“Something about her mother,” Harry mumbled. “I didn’t listen. But she made it clear I was expected to play husband tonight and smile when required. Christ, she’s going to be pissed; I should have been here long ago.” He grimaced as the front door opened. “I’m expecting you to take the brunt of her displeasure. I’m blaming my tardiness on you.”
“And how exactly have I postponed your arrival?” Oz asked with sardonic deference as footmen took their coats. “Give me a hint.”
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Harry muttered as they made for the rose-garlanded staircase. “Think of something. Who better than you knows how to make excuses to women?”
It was true of course; he’d made it a practice the past few years. So moments later when they found Harry’s scowling wife tapping her foot outside the ballroom, Oz smiled winningly. “It’s my fault entirely, Vanessa. I forcibly conscripted Harry in the interests of the nation. We were entertaining Wales. Daisy’s in Paris with her husband and Wales is moping.” The Prince of Wales’s newest affaire was in that frenzied early phase of overwrought passion.
“Mother’s been asking for you.” She shot a vexatious glance at her husband, who was partially concealed by Oz’s large, well-developed frame, although everyone knew an invitation from Wales was a royal command. “Come, darling,” she said, her tone modified by understanding, her gaze quickly swiveling to Oz so the diamonds in her ears twinkled. “I’m sure Oz can find someone to amuse him.”
As Harry followed his wife, he shot Oz a raised-brow look over his shoulder. Clearly he had no idea why he was being summoned by his mother-in-law.
Oz entered the ballroom a moment later and stood preoccupied and attractively powerful on the verge of the floor for no more than five seconds before a bevy of females descended on him like vultures spying a fresh carcass. Very pretty vultures as it turned out and as determined as their bird-of-prey counterparts to plunder the spoils.
If only his senses responded to the lovely, perfumed throng dressed in courtier gowns, glittering with jewels. If only he gave a damn about all the fawning females. But their bare shoulders and low décolletages displaying comely breasts like so much ripe fruit, the smiling mouths and seductive glances paying homage to him, the salacious double entendre that passed for conversation reminded him instead of the sameness he’d come to detest. Restive and moody, he replied to their artifice and banter with disinterested courtesy even as he was tempted to say,
Pick a number between one and ten and I’ll take you in turn.
Or, he thought, surreptitiously scanning the room over their perfectly coiffed heads, a quick retreat would satisfy more.
He shouldn’t have come to this pointless affair. What had in the past served as amusement no longer amused; what had passed for diversion now left him indifferent. Whatever human impulses had served him in the two years since India hadn’t survived his departure from Oak Knoll, his ability to conjure up tender emotion gone.
Having listened to the fifth or tenth or twentieth sweetly insinuating remark about his new singleness, he’d just decided to make his excuses and leave when he was tapped on the shoulder and a familiar, honeyed voice said, “Finally, the prodigal has returned.”
Turning around, he saw salvation of a sort outfitted in cloth of gold and smiling up at him. “Nell,” he said with a freshening sense of appreciation. His dark gaze drifted down her splendid body, flauntingly festooned in shimmering gold. “I thought you were abroad.”
“I was. Excuse me, ladies,” she crisply said, taking Oz’s arm. “Lennox promised me this dance.”
He hadn’t danced since he’d danced with Isolde at Pamela’s, but Nell’s sophisticated chatter, the comfortable feel of her in his arms, her indifference to emotion, made her safe, helped his demons recede—if only temporarily.
But it was enough after a fortnight of alcohol and too vivid dreams.
It was enough not to shrink from a woman.
Everyone watched, of course, as they always did with a new scandal brewing. Beautiful Nell, known for her passionate appetites, her glorious red hair foil for her glittering gown, melted against Oz’s tall dark form as they gracefully glided across the ballroom. Her pale cheek rested on his lapel, her curvaceous back, bared to the waist, lured every man’s eye, envy in their gazes. Women, too, watched with envy, wishing they were held in Oz’s powerful arms.
He was very drunk, very charming, and recklessly irresponsible.
As usual.
