Sexy As Hell (27 page)

“What wager?” The Earl of Petworth joined his wife.

“Elliot, have you met Isolde’s husband? Oz, Elliot. We were talking about the new race season. Oz has some bloodstock from India.”

Several others joined the conversation at talk of racing, and before the hounds were brought up and breakfast over, Oz had met a great many of Isolde’s neighbors.

But after his encounter with Lady Fowler, Oz monitored Isolde that day with more than ordinary vigilance. Will Fowler’s interest in Isolde had nothing to do with friendship—his angry response to news of her marriage a case in point. And after having seen Fowler’s wife, it was clear that the man had coldly and calculatingly married for money. Nor had he the decency to treat his wife civilly; Will hadn’t come near her at breakfast.

Nor had she mounted up with the others. She’d stayed behind.

Hours later, after an exhilarating hunt over miles of green, rolling countryside, Oz and Isolde were riding home slowly, the sun low on the horizon.

“You needn’t have played duenna all day,” Isolde lightly teased. “As you very well know, you’ve spoiled me for other men. I have no interest in Will.”

There was a small silence. “That may be, for which I thank you,” he said with a faint smile. “But I don’t trust Will. I may have to call out the dog if he doesn’t stop sniffing around you.”

“Don’t you dare,” she quickly said.

“Warn
him
off, not me. I’m just protecting my own.” There was a faint hint of anger beneath the flat tone.

“You’re mistaken,” she said in a deprecating voice. “Really, Oz, I don’t need your protection.”

“Believe me,” he cooly said, “with Will, you do.”

While she might disagree, Oz’s jealousy pleased her—regardless its motivation or degree. “I’m sure you’re wrong, but rather than risk having you call out Will, I’ll take care to avoid him.”

He turned an impersonal gaze on her. “And I’ll see that you do.”

“I don’t respond well to orders,” she softly said.

“Sometimes you do.”

“I’m serious, Oz.”

The flexible charm was automatic as was the smile that warmed his eyes. “I humbly beg your pardon, darling,” he gently said. “I had no intention of offending you.”

He rode with animal grace, she thought; the same grace he brought to the bedroom; the same grace she could no more relinquish than she could contemplate life without him, she thought with an unpleasant lurch of her heart. “I don’t want to fight,” she murmured, shaken by her feelings.

“Nor I,” he said with forced calm, her feelings clear to see.

IN THE COURSE of the blissful days that followed, Oz told himself he could take his country holiday in stride; care, but not too much; love his new wife with passion but not with his heart; above all keep the ravishing pleasures they shared in perspective.

Isolde warned herself she was getting in too deep, allowing herself to be swept away by rapture, becoming too attached to a man who played merely a stopgap role in her life. But then Oz was celebrated for his many charms; meeting his legion of lovers in London served to confirm the fact. Why wouldn’t she be equally captivated? More to the point, why shouldn’t she enjoy her ephemeral pleasures while she may?
No reason at all
, she recklessly decided
.

Nothing could have stopped them in any case, their need for each other beyond reason. They spent their nights playing at love while their days were given up to the country social calendar, their intimacy and closeness a sumptuous, personal la dolce vita, the very breath of life.

Oz escorted Isolde to the neighbors without complaint when in the past he would have found such company tame. He briefly questioned his pleasure in such peaceful pursuits but as quickly decided it was irrelevant. Since when did he question degrees of gratification?

CHAPTER 17

A FEW DAYS LATER, Isolde and Oz were at Pamela’s dinner party. Since Will and Anne were also guests, Isolde had taken care to stay by Oz’s side—not a hardship by any means. She preferred keeping her distance from the Fowlers.

But after dinner Pamela had taken her away to see her new Worth gown, which turned out to be as spectacular as claimed—embroidered and jeweled green velvet; the masterful Worth had surpassed himself. A maid had come in as they’d been viewing the gown, calling Pamela away to the nursery over some minor crisis, and Isolde made her way back to the drawing room alone.

Catching sight of Anne Verney waiting in the corridor outside the drawing room, she almost turned around. The last person she wished to see was Will’s fretful, sullen wife who constantly glowered at her. On the other hand, she wasn’t so craven that she’d let herself be intimidated over something so silly.

“Has the dancing begun?” she asked as she approached the woman who managed to look frumpish even in an expensive creation of sparkling silver tulle. The violins could be heard through the closed doors.

“I have no idea,” Anne icily replied. “I have something to say to you.”

God help me
. “If it’s about the flowers for the church, my gardeners tell me the hothouse roses are in bloom. You’re more than welcome to them.”

“You insolent hussy. Why would I care about the flowers for the church? I want you to stay away from my husband,” she spat, caustic and malevolent. “I saw you staring at him all through dinner.”

“I did no such thing!” Isolde retorted, her shock plain. “You’re grossly mistaken.”

“Don’t play games with me, you slut.” A mottled flush colored her thin face. “I saw you trying to catch his eye.”

