Sexy As Hell (2 page)

Oz almost felt sorry for Elphinstone, who’d no more meet him on the dueling field than he’d satisfy his wife in bed or even know enough to be decent to her.
Almost
felt sorry. “I’ll raise you another thousand,” he gently said, the cards he was holding as near perfect as the law of averages allowed.
What the hell; the ass doesn’t deserve my pity.
“Make that two.”

Five minutes later, much richer and in a hurry, Oz was in the entrance hall and a flunkey was holding out his coat for him. “It’s still raining hard out there, sir.”

“That’s England,” Oz said with a smile, sliding his arms into the sleeves and shrugging into his grey overcoat. “More rain than sun.” Handing the man a sovereign, he turned and strode toward the door. Standing outside under the portico a moment later, he watched the rain pouring down as though the heavens had opened up, felt the wind tugging at his coat skirts, surveyed the distant treetops tossing in the gusts, and was suddenly reminded of Hyderabad during the monsoon season. Christ, he must have drunk more than usual tonight—too many of those old memories were surfacing. Shaking off the unwanted images, he dashed down the stairs and entered his waiting carriage. “Drive like hell, Sam,” he said, dropping into a seat with a smile for his driver who had been taking refuge from the storm inside the conveyance. “I’m late as usual.”

“I’ll get you there right quick.” Sam slipped out the opposite door.

As the well-sprung carriage careened through the streets of London at a flying pace, Oz half dozed, his life of late slightly deficient in sleep. With Nell’s husband in Paris, she’d been consuming a good deal of his time. In addition, he had a shipping business to run, he’d been working at translating a recently purchased rare Urdu manuscript, and of course, Brooks’s was a constant lure to a man who loved to gamble.

Once Lord Howe returned from Paris next week, Nell would be less persistent in her demands. He smiled faintly. Not that he was complaining. She had a real talent for acrobatics.

As the carriage drew to a halt before a small hotel, newly opened by a gentleman’s gentleman who had recently retired with a tidy sum, Lennox came fully awake, shoved open the carriage door, and stepped out into the downpour. “Don’t wait, Sam,” he shouted and ran for the entrance.

A doorman threw open the door at his approach. Swiftly crossing the threshold, Oz came to a stop in a small foyer. He smiled at the proprietor behind the counter. “Evening, Fremont. Damn wet out there.” He shook the raindrops from his ruffled hair.

“Seasonal weather I’m afraid, sir. Would you like a servant to run you a hot bath or bring up a hot toddy?”

“Perhaps later. Which room?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

Nell had chosen Blackwood’s Hotel in Soho Square for its seclusion, and they’d been coming here with great frequency the past fortnight. Taking the stairs at a run, he considered his apology. He couldn’t say the game was too exciting to leave; he’d have to think of another excuse.

He strode down the hallway, glancing at the passing brass number plates until he arrived at the requisite room. He opened the door and walked in.

“You’re late.”

A soft, breathy tone, with a touch of impatience. Knowing well what stoked Nell’s impatience—the randy tart liked it morning, noon, and night—he answered in a suitably apologetic tone. “Forgive me, darling, but one of my ship captains arrived just as I was leaving the house.” Christ, it was dark. Why was just a single wall sconce in the far corner lit? Was Nell in a romantic frame of mind? But then he saw her toss back the covers and pat the bed beside her, and rather than question the degree of darkness, he quickly shed his wet coat, his two rings, and stripped off his clothes.

“I like your new perfume,” he murmured as he climbed into bed. Dropping back against the pillows, he pulled her close. “Are you cold, darling?” She was wearing a nightgown.

“No.”

“In that case, we can dispense with this.” Pushing the silk fabric up over her hips with a sweep of his hand, he rolled over her, settled smoothly between her legs, and set out to apologize to Nell in the way she liked best.

A door to the left of the bed suddenly burst open, a gaggle of people trooped in, the bedchamber was suddenly flooded with light, and a portly man in the lead pointed at the bed. “There!” he cried. “You are all witnesses to the countess’s base and lewd moral turpitude!”

Lennox stared at the woman beneath him.
Not red-haired Nell. A blonde.
“What the hell is going on?” he growled.

