Sexy As Hell (9 page)

“Very well, but you may have it back later,” she said with equal imperiousness, at which he smiled and said, “Of course. As you wish.”

Then he committed himself to entertaining Jess, speaking low, explaining the names of the dinosaurs, helping the toddler rearrange the figures to his satisfaction, not so much as glancing Isolde’s way as she selected her wedding ring from a sumptuous collection of jewels.

“There, are you happy now?” She held out her hand, a heart-shaped ruby sparkling on her ring finger.

There was a small pause while Oz obliged Jess by moving a figure slightly to the left before he turned to his new bride and smiled. “Very well behaved. Thank you.” Then his smile changed to one of lethal charm and he said, “Forgive me for being childish. I’m afraid I’m not used to a wife. That was one of my mother’s favorite rings by the way. It suits you.”

“I apologize as well. We are both singularly determined.”

“I remember that,” he softly said, delight in his gaze. “A quality I much admire in you.”

She flushed deeply and nervously glanced at Achille.

“Achille hears nothing, darling. Do you, Achille?” Oz murmured with a raised brow to his friend standing by the sideboard.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Oz turned back to Isolde. “There, you see? We are quite alone, especially while Jess is transfixed with his toys. Now, come, darling,” he placidly said, “enjoy your breakfast.”

But even as the newlyweds breakfasted with a noisy, busy toddler, rumors of Lennox’s marriage were racing like wild-fire through the ton. A servant at Blackwood’s Hotel had spoken of the surprising marriage to his cousin who valeted for the Duke of Buccleuch—disclosing the news in the strictest confidence, of course. The duke’s valet whispered the juicy bit of gossip into the butler’s ear who in turn conveyed the astonishing tidbit to his counterpart in the Earl of Derby’s household. And so it went, the shocking event made known to the whole of society in less than two hours.

As reports of their marriage were touching off shock and wonderment in boudoirs and breakfast rooms around town, Oz and Isolde shared a companionable meal, finding that they could converse easily like friends of long-standing rather than recent acquaintances. Jess had been diverted with his toy chest, which was conveniently at hand under the sideboard, and was oblivious to the adults as only a toddler fully engaged in play could be.

Oz, having eaten well, was at ease, his wife’s presence across the table surprisingly soothing—a revelation for a man who’d always carefully avoided morning-after occasions. It occurred to him that she was very restful. She didn’t disrupt his normal routine or look askance at Jess, who hadn’t yet warmed to a new acquaintance at breakfast; nor did she introduce a jarring note into what had always been for him a tranquil time. She quietly read the paper, commenting from time to time on some topic that actually interested him, intelligently answering his infrequent remarks with a degree of acuteness that made him conclude that he might have been amusing himself with very shallow females prior to Miss Perceval.

Isolde was equally surprised she was so comfortable with a man she barely knew. Furthermore, a man of such notable seductive skills hardly seemed the type who would entertain a child at breakfast and manage to exude tranquility across the breakfast table as well. And yet he did. Like an old shoe, she incredulously thought.

CHAPTER 5

WHILE THE NEWLYWEDS were breakfasting
à trois
, two people in London were particularly hard hit by the news of Oz and Isolde’s nuptials.

Compton was somewhat the worse for drink despite the hour, but then he’d been roughly handled earlier that morning and had just cause for imbibing. On being given the inauspicious tidings by his valet, he swore roundly, poured himself another drink, drank it down, then sent for a shady fellow and a shadier solicitor he knew.

At her maid’s mention of Oz’s new wife, Nell’s shriek echoed all the way down to the kitchen, the servants throughout the sprawling house flinching at the sound. Lady Howe’s temper was fearsome. Her next scream—freezing the blood in all within range of her voice—was for her carriage to be brought round. Then, hurling her breakfast tray on the floor, she leaped out of bed, bellowing for her abigail.

In the course of her toilette, she took out her fury on the poor woman, unmercifully threatening and upbraiding her at every turn, finding fault with all her words and actions, using the young maid servant as a convenient target for every item of clothing, bit of jewelry, comb, brush, or hairpin that offended her. By the time Nell finally stalked from her boudoir, the floor was littered, but London’s reigning beauty was modishly, even dashingly attired. Her fox cape and black velvet gown served as stunning foil to her pale skin and red hair; pearls the size of pigeon eggs glistened at her throat and ears, and a small beaded bonnet was picturesquely perched on her upswept curls. With her pert chin high, her cherry red lips pursed, she sallied forth to ferret out the truth.

The instant the bedroom door closed on her mistress, the abigail, ashen and shaking, collapsed in tears. As she loudly sniffled and sobbed, she vowed to seek out another position even if it meant taking a post at some lesser establishment. Even if she was reduced to working for some arriviste mushrooms.

For her part, Nell was vowing to get to the bottom of the ridiculous, outrageous rumor making the rounds of London. She had no intention of giving up a virile, captivating, obscenely handsome lover like Oz! None at all!

 

 

 

I
T WAS NO surprise to at least one of the occupants enjoying coffee in the baron’s morning room sometime later, when a distrait servant burst in stammering an apology, followed closely by a beautiful, glowering woman in red fox and black velvet who swept into the room like a whirlwind.

“Sorry, sir,” the servant quavered, sweating. “She weren’t—”

“Never mind, Jack. You did your best.” A master at awkward situations, Oz rose from the sofa to face his irrate lover.

“To what do we owe this early-morning visit, Nell?” he blandly inquired.

“Tell me you didn’t actually
do
it!” Nell retorted, ill-humored and sulky, swiftly advancing on Oz, her porcelain brow marred by a scowl.

“News travels fast below stairs it seems.”

“As you well know! Is it true? It can’t be!” Halting before him, she raked him with a glance. “You
did
, didn’t you! How
could
you?” she cried, stamping her foot and swatting him with her beaded purse.