“I have absolutely no interest in your husband,” Isolde calmly said, not wishing to engage with this angry woman. “I’m married and more than content. You needn’t be concerned.”

“You duplicitous little bitch. Don’t try and placate me with your lies. You always wanted Will. But he’s mine. I bought him!” Blunt as a hammer.

“Everyone knows you bought him,” Isolde snapped back and instantly contrite, quickly added, “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. He’s yours, Anne, truly he is—in every way.” She felt foolish for ever lamenting Will’s loss, embarrassed as well that she’d been so blind to his lies.

“I don’t need
you
to tell me he’s mine. He was never yours,” she said with deliberate malice. “
Never
. He told me so—that you were always in hot pursuit, trying to entice him into your bed, using your body to lure him, you witch!”

Isolde could have disputed who had pursued whom, but more than ever, she wanted this confrontation to end. The malicious glitter in Anne’s eyes was alarming enough to motivate a quick retreat. “There’s no need to argue over Will, Anne. He’s indisputably yours. I wish you both much happiness.”

“Spare me your spurious good wishes,” she snapped, her color high, the pulse in her neck beating violently.
“Just stay away from my husband!”

“I most certainly will,” Isolde soothingly replied, edging away from the enraged woman. No longer concerned she might appear fainthearted, she fled, jerking open the drawing room door and slipping inside like a thief in the night.

“I needn’t ask how she was,” Oz murmured, pushing away from the wall beside the door as Isolde entered, white-faced. “I saw Anne go out, but I thought Pamela was with you.”

“I wish she had been.” Isolde shivered faintly. “The woman’s crazed.”

“Poor darling,” he gently said, taking her hand and drawing her away from the door. “But consider, dear, you’re outrageous competition for a plain sparrow like Anne.”

“I’ve never given her any indication that I covet her husband. In fact, I told her in no uncertain terms I had no interest in Will.”

“And she didn’t believe you.”

Isolde grimaced. “She said I was looking at her husband during dinner—I wasn’t.”

“He was looking at you.”

“He was? Oh God.”

“He was looking at you with prurience, lust, and adultery on his mind,” Oz delicately said.

Isolde groaned. “Don’t start, Oz. I’m sorry I ever met the man.”

A smile transformed the trifling unease in his eyes. “In that case, would you care to dance?”

And so the drama continued in the small exclusive world of dinner parties and country entertainments.

Will was restive under his wife’s constant guard.

Oz was mildly watchful and surprised that he was.

Isolde, with nothing to hide, openly enjoyed her husband’s company and wasn’t amazed to discover that Oz also danced better than anyone she’d ever met. But then he did everything better than anyone she’d ever met.

Which meant she must remember her life was her own and not lose her grip on it. Oz exerting the full power of his charm made one forget.

CHAPTER 18

A
LOVELY, IDYLLIC week later, one in which the newlyweds had refused to leave Oak Knoll, they finally foreswore their hermitage because a singer Isolde particularly liked was performing at Constance Banning’s afternoon musicale.

“Do you mind?” she’d asked the previous day as she and Oz lay hot and sweaty in the shambles of the bed.

He’d turned his head as he lay panting beside her, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “After—that last orgasm—how can . . . I refuse you . . . anything.”

“How lovely, how sweet—”

“How likely . . . I am to fuck you again . . . as soon as I catch . . . my breath,” he’d rasped. “Yes to the musicale—now come here . . . I have something to show you.”

 

 

WHY IS HE here
? Isolde thought as she and Oz entered the Bannings’ sunny music room. Will disliked sopranos, music in general, and Constance Banning.

Well, well, if it isn’t the ex-lover in hot pursuit.
Oz knew very well why Will Fowler was here.

But after greeting their hostess, Isolde took a seat well away from Will and joined the gathering of well-dressed gentry who were fond of music. The audience was primarily female—no surprise. Oz had come out of consideration for his wife, as had a handful of other husbands. Will was alone and here out of consideration for himself.

A boy prodigy Constance had brought up from London performed first, his virtuoso skills on the violin breathtaking for someone so young. Isolde was entranced, leaning forward slightly as though drawn to the beautiful sound.

His head resting against the back of his chair, Oz watched her, aware of the violent passion she evoked in him, equally aware that his normal impersonal dealings with women had altered. As the boy’s dazzling technique brought Tchaikovsky’s fantasia to life with nimble-fingered energy and brio, the audience listened in breath-held silence, and Oz wondered, mildly disturbed, if he was less indifferent than he wished.

But the music came to a precipitous end, the crowd erupted in applause, and Oz’s musing gave way as everyone came to their feet in homage to the boy.

In the interval between performances, Constance Banning’s footmen carried around trays of champagne and sweets, the audience fell to gossiping, and Oz was drawn off by the few husbands in attendance where talk turned naturally to horses. Newmarket was the Nirvana of bloodstock fanatics, and Oz’s racers had won all the early meets in the neighborhood. The men were anxious to hear how best to obtain entree to the mountain tribes that bred Oz’s racers.