and utterly useless ache of misery. No happy ending would befall her, Isolde reflected, although salvation from Compton certainly would be the sweetest of triumphs. And at the moment, Oz was everything she could possibly desire. “I’m equally grateful for Oz’s kindness. He’s incredibly benevolent.”

What an odd choice of words, Rosalind reflected. But rather than voice her thoughts, she said, “I’m so pleased for you both. Ah, here come our darling husbands. I miss Fitz dreadfully the minute he walks away. I expect you feel the same way about Oz.”

“Yes, very much.” Simple words, complicated emotions, and no fairy-tale ending in sight.

“So have you men settled the affairs of the world?” Rosalind inquired, having noticed their quiet conversation.

“More or less,” Fitz blandly replied.

“Provided we get through this evening unbloodied,” Oz said with a grin.

“Pshaw. As if anyone will dare speak out of turn to either of you. To be perfectly honest,” Rosalind declared, “
I’m
rather looking forward to all the spite and malice. The evening should be as amusing as a Sheridan play.”

A single rap on the door interrupted the conversation.

Josef entered and bowed. “Nine o’clock, sir.”

The men exchanged glances as if before battle, drained their glasses, set them down, and offered their arms to their wives.

This evening was warfare of another kind but equally strategic. Tonight was meant to be a deterrent to a perceived enemy—Compton—as well as a chivalrous mobilization against the fashionable world that could be tiresomely vicious. Oz wished to protect Isolde from both. And as with any duel, he felt it easily within his power to prevail.

A few minutes later, Isolde and Oz stood at the top of the stairs waiting to greet the first guests ascending the flower-garlanded and footman-lined staircase. The Duke and Duchess of Groveland were seated within sight of their hosts but beyond the need for conversation with the visitors. Josef had placed a small table with a bottle at Fitz’s side, the duchess had an iced lemonade at hand, and both were intent on the coming performance.

“You needn’t get up, dear, if you don’t wish,” Fitz said. “If Oz leaves, I’ll take his place.”

“I’ll see how I feel,” the duchess answered with a small smile. “There might be one or two of your old paramours I might wish to send away with a flea in her ear.”

“Be my guest.”

“Lady Buckley for instance.”

Fitz laughed. “I warn you, she’s a bitch. Don’t expect me to save you.”

“I already know she’s a bitch, darling. We’ve met. And I won’t need saving.”

The most avidly curious were the first to arrive, and as Josef announced them by name, Isolde and Oz smiled the required smiles, uttered the prescribed courtesies and polite trivialities, countered the expected malice with suave malice of their own, and in general averted any overt belligerency with dulcet impudence or in Oz’s case, with the occasional warning glance.

Nell’s transit of the reception line passed without controversy since her husband was at her side and in consequence she was muzzled. Lord Howe had come specifically to meet the woman who’d lured Lennox away from his wife. While Nell was resentful of Oz’s new bride, her husband was intrigued. Well aware of his wife’s sexual expertise and agility, Lord Howe suspected that Lennox’s wife was highly imaginative in the bedchamber.

“A prodigious pleasure to meet you, Countess,” Lord Howe said, his voice silken as he gracefully bowed over Isolde’s hand.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Withdrawing her hand, Isolde spoke with counterfeit warmth. “Do enjoy yourself tonight.” She was surprised that Lord Howe was so good-looking. For some reason she’d naively thought Nell’s search for pleasure was predicated by an ugly husband.

“Thank you, I will.” Lord Howe turned to Oz with an urbane smile. “Congratulations, Lennox. You’ve found a beautiful diamond of the first water. Dashing and spirited I don’t doubt. Why else would you marry?”

The insinuation was plain, the word
spirited
pronounced with a certain small emphasis.

“Thank you. I consider myself fortunate.” Oz cooly met Lord Howe’s amused gaze. “Did you enjoy Paris?”

“Not as much, apparently, as you did London in my absence.”

“Ah—no one new in the corps de ballet? I heard a young dancer from Hungary was all the rage.”

Lord Howe didn’t so much a blink an eyelash at the allusion to his latest adultery. “You must have better sources than I.”

“I do, of course. Mine are excellent. Enjoy our little soiree. My chef has outdone himself it seems, but then one must allow him his romantic fervor. I don’t get married every day.”

“Indeed. Brooks’s betting book was inclined to wager—never.”

“Then someone won a tidy sum.” Oz deliberately turned to the next person in line, dismissing Lord Howe and his wife. Not that the following couple was an improvement. Another of his lovers had come with her husband, and unlike Lord Howe, the Earl of Dugal took issue with his wife’s infidelity.

“Will married life rein in your debauchery, Lennox?” the Scottish earl demanded in his heavy brogue.

“Marriage has brought it to complete standstill, Dugal. What about you?”

The elderly man turned a mottled red and cleared his throat. “I don’t see how that concerns you,” he growled.

“Nor does it, no more than my life concerns you,” Oz said, an edge to his voice. “Now make your bows to my lady wife and go off and drink my liquor. Unless you have something more to say.”

Dugal’s pretty young wife smirked behind her husband’s back, dipped her head to Oz, and turning to smile at Isolde, said with sweet innocence, “I wish you well, my lady. Lord Lennox is exceedingly kind.”

“I know. Thank you.” She almost felt sorry for the young wife who gazed at Oz with such longing. If she were married to a frightfully old as well as unfaithful man, she’d be looking for love elsewhere, too.

And so it went, the men offering their good wishes with leers at Isolde, the many women who’d slept with Oz predictably offering him seductive smiles and winks and whispered asides. Then there was the general herd who’d come to gawk or scrutinize or hope to ferret out the freakish and unaccountable explanation for Lord Lennox’s marriage. And last but not least, Achille’s reputation was well-known due to Oz’s wild bachelor parties. A small percentage of guests with epicurean tastes had come for the haute cuisine alone.