“Allow me to make my wife known to you, Nell,” Oz remarked, not about to respond to her outburst. Taking a step back, he glanced at Isolde seated on the sofa. “Countess Wraxell in her own right, meet Lady Howe. Nell and I are old friends.”

If looks could kill, Isolde thought with amusement as the stylish redhead raked her with a murderous glance, her husband would have been widowed on the spot. As for old friends, it was obvious they were rather more than that. “Good morning, Lady Howe. Would you like coffee or do you prefer tea?”

Oz smiled at his wife, charmed by her poise.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nell snapped. “I didn’t come here for tea.” Flushed with anger, she turned to Oz. “I came to speak with
you
.”

“Say what you like,” he answered.

“I doubt your wife would care to hear what I have to say.” Snobbish and snide, she dismissed the young woman in the unfashionable gown.

“I’m sure Isolde won’t care; we deal well together.” Shock and chagrin registered for a flashing moment on Nell’s face, his fondness plain when he mentioned his wife.
Impossible; not Oz. It must have been a lapse of some kind.
“Very well, suit yourself,” Nell said sweetly, shifting her tactics, although the quick look she cast Isolde’s way was anything but sweet. “The truth now, darling,” she murmured, brushing Oz’s arm with her gloved finger in a proprietary gesture. “Surely, this must be some jest.”

“Not in the least.”

She tried to interpret his tempered tone. “Is it some absurd wager?”

“No.”

His placid reply and faint shrug left little doubt he spoke the truth. “I can’t believe you
actually
married this, this—little nobody from nowhere,” she petulantly accused, volatile and sullen once again. “You were supposed to meet
me
at Blackwood’s last night!”

“Believe it, Nell,” he gruffly said, suddenly impatient. Oz was never in the mood to deal with Nell’s sulks, and this morning was no exception.

Nell met his chill gaze, recognized the restive look in his eyes, and understood there were men at her beck and call and others like Oz who never would be. Sensibly dismissing his marriage as irrelevant, she shrugged her fur-draped shoulders, ceased pouting, and smiled. “Whether you’re married or not doesn’t really signify, does it, dear? Everyone knows a leopard doesn’t change his spots,” she added with a little laugh. “I wish you good fortune in your marriage, Countess.” She threw Isolde a pitying glance, for who better than she knew of Oz’s plans the previous night. Gently touching Oz’s hand, she softly said, “Do call on me, darling, whenever you have time. We always have such fun together. You amuse me in so many—”

Oz caught her arm in a vicious grip. “I’ll see you to your carriage,” he growled, forcing her toward the door before she said more.

Isolde heard him swear as he exited the room, and while she had no business feeling smug, she couldn’t help but experience the veriest bit of satisfaction at her husband’s gallantry. True, he might only be acting the part to convince Lady Howe the marriage was real. But he seemed genuinely irritated by his tantrumish lover.

The beautiful redhead was
quite
splendid, though, her fiery temper notwithstanding.

Then again, Oz might prefer tempestuousness in bed.

Which was neither here nor there, Isolde sensibly decided.

Her husband would do as he pleased, married or not.

Lady Howe was right. Oz wasn’t likely to change his spots.

 

 

 

NOT THAT HE wasn’t trying at the moment. “Goddamn, Nell, what the hell were you thinking?” he muttered as he hustled her down the stairs. “Don’t show up here again.”

“Don’t order me about! I’ll do as I please!” She gasped. “You’re hurting me!”

“I’ll strangle you with my bare hands if you come back,” he curtly said, unmoved by her gasp, shoving her across the entrance hall toward the door. “It’s not an idle threat, Nell.” The strength in his fingers was leaving deep bruises. “You’re bloody irritating me.”

While he seemed immune to his retainers’ stares, Nell tried not to swoon before the several flunkeys in the hall.

Signaling for the door to be opened, Oz propelled her toward the open threshold and reaching it, let her go. “Don’t come back,” he said loud enough so his servants understood she wasn’t to be admitted again.

Then he turned, crossed the entrance hall in swift strides, and took the stairs at a run.

Returning to the morning room, Oz apologized for Nell’s intrusion.

“She’s a vain, self-indulgent baggage. But we won’t be bothered again. I promise.” Dropping beside Isolde on the sofa, he stretched out his legs, slid into a comfortable sprawl, rested his head against the cushions, and softly exhaled. Nell was a handful. She always had been.

“You’re quite free to pursue your personal amusements,” Isolde quietly remarked. “You know that.”

He turned his head enough to smile at her. “I know. However, we should appear the newlyweds for the moment at least—to put Compton off the scent. As for Nell, it won’t happen again.”

He spoke with a rough brusqueness at the end, and Isolde recalled him offering to shoot Frederick for her. Her husband had a callous streak she’d do well to remember. “Once we’re in the country, we’ll be under less scrutiny—from Frederick or your friends.”

He nodded, only half listening. Nell would spread the news of his marriage far and wide, including his savaging of her—which would only increase the tittle-tattle. “If you’re up to it, I think it might be wise if we’re at home today. Our marriage is the current overnight wonder; the most avid of the curiosity seekers are bound to call. It would serve your purposes to let the multitudes come and see”—he smiled—“the woman who so swept me off my feet, I was induced to renounce bachelorhood and allow myself to be caught.”

“Please, a stalking female is such a cliché. Would you be averse to the proposition that
I
was pursued and caught.”

“Cliché it may be, but it’s true,” he grumbled, having evaded every form of female pursuit since arriving in London, including being surprised in his bed. “I understand, though. Our marriage will be the result of love at first sight on my part. How’s that?”

“Very gracious of you.” Isolde softly sighed. “I have a confession.”

“Good God. Don’t say you’re my sister.”