Sexy As Hell (13 page)

ISOLDE WOKE THE next morning to find herself alone in bed.

But not alone.

A young servant girl was standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her.

“Good morning, ma’am. Did you sleep well?” The words were obviously rehearsed, the delivery so conscientious and exacting.

Isolde smiled. “Thank you, yes.”

“I’m to tell the baron when you wake.” A pondering frown flitted across the girl’s brow, and then her expression brightened at sudden recall. “He’ll be up directly, ma’am.” She displayed a gap-toothed smile. “That be all he said, ma’am. Now, I’m to go get him right quick.” Spinning around, she dashed from the room.

How long had the child been standing there watching her sleep? Isolde wondered. Her new husband was remarkably thoughtful of her comfort, and not only in this regard. He’d given her a night of unparalleled pleasure.

The heavy drapes had been drawn back from one of the large windows—to aid in her surveillance, no doubt. Rain drummed on the glass, the grey sky heavy with scudding clouds. But a fire crackled on the hearth, warming the room, mitigating the dreariness outside. Not that the inauspicious weather impacted Isolde’s unclouded mood. Her honeymoon night—however fanciful the marriage—had been pure rapture.

She even more fully understood why all Oz’s lovers had glared at her yesterday.

They hated her for stealing away their favorite playmate. Although, she suspected they knew it was just a matter of time before Oz tired of marriage. Most aristocratic husbands did.

Before she could long lament the inevitable, the door opened and
her
favorite playmate strode into the room. He was splendidly attired, his dark frock coat beautifully tailored, his pale grey cravat tied with careless perfection, his ruffled curls restrained by his valet’s attentions. The large sapphire on his watch fob sparkled in the subdued light; his smile was equally dazzling. “You’re up.”

“You’ve apparently been up for some time.”

“Business before pleasure. Or so they tell me, and Davey gets up with the sun. How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead.”

She had the look of a tomb effigy as well, he humorously thought, her hands crossed over her breast, her pose quiescent. “I hope marriage won’t be too exhausting for you.” Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he covered her hands with his. “If I was too demanding last night, I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t dream of complaining,” she said, smiling.

“Nor I. No man could have asked for a better bridal night.” His smile was as graceful as his turn of phrase. “However,” he said, drawing his hand away, “events of the day must be addressed.”

A small trepidation flitted through her senses at his painstakingly deliberate tone.

“Achille is pacing in the breakfast room, awaiting your arrival. Something about strawberry crepes that are no longer at optimum temperature. I told him I’m sure you wouldn’t care. I’ve already entertained Jess, who couldn’t wait. By the way, you must try Achille’s mango custard or he’ll pout. So, the first question is—would you like your bath first or food?”

“You first would be nice.”

“I agree. If only I didn’t have people waiting to see me in my office.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Already abandoned on my honeymoon.”

“Not for long. We’ll become reacquainted this afternoon.” Leaning forward, he gently kissed her. “In the meantime,” he said, sitting up, a note of restraint evident now in his voice, “I have another question to put to you. Would you mind being introduced to the ton in a more formal way than yesterday? Let me explain,” he added at her instant frown. “It seems that Compton is spreading rumors that our marriage is a farce.” Oz had a well-paid spy network here and abroad; a necessity in the world of banking where competitors often overlooked ethics. “I thought it might be best to have you make your bows at an official reception so the entire ton can see we are not only married but in love. You’ll look adoringly at me, I’ll return the favor, and we’ll foil these mischievous rumors while Compton stews in the corner.”

“You’d invite him?”

“Of course. Our most skeptical doubter must have a front-row seat.”

“Along with Lady Howe, I presume.”

“That I leave up to you. If you don’t wish to see her, I understand. On the other hand—”

“She’s your most skeptical doubter.”

“Yes.”

She pulled a face. “Must we?”

“Since you won’t let me put a bullet through Compton, yes we must. The man’s a scoundrel to the bone,” he said with a touch of impatience.