As if in answer, the spokesman declared with an oratorical flourish to the cluster of people crowded round the bed, “If required, you will testify in court as to exactly what you have seen here tonight—to whit . . . a clear-cut case of moral turpitude and venery! Thank you, that will be all,” he crisply added, dismissing the motley crew with a wave of his hand.

His eyes like ice, Lennox surveyed the female under him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said with soft malevolence. Obviously he’d been gulled for someone’s monetary gain.

“Nor need we be,” the lady cooly replied. “You may go now. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Lennox didn’t move other than to turn his head toward the only other man remaining in the room. “Get out or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” He always carried a pistol—a habit from India.

Isolde Perceval, Countess of Wraxell in her own right, lying prone beneath the very large man, nodded at her barrister. Not that he was likely to put his life at risk for her, but should he be considering anything foolish, she rather thought she would prefer to deal with this hired actor herself.

As Mr. Malmsey shut the door behind him and quiet prevailed, Isolde gazed up at the man who’d come to rest between her legs with a casualness that bespoke a certain acquaintance with dalliance. “I thought Malmsey explained what was required of you,” she said. “But if you’d like an additional payment, kindly get off me and I’ll be happy to fetch my purse and pay you whatever you wish.”

Oz’s brows rose. “Is this some farce?”

“Far from it. With your cooperation, of course. As Mr. Malmsey no doubt pointed out, your silence is required.”

Silence about what?
Through a minor alcoholic haze, Oz speculated on how he’d landed in this bizarre scenario. “What room number is this?”

“Thirteen.”

Then where was Nell? Still waiting somewhere.
Merde.
“Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” His expression was grim. “If you wish my silence, I suggest you comply.”

“There’s no need for belligerence. I’m not going anywhere.”

You had to give her credit. The lady wasn’t easily rattled, although having organized this performance—with witnesses to boot—bespoke a certain audacity on her part. He slid off her and rose from the bed. Lifting his overcoat from the chair on which he’d dropped it, he slipped it on, buttoned it, then exited the room and made his way downstairs to speak to the proprietor.

Isolde debated dressing, but should he return quickly, she ran the risk of being caught in some degree of nudity, and with a forward fellow like this actor, she was safer where she was. Her purse was within reach. Furthermore, there was no doubt in her mind that they could reach a monetary agreement. Malmsey had already paid him for his night’s work, but the life of an actor was one of financial insecurity. So she’d simply ask him what he required to forget that he’d been here and she’d pay it.

Downstairs, Oz was offering the proprietor of Blackwood’s Hotel a rueful smile. “A slight problem has arisen, Fremont. Room thirteen is occupied by an unknown person.”

“My apologies, sir.” The trim, dapper man quickly flipped through the guest ledger and a moment later glanced up with a genuinely pained expression. “My most
profuse
apologies, my lord. I should have said room
twenty-three
.” His face was beet red. “I most
humbly
beg your pardon.”

“Rest easy, Fremont,” Oz replied good-naturedly. “No great damage has been done. Although, if you’d be so kind as to inform the lady in room
twenty-three
that I’m unable to meet her tonight, I’d appreciate it. Tell her that a business matter of some importance has delayed me.”

“Naturally, sir, as you wish, sir.” Relieved he wouldn’t meet with the baron’s wrath, the proprietor deferentially added, “Would you like me to express your regrets to the lady?”

“I would, thank you. And see that she has a carriage waiting for her.”

“Yes, sir. Consider it done.” Fremont gave no indication that he knew Lennox was nude beneath his coat. The baron was a very generous man, his gratuities commensurate with his fortune. Not to mention his forgiving nature tonight was a profound relief.

Oz turned to leave, then swung back. “You don’t happen to know the name of the lady in room thirteen?”

“A Mrs. Smith, sir,” Fremont answered, one brow lifting at the obvious fraud.

“Ah—I see. Thank you.”

Not prone to self-reflection after an evening of drink, he gave no more thought to the lady’s pretense. Taking the stairs at a run, he returned to room thirteen, slipped inside, and shut and locked the door behind him
.
There she was—right where he’d left her. That she’d not taken the opportunity to run suggested this situation was critical in some way. Interesting . . . as was the lovely lady. Shedding his coat, he walked to the light switch by the connecting door, flicked off the intolerably bright overhead fixture, and moving toward the bed, turned on another wall sconce.

