“I didn’t know you had an estate in Kent.” At Tattersalls she’d heard him order the first horses he purchased be sent there.
He smiled.
“
We should talk more.”
Feeling her face flush hotly, she said with equal nonchalance, “If only there had been time.” Taking a chair across the room from him, she smoothed her skirts over her knees in unconscious resistance to the beautiful, faithless man lounging on the pale flowered sofa in his mother’s jewel of a room.
“There never is, it seems. Perhaps we could take a few minutes today to exchange confidences,” he offered, impervious to her sarcasm. “Take off your lovely spring hat and stay awhile. I won’t attack you, I promise.”
“I wasn’t concerned,” she comfortably returned, untying the ribbons and placing her hat, purse, and gloves on a nearby table. Assuredly, Oz had never been obliged to attack a woman. “But I can’t tarry long. Grover and I are driving home this afternoon. You look tired,” she abruptly said when she shouldn’t have, when she should have restrained her impulse. When Oz’s needs were already sufficiently catered to by numerous women.
He didn’t seem to notice or at least didn’t resort to some quelling retort. He only said, “I haven’t been sleeping well.” Or much at all, those close to him would affirm.
“
Davey is working me hard; some of my business partners have turned difficult lately.” An understatement of vast proportions. “Actually, I may have to go to India if the situation doesn’t improve.”
Her stomach lurched, and like some innocent young maid, she blurted out, “Will you be gone long?”
Ignoring his bride’s outburst, he shrugged. “Who knows. It depends”—he exhaled a noiseless sigh—“on the degree of malfeasance in India. But Davey would stay behind, and if you need anything, he’d be available in my stead.”
Not likely for the role she wished. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.” She said what was expected this time even as melancholy washed over her. Deep in her psyche the hope had burned that romantic dreams might become reality someday. And now—her cool and assured husband was leaving to go halfway across the world.
The small, lengthening silence spoke of absence along with the elaborate courtesy of not giving utterance to the thought.
Achille suddenly walked in, a footman in his wake.
“Ah, Achille, thank God, my brandy.” Oz thrust out his hand. “That was quick,” he said, grasping the proffered bottle and glass. “Isolde has come for a visit. Isn’t that nice.”
“Indeed. Hello, my lady. I brought you cake and sandwiches, and if you’d like I could make you something more substantial as well.” He didn’t say for the baby, but clearly that was what he meant.
Isolde blushed. “Cake and sandwiches will be fine. Oh, that lovely chocolate ganache, I see,” she murmured as the footman placed the silver tray on a table before her.
“The cherry cake as well, my lady. Enjoy.” He swung to Oz. “Is there anything more?” he delicately inquired.
Oz shook his head, raised his glass to his mouth, and drained it.
Another small silence ensued once the door closed on Achille.
“He’s been hoping you’d come back,” Oz said into the hush. “He complains I don’t eat.”
“You should. You’ve lost weight.”
“Tomorrow.” He smiled and poured himself another drink. “Now tell me how things go at Oak Knoll.”
As she ate, she spoke of her daily activities, the new cattle she’d bought, the visits she made, the small entertainments she’d attended, leaving out any mention of Will, concentrating instead on the farm and livestock.
He listened without reply, quietly drinking and watching her from under his lashes, restraining his impulse to get up, lift her from her chair, and carry her upstairs.
“Am I boring you?” she finally said.
“Not at all. I like the sound of your voice. I like to look at you. I’d like other things as well, but I promised to behave.”
He might have reached out and touched her, her body’s response so hot spur. “Don’t,” she said on a caught breath, setting down her teacup with such force the tea splashed on the cloth.
“Forgive me. I’ve missed you.” He hadn’t known until then just how much.
“You can’t walk away like you did and then expect me to—”
“Make love to me?” he said with impeccable charm.
“I won’t,” she whispered, furious at his cool insolence, her astonishing willingness, at all the women in his life.
“How can it matter if you do?”
“Because I
dislike
what you are.”
“That doesn’t have to affect the pleasure or play.”
“No, Oz. No!”
She was holding her hands tightly in her lap, as if white-knuckled restraint would serve as a deterrent to desire.