“I’d just prefer a less public way of dealing with him.” She frowned. “I’d have to be polite to him in front of everyone. I was hoping never to see him again.”

“You’ve led too sheltered a life, darling. Between marriage to me and your denouement in the broadsheets you’ve stepped into the glare of notoriety. There is no less public way,” he said with composure. “Especially since Compton’s spent considerable effort denouncing our marriage as a fabrication. Let me take care of this for you. Agree to this reception.”

“You’re sure there’s no other way?” Reluctance in every syllable.

“Nothing so conclusive as the public spotlight. You were excellent in your role at tea yesterday. You can do it again. I’ll be beside you to give you your cues.”

“You make it all sound so reasonable.”

He gave her one of his lavish smiles. “It is. A few hours and it’s over.”

She softly sighed. “I suppose if we must.”

“Excellent.” Oz smiled. The invitations had already been sent out
.

“When exactly are you planning this reception? I want to return home soon.”

“Tonight.”

Her eyes flared wide. “Tonight! Surely no one will come on such short notice.”

His lips twitched. “Of course they will. I have a reputation for being unmanageable. They’ll want to see if you can manage me.”

“I can’t, of course.”

“Tonight you can.”

“In that case,” she said with a sudden smile, “I must plan my strategy. The thought of you as a tractable husband quite boggles the mind.”

“Be gentle.” His gaze was angelic.

Pushing up into a sitting position, she playfully said, “Mock me if you dare. I’ll be holding the whip hand over you in public.”

The covers had fallen away as she sat up, exposing her sumptuous breasts, their soft ripeness and rosy warmth close enough to touch. Oz’s libido reacted instantly. Fully capable of controlling his impulses, however, his voice was well ordered when he spoke. “Consider, my pet, once everyone is gone, I might be interested in whips as well.”

“I’m not sure that’s all bad,” she said with wink.

He laughed. “I should have met you before and saved myself from a good deal of boredom.”

“And I as well,” she airily replied when short days ago she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of sexual familiarity with a man she barely knew. “Do you really have people waiting in your office?”

He almost said no, the plaintiveness in her voice clear. If Sam wasn’t waiting for instructions, if Davey wasn’t impatient to have him reply to the morning’s telegrams, if he wasn’t routinely engaged in banking business at this time of day, he might have. “I do, I’m sorry,” he gently said. “But you have an appointment as well after breakfast. A modiste is coming to fit you for a new gown.”

She frowned. “What if I’d said no to your reception?”

“Then you simply would have had a new gown. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”

“You’d better. I suppose my entire day’s scheduled?” she fretfully said, irritated with his apparently inexhaustible authority.

He put up a calming hand. “Feel free to do as you please.” “Except for the modiste.”

He smiled. “If you don’t mind. She’ll be here at eleven. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” There was no point in useless argument when his plans were fully
en train
. He came to his feet. “Davey’s waiting.”

CHAPTER 8

MRS. AUBIGNY, THE most sought-after modiste in London, a woman fully aware of her consequence, was brought into what Josef referred to as the sewing room, precisely at eleven. Introductions were made, the door closed on Josef, and the fair, stylishly dressed Frenchwoman surveyed Isolde with a keen, assessing gaze.

Then she smiled warmly.

“Allow me to offer you my congratulations on bringing Lennox to heel,” she pleasantly said, an undercurrent of French in her pronunciation.

“Do I say thank you to such frankness?”

“But of course, my dear. It’s a compliment. When Lennox’s man came to me I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I see now”—the modiste’s gaze narrowed in a considering way—“you’re
quite
out of the ordinary. Your pale, blushing beauty bespeaks a
sans peur et sans reproche
—what do the English say—purity, virtue? A change for his lordship.”

“You know his lordship personally?” Isolde inquired with her own candor. Was she dealing with another of Oz’s paramours?

“
Non, non
, my lady. You misunderstand. His lordship merely patronizes my shop.”