A touch of apprehension appeared in Isolde’s eyes. Even in worldly London, even with an actor from the free and easy world of the theater she’d not expected such shamelessness. “What are you doing?” Seated against the headboard, she jerked the covers up to her chin.

“Coming to make a bargain with you.” While he was not entirely sure what had motivated his reply, the persuasive influence of a beautiful woman, opportunity, and considerable liquor couldn’t be discounted. Not to mention that on closer inspection, her charms were even more impressive.

“Kindly do so once you’re dressed.”

“You’re not in a position to give orders,” Oz gently noted, thinking he really must have drunk too much tonight that the alarm in the lady’s eyes was so perversely satisfying. Prompted by his thoughts, he looked around the room. “Is there any liquor here?”

“No.”

But he spied a tray with decanters on a table in the corner. He walked without haste to the table and poured himself a brandy. Returning to the bed, he raised his glass to her. “See—you were mistaken. Would you like some?”

“No, I would not,” Isolde replied in quelling accents. “Kindly inform me of this bargain of yours so we may both be on our way.”

Since his intentions weren’t entirely clear or rather of a chrysalis nature, he climbed back into bed, took a seat beside her, and said, “First tell me why I’m here—because clearly the man Malmsey hired is not.” Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank half the brandy.

Good God, he isn’t the actor!
“I have no idea on either score,” she tersely said, rattled by this unexpected turn of events. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here annoying me and some anonymous actor would have long since left.”

“An actor?” Oz grinned. “Did the poor man know what he was getting into?”

“I’m sure he did. He was well paid for his role.”

“Apparently he was,” Oz drolly noted, “considering he didn’t show up for his performance.”

“Obviously, there was some mistake. But,” Isolde mockingly added, “since you performed well, all turned out in the end.”

“
If
I agree to accommodate you.” The word
perform
was triggering rather explicit images.

“You already have.”

“Not completely.” This lady along with her story piqued his interest. Or maybe he’d become bored with Nell.

“If it’s money you want,” she said with a touch of impatience, “just say so and we can stop playing games.”

Oz lifted his glass to her. “I haven’t even begun playing, Countess,” he silkily murmured.

“I find your innuendo shameless
and
irritating,” Isolde snapped, bristling with indignation, her ready temper on the rise. The man was equally shameless in his nudity; he didn’t even
attempt
to cover himself.

“Now, now,” Oz murmured, fascinated by her willful personality, “there’s no reason we can’t be friends. Where are you from?” He hadn’t seen her before, and if she was indeed a countess, he would have met her—and more to the point, wouldn’t have forgotten so splendid a woman. She had the face of an enchantress—sensual blue eyes dark with storm clouds, a fine straight nose, soft, cherry red lips that fairly begged to be kissed, and a stubborn little chin that was infinitely fascinating to a man who knew far too many willing females. A glorious halo of pale hair framed her features, and even with their brief bodily contact, her voluptuousness was conspicuous.

“I have no intention of being your friend, nor need you know where I’m from.” She must extricate herself from this unexpected and potentially disastrous predicament—and quickly. Her plans didn’t include someone who might talk out of turn. Everything depended on a nameless lover who couldn’t be found and cross-examined.

“Then perhaps,” Oz drawled, “I should tell Mr. Malmsey that I don’t choose to cooperate with this scheme and if he persists I’ll sue him for every penny he has.”

“You’re the one who barged in,” she argued, more calmly now. This man would eventually name his price; everyone did.

“And you were the one who said I was late.” His lazy smile was full of grace. “Surely I’d have been remiss to keep a lady waiting.”

“How very smooth you are. But impertinent, sir.”

“While you’re quite beautiful,” he softly countered. “Although I expect you already know that. Tell me, is this little drama perpetrated to give your husband cause for divorce? If so, I don’t understand why your lover is willing to expose you to all the prurient interest and scandal on your own. Where’s the scoundrel’s backbone?”