Indifferent to the shocked appraisals and whispers, the handsome couple swirled past the avidly curious in their circuit of the ballroom.
Look where his hands are, so low on her back, curved around her neck! Look how tightly he’s holding her! You can’t even
see
her right hand—the little slut! My God, she kissed him! He kissed her back! He’s drunk! He’s always drunk! She left her husband in Egypt! He abandoned his wife in the country!
Everyone knew how close they’d once been, how torrid their love affaire, how Nell had hysterically bearded Oz on his wedding morning, how he’d thrown her out and given orders she wasn’t to be admitted again.
They knew everything; everyone always did in the ton.
What they didn’t yet know was that the moment Nell had heard Oz had left his bride, she’d come back—her journey from Cairo more tedious than it should have been, her husband more difficult about her leaving than he should have been.
But the pyramids would always be there, and Oz, restless and changeable, might not.
They didn’t dance long.
They left midway through the waltz, leaving a buzz of gossip in their wake.
And retired to Blackwood’s.
“EVENING, FREMONT,” OZ said a short time later, entering the hotel with Nell on his arm. “What do you have for us?”
“Good evening, my lord. The Wellington Suite happens to be available.” It was Lady Howe’s favorite.
“Perfect. Have some brandy sent up.” He turned to Nell. “Any requests?”
“Nothing Fremont can help me with,” she murmured, tugging on his arm.
Oz shot a look at Fremont. “We know our way.”
“A pleasure to see you again, my lord,” Fremont said, knowing better than to publically address the lady.
“It’s good to be back.”
Fremont smiled as the young couple walked away. He liked young Lennox. He’d heard all the gossip, of course—about the surprising marriage, the not-so-surprising separation, Oz’s return to London. It was the lifeblood of his business to know who was with whom and when in order to avoid awkward encounters; husbands, wives, and ex-lovers were never lodged in close proximity. “You heard,” he said to a footman standing by. “Lennox’s brandy in the Wellington Suite, some champagne and petit fours for Lady Howe as well. She prefers the almond fondant icing.”
The Wellington Suite was on the garden side of the hotel, well away from the bustle of the street. Not that Nell cared for gardens or quiet. Rather, she enjoyed the overlarge bed and sumptuous marble tub in the mirrored bath. But what she enjoyed
most
was the man at her side.
“I’m so
vastly pleased
I found you tonight,” she said, slipping her arms around Oz’s waist the moment he closed the door behind them. “The trip from Cairo was
endless . . .
but with
you
as my prize it was worth every minute.”
“And you saved
me
from another night of boredom.”
“So very pleased to be of service,” she purred, gazing up at him with a seductive glance.
“In what way?” His smile was wicked.
“Since I thought of little else but
you
on my awful trip home I have several ideas. First, I’m going to undress you and admire your strapping young body,” she said with a sultry smile, sliding her hand upward over the diamond studs on his shirtfront. “Then you can lie in bed, watch
me
undress, and tell me how
much
you missed me.”
“Desperately, of course,” he said with a faint smile.
“Of course,” she whispered, profoundly grateful to have her favorite lover back.
Neither mentioned the occasion when last they’d met the morning after Oz’s marriage. This was playtime, after all, not harsh reality. Which precluded mention of the subsequent collapse of his marriage as well.
Oz had no objection to Nell’s agenda, knowing he’d be suitably rewarded for his acquiescence as would she. In the meantime, he was here to forget. As she slowly removed his evening clothes, he found her idle chatter soothing, familiar. Nothing was required of him but an occasional smile or nod, while her obvious relief on escaping her husband mirrored his own on fleeing his marriage. At base though, they were of a kind: she was as self-indulgent as he, eminently versed in the game of love and unlikely to demand anything of him other than sex—casual sex. Which was exactly what he wanted. Wasn’t it?
Fortunately, she dropped to her knees at that point to remove his trousers and he wasn’t compelled to face the vexing truth.
“Mmm . . . my lovely stud,” she murmured a moment later, his trousers and underwear cast aside, her fingers measuring the length of his erection in pleasant anticipation. “You have the most beautiful penis, darling,” she added, glancing up at Oz. “I suppose you hear it all the time.”