“Quite often I suspect,” Isolde said.
Oh dear, how childish.
She instantly regretted her comment.

This little bride was clearly jealous of her husband’s past—poor dear. “His lordship favors our establishment on occasion,” Mrs. Aubigny equivocated rather than reveal that Lennox was her best customer.

“I appreciate your tact.”

Ah, a woman of intuition.
“One learns in this business, my lady.”

“One learns that men and women approach marriage differently,” Isolde returned with equal honesty.

“Not necessarily. In your case, you and his lordship were obviously in accord.”

It was impossible to reply truthfully. “My husband is quite convincing when he wants to be.”

“You must have been convincing as well, my lady. While his lordship’s fondness for women is well-known, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, he’s never been inclined to marry them. Everyone will view you with legitimate wonder.”

“A position I
do not
relish.”

Lennox’s bride spoke with distaste. Any society belle so clever as to have captured Lennox would have vaunted her conquest. “It’s only natural you’d find the full glare of society disquieting after having lived in the country so long,” Mrs. Aubigny kindly said, au courant on gossip. “But then that’s why I’ve been commissioned by his lordship. I’m to see that you’re not only dressed to perfection for your debut but also properly showcased. I assure you, you’ll dazzle the ton.”

“Did my husband so decree?” An instant, knife-sharp query, Isolde’s antipathy plain.

Is there a struggle for supremacy in the marriage? Who would have thought the little miss had such courage with a man like Lennox?
“His lordship simply wishes to acknowledge you as his wife before the world,” the modiste smoothly replied. “Any and all decisions apropos your toilette are naturally yours to make,” she diplomatically added. “His lordship was quite specific. I’m here merely to assist you.”

Isolde softly sighed; there was no point in airing her grievances before a stranger. “Forgive me,” she said, silently taking herself to task for her ill-advised outburst. “I do appreciate your help, of course.”

And so you should, my dear, dressed as you are in that demode country gown.
“You’ll be magnificent tonight, my lady,” Mrs. Aubigny bracingly pronounced, knowing she had her work cut out for her with the time allowed. “And you and his lordship will make an absolutely stunning couple.” The modiste kissed her fingertips with a flourish, envisioning the handsome pair with an artist’s eye. “The delicious contrasts—wildness and innocence, dark and fair, Lennox’s powerful virility—
la
, my sweet, taming him will be exciting. There now, I’ve made you blush,” she murmured. “Come now, enough of my flights of fancy. We must bestir ourselves,” she briskly added, indicating several fashion books on a nearby table, “
You
decide which design most appeals to you, my dear.”

Grateful for an end to the modiste’s embarrassing observations, Isolde put to rest her lingering resentment over Oz’s dictates and followed the dressmaker. Taking a seat beside her a moment later, Isolde set about perusing the beautiful illustrations, while the Frenchwoman kept up a running commentary, offering pithy judgments with her usual vigor.

Amused at the fiction that the decision was hers to make, Isolde waited to see which design Mrs. Aubigny would deem appropriate.

“Certes, pink is too youthful for a wife,” the modiste firmly declared, wrinkling her nose at a pink confection of a gown. “As is this pastel shade of blue,
non, non
, completely unsuitable”—another page flipped over—“this daffodil yellow as well—not with your fair skin. Umm—this rose and the sea green—I think not. They’re both too precious by half. A woman of mettle such as yourself who’s taken on a brute like Lennox requires
je ne sais quoi
—a bit more drama.” Three more pages discarded. “What I’d really like to see you in, my sweet, would be a diaphanous white, wholly feminine creation, but it’s hardly appropriate on such a cold night,” she went on, turning over several more pages. “Black, too, would be wonderful with your coloring, but not quite right I think for a lady of your, shall we say, grace. Nor do I think his lordship would like you in something so seductive.” To Isolde’s quick look, she added, “He’d find the sensual implications unsuitable.”