Sexy As Hell (17 page)

“I’ll make it up to you.”

Her smile was instant. “How nice.”

 

OZ TOOK CURIOUS pleasure in watching Isolde bathe and dress, even sharing in the light collation Achille had sent up, when he’d previously steeled himself with a good deal of liquor for occasions such as this. How many times had he impatiently watched some lover taking overlong to outfit herself or primp before a mirror for his benefit, how many times had he counted the minutes and drunk to excess? Tonight he was practically sober, his drink at hand but barely touched, his enjoyment of the intimate scene affording him a degree of contentment long absent from his life.

He’d recognized how restful his wife was their first morning together, and so she was now—allowing the maids to bathe and dress her without complaint or direction, doing what was necessary with amazing good humor.

It was simply a matter of keeping her well fucked, he decided.

A task he was more than willing to assume.

She smiled at him over the heads of her maids from time to time, and he smiled back from his chair across the room, his libido reacting to her smile. At which point, he invariably felt like ordering everyone out, tossing up her skirts, and saying to hell with their guests. But ultimately, sanity prevailed; he softly swore and silently consigned the bloody reception to perdition.

She heard him, and at the last, watching him in the mirror as the hairdresser finished pinning her glossy curls into an artful arrangement, she dulcetly inquired, “Can I help you?” knowing full well what he was thinking.

“I wish you could,” he murmured, glancing at the clock with a significant look. “Thirty minutes, darling.” In thirty minutes, they’d be standing at the top of the stairs offering imitation smiles to everyone who arrived to ascertain the reasons for and authenticity of their hasty marriage.

“My compliments, Mrs. Aubigny. You outdid yourself,” Oz said as Isolde rose from the dressing table and turned to him. The dressmaker had performed her office superbly, the gown fit to perfection: bared shoulders, half-bared breasts, the slenderness of Isolde’s waist enhanced by the subtle drapery, the curve of her hips prominent with the current snug-fitting styles, the glittering diamant ornament on the dark velvet calling attention to the low décolletage.

“My lady’s beauty enhances any creation,” the modiste replied, although it was obvious she was pleased with the result. “And the pearls are superb.”

Even Isolde hadn’t begrudged the pearls. The necklace was stunning, its history a thing of romance, Theodosia’s rise to empress a spellbinding tale.

Equally spellbinding was the sight of the gleaming pearls resting on the sumptuous curve of her breasts, Oz reflected, drawing in a breath of restraint. She was an amazingly beautiful woman. With another glance at the clock, he decided they’d escape the throng at midnight no matter what.

Mrs. Aubigny opened her arms with a flourish. “She’s all yours, my lord. An ornament to you and the ton.”

Isolde might have taken issue with being spoken of as an object if Mrs. Aubigny hadn’t been of such enormous service. She’d called in a hairdresser, procured exquisite new lingerie, had a shoemaker at the ready with a selection of evening slippers suitable for Cinderella herself. “I’m in awe of your talent, Mrs. Aubigny.” Isolde offered the modiste a glowing smile. “Thank you so very much.”

Oz felt like a proud parent at the success of Isolde’s toilette—or as close to the feeling as he could imagine. She was breathtaking. And so he told her, to which she blushed so prettily he had to further control his libidinous urges. It was all the excitement, he told himself, for he couldn’t blame liquor tonight. Although, perhaps it was nothing more than the pretense of having a wife that prompted such lust—a prurient notion for a confirmed bachelor.

He rose to his feet, walked to Isolde, and with a graceful bow, offered her his arm. “May I have the pleasure of your company tonight, darling? We are, it seems, about to play husband and wife before the world.” He grinned. “Are you up to it?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Regretfully, no,” he gently said, moving toward the door, leaving the retinue responsible for his wife’s elegant appearance beaming behind them.

“In that case,” Isolde said with a sigh, “tell me when to smile and don’t expect me to remember names.”

“Your smile, of course, must be unwavering. As to the names, it doesn’t matter. Our guests are here to see us, not the other way around,” he said, walking through the door held open by a servant. “In any case, they’ll all soon turn into a blur.”

“You speak from experience?”

“I do, but then that’s what a majordomo’s for. Josef is nonpareil when it comes to names and titles. I rely on him completely,” he said, strolling down the corridor. “And if someone should be rude don’t be shocked at my response.”

“Will they be?”

“Of course. In the ton manners are uncertain, snideness is an art form, and we are perceived as a divertissement of the first water. You already saw as much during our at-home.”

Reminded, Isolde softly groaned. “Promise to save me.” “I believe I already have,” he said easily, “but I shall again tonight. Consider this my Lancelot phase.”

“If only you weren’t so wicked, you might aspire to a Lancelot.”

He shot her an amused look. “Who says I’m wicked?”

“Who doesn’t? Although I’m sure all your admirers mean it in the sweetest way.” The tittle-tattle was impossible to ignore, whether below-stairs whispers or those she’d overheard at their at-home
.
Or her own personal assessment of the spoiled young lord who’d done her the huge favor of marrying her—temporarily. “As do I, darling. Have I told you that you intrigue me mightily?”

“No, but I rather have that feeling with your, shall we say, captivating enthusiasm for my person.”

“For your cock, darling. Be more specific.”