“Never,” he politely lied.
“I want him to wait for me, though, so go now,” she ordered, rising to her feet in a flurry of gold cloth and gardenia scent and pointing to the bed. “And think about what you want me to do for you while I undress.”
Fuck me into oblivion.
“You decide. I’m amenable to anything.”
“Aren’t you always,” she dulcetly returned, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair.
“Rule one on the road to excess.”
“We agree on everything,” she lightly said, looking forward to remapping that route with England’s most talented cocksman.
A knock on the door broke into the amorous banter and undeterred by his nudity, Oz called out, “Enter.” Pointing to a table, he waited while the footman deposited his burden, thanked him, then immediately set about pouring himself a drink. As the door closed, Oz drained his glass, refilled it, and smiled at Nell. “Your audience of one is ready to be beguiled.” Moving to the bed, he disposed himself in a comfortable sprawl, the glass balanced on his chest, and gave her a nod. “The stage lights are up, sweetheart.”
After executing a dramatic bow, Nell struck an elegant pose that showed her stunning form to advantage. “For your pleasure and divertissement, my Lord Lennox, I took dancing lessons in Cairo.”
He grinned. “Why did I know that?”
A frown marred the porcelain perfection of her forehead. “Don’t say this is the twentieth time you’ve seen such a performance,” she pettishly retorted.
“No.” A courtesy lie. “I just knew what would interest you in Cairo.”
“Sex—if you’d been there,” she playfully replied, her good humor restored.
“And since I wasn’t there?”
“I found something else to amuse me.”
“Something or someone?”
“Really, dear, need you ask?”
“I only wish to point out that we are both faithless”—his brows lifted—“and not likely to change.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a little sigh. “I shouldn’t be pettish.”
“Nor will I,” he said with pallid amusement. “Show me what you learned.”
After she unclasped the few hooks at her back, her gown slid to her waist and her large, flamboyant breasts were on full display.
“Did your teacher take a fancy to your lovely breasts?” he murmured, wondering if her minimum clothing tonight was planned for him or anyone.
“
She
did as a matter of fact,” Nell said, perjuring herself without a qualm. “And I took the lessons for you.”
If so, news of his abandoned marriage had traveled fast. “I’ll have to do something for you in return.”
“All night long and often,” she said in a sultry contralto.
He smiled. “Whatever you say.”
Sliding her glittering gown down her hips, clad only in white silk stockings and gold slippers, she posed for him, arms raised, her smile dazzling, knowing she was unabashedly desirable.
“Breathtaking as usual.” She was a sumptuous, showy female with pale skin and auburn hair, flaunting breasts and ripe, rounded hips—a perfect companion in his current frame of mind. A vixen to titillate his senses without stirring his emotions.
“I expect you’ll also be impressed with my new skills,” she murmured with a little swish of her hips.
“I’m impressed already,” he said. “As you can see.”
“And
I’m
getting wet just looking at your huge erection,” she said softly, her gaze trained on the object of her lust—the holy grail for her long journey home.
“How wet?” he quietly asked.
Slipping her hand between her legs, she drew in a skittish breath as she slid her finger palm-deep into her vagina.
“I can do better than that for you,” Oz silkily remarked.
Lost to feverish sensation, it took a moment before Oz’s voice registered and a moment more before she held up her index finger for his perusal. It was pearled with moisture.
“I suggest you start dancing or your recital will have to wait,” Oz drawled. “We’re both primed.”
“No, no . . . don’t you dare. I want to show off my new skills.”
“By all means then, do so.”
“Because you can always wait,” she grumbled.
He shrugged. “If I have to.”
A femme fatale by nature, she objected to Oz’s self-control in the face of what was to most men her irresistible allure. “I suppose we can’t all be raised in India,” she sulkily muttered.
He smiled. “I can’t help but think you’d have been a willing pupil of Vatsyayana. But please, entertain me—and then I’ll entertain you.”
“It’s up to me to say when, though.” A sop to her inner femme fatale.