He laughed out loud, causing the many servants still crowding the corridor to look their way. “You don’t know how pleased I am to have stumbled into your little drama that night at Blackwood’s. I haven’t been so pleasantly entertained in ages.”

“We’re pleased we amuse you,” she dulcetly replied. “So long as the next amusement isn’t too long delayed.”

“Midnight at the latest. You’re not the only one waiting.”

“How sweet. May I say you’re the most charitable and obliging of husbands.”

“You make it easy, puss. Everything in life should be so simple.”

He was in too fine spirits to question the motives behind that ease. Or the reasons why his wife had become of such material interest to him. It had been an extremely busy few days he would have said, had the question been posed to him.

But it wasn’t.

Which was perhaps just as well.

Because then he would have been required to think about a woman in something more than sexual terms for the first time since India.

CHAPTER 10

SEEING JOSEF APPROACH, Oz turned to Isolde. “I invited a friend of mine and his wife to meet you before the reception.” He looked as his majordomo drew near. “Are they here?”

“In the Dresden sitting room as you requested, sir.”

“The time?”

“Eight forty, sir. This way.” Josef walked alongside Oz.

“Fetch us at nine.”

“Of course, sir,” Josef said with mild affront.

“Sorry, Josef. Nerves.”

“I very much doubt that, sir.”

“You’re right. I dislike the fashionable world.”

“With good reason, sir.”

Oz shot an amused glance at his majordomo. “You think you know everything, don’t you, Josef?”

“I was the one who carried you to your father on the day you were born. Begging your pardon, sir, there’s very little I don’t know.”

Oz grinned. “Then I must pray you never resort to blackmail.”

“If you prayed, sir.”

“Darling, see what happens when one allows too much license in one’s household?” Oz pointed out, suppressing a smile. “It’s anarchy.”

Between Oz and Josef, she rather thought they could set an army into the field, but this was no time to disagree. “I’m sure you’re right, dear.”

Oz gazed at her, one brow raised. “Now
that
must be nerves.”

“I relinquish sedition for the greater good, my lord,” she sweetly said.

He chuckled. “
Until later
, I assume.”

“We’re both waiting for midnight, my lord.”

He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “I might be willing to strike a bargain for eleven o’clock.”

“Done.”

“Witch,” he murmured, but the word was velvet soft. With a glance at Josef, who’d come to a stop, Oz took Isolde’s hand and smiled. “Curtain up, darling.”

Josef nodded at a footman to open the sitting room door.

“You needn’t announce us.” Oz waved Josef away.

“Groveland and I are past such drills.” Both habitués of London’s finest brothels until Groveland’s surprise marriage last fall, the men had been companions in vice, sharing common pleasures and women on more than one occasion. Not, however, since Groveland had dropped from sight and left that prodigal world. Oz was meeting his wife for the first time.

“Evening, Fitz,” Oz cheerfully exclaimed on entering the room. “Thank you for coming early.”

The Duke of Groveland had risen to his feet. “Our pleasure. Allow me to make my lovely wife known to you.” He turned to a stunning redhead seated on the sofa behind him, the yellow silk upholstery perfect foil for her hair and Nile green gown. “Rosalind, Oz.”

“I’m pleased to meet you at last,” Oz said with a graceful bow. He drew Isolde forward. “I’d like to introduce my beautiful bride. Isolde, Countess Wraxell in her own right, Rosalind and Fitz, the Duke and Duchess of Groveland.”

Smiles and the usual banalities were exchanged, Isolde and Fitz took seats, and Oz moved toward the liquor table. “I refuse to face the mob sober. Let me bring us something to ease the strain.”

“I may have a head start on you,” Fitz waggishly noted. “I never face these entertainments sober. With your marriage the talk of the town, you have even more reason to indulge in an extra drink or three. To deal with the guile.”

Rosalind smiled. “As you can see, Fitz isn’t keen on mingling with society.”

“Who is?” Isolde frankly replied. “Oz is the one insisting on this affair.”

“Because your husband knows the best defense against the inquisitive is a preemptive offense,” Oz offered over his shoulder as he poured the drinks. “In case you can’t tell, we’ve been arguing about this soiree.”

“And as you can probably tell,” Isolde said with smile for their guests, “I’ve lost the argument.”

“You can win the next one,” Oz cheerfully offered, returning with the drinks expertly balanced on his large palms. “I understand congratulations are in order.” He offered Fitz a drink, set his aside, and handed champagne to the ladies. “When is the blessed event?”

The duchess blushed and the duke took her hand. “May we’re told,” Fitz said. “Apparently, the timing of these matters isn’t always certain.”

The duchess added, “We’re both complete tyros as well.” Isolde was surprised to experience a small lurch of jealousy, outrageous of course and instantly dismissed. “How pleased you must be. Is this your first?”

“Yes. And I’m more delighted than most expectant mothers because I never thought I could
have
children,” Rosalind said, squeezing her husband’s hand. “It’s a miracle of sorts.”

“My wife was a widow when I met her,” Groveland explained.

“And my husband was a confirmed bachelor, so you and I have something in common,” Rosalind teasingly remarked, smiling at Isolde. “We both astonished the ton by successfully luring these men into marriage when so many before us had failed.”

“We must be two very clever women,” Isolde playfully observed, responding to the duchess’s levity.