As if saying no actually meant no
. Setting his glass aside, he slowly came to his feet to play gallant to her desperate passions. Workmanlike and competent, he knew the signs of arousal, could recognize them blind in the dark.
A moment later he was lifting the small table away, and a moment after that, he leaned over, took her clenched hands in his, and drew her to her feet. “Feel my heart race,” he said, placing her closed fists on his chest. “This is like the first time for me.”
“No. I’m the thousandth, not the first.”
He shook his head, the movement small and faint. “You’re wrong. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He shouldn’t have said that, she thought, because she’d been waiting for him, for this, for the feel of his body next to hers, with utter, unequivocal longing since he’d left. The realization was so undeniable, tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed and hiccupped, struggling to discipline her emotions.
“Don’t cry,” Oz whispered, gently wiping away the wetness trickling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for whatever I did, for all I did, for what I didn’t do—for everything.”
“It’s not . . . your fault . . . you walked into my room . . . that night.”
“But I stayed.” He smiled. “And then stayed some more.” Abruptly picking her up, he said, “You may chastise me upstairs in more comfort.” Carrying her effortlessly, he strode to the door, shoved it open with his foot, and walked toward the stairway.
How smooth he was, how pliant his conscience, how gracefully he offered pleasure. And if her heart wasn’t involved she might argue, reject, and refuse. But she loved him, she understood now if she’d not known before, if by some spurious logic she’d discounted the truth in the past days and weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, like some foolish, naive, overly sentimental female being carried off by her Prince Charming.
She felt him tense for a moment in his swift passage up the stairs.
“I love you, too,” he said a fraction of a second later, telling himself words were only words, there was no point in being rude. He had what he wanted, and if in some small corner of his soul he acknowledged more than his sham nuptial tie, he was quick to dismiss that incomprehensible thought.
The door to his bedroom had been opened by some invisible hand, she noted when they arrived, although no servants had been evident as they traversed the quiet corridors. And a fresh bottle of brandy shared space on a small table near the bed with a tray of sweets and a carafe of scented tisane.
“They anticipate your every move,” she said with a wave of her hand at the display. “Or are arrangements like this commonplace?” Did Nell like tisane?
He came to rest just inside the room, glanced at the delicate pastries, the mild aperitif. “On the contrary, this little offering is unprecedented. Achille wishes to please you. As do I,” he added softly. “You have but to tell me what you want.”
She knew better than to tell him the truth—that she wanted him beyond the perimeters of their agreement. “Would you think me terribly selfish if I asked for ten orgasms?”
Any other woman offered carte blanche would have been less modest in her demands; in his experience expensive jewelry generally led the roster. “No, of course not,” he agreeably said. “Is that all?”
Her expression brightened. “Perhaps more then if you don’t mind.”
He smiled. “How much time do I have?”
“I’ll let you know.”
He liked that her timetable was vague; he liked more that she was in one of her insatiable moods.
Carrying her across the broad bedchamber, he reached the high four-poster bed and seated her facing him on the stark white coverlet embroidered with colorful tropical birds.
“This is different,” she murmured, running her fingertip over a bit of scarlet silk embroidery replicating exotic plumage. The last time she’d been here, the coverlet had been pale blue.
“My mother’s large collection of embroidered linens. The house is relatively unchanged.” He shrugged. “I’m not home much.”
He was too polite to say he didn’t often sleep at home, she thought. “Your mother’s decorative sense is lovely.”
“Lovely like you,” he said, abstractly exercising his charm, his focus on consummation. “You look very stylish today.” He reached for the gold filigree button at the collar of her bodice.
“I found a new dressmaker.”
Aware of his comment about her previous modiste, he ignored her pointed remark. “She’s very good,” he mildly said, his gaze flicking downward to her breasts before returning to her face. “It takes superb tailoring to contain such voluptuousness. You turned heads at Tattersalls. In fact,” he added with a fleeting smile, “I expect every man there would like to be doing what I’m doing right now.”
“Speaking of Tattersalls and sex, how did you dispatch Nell?” A blunt question perhaps, but she knew he wasn’t about to throw her out in his current state of arousal—his erection impressive as usual.
His smile faded and he paused, his fingers motionless on the third ornate button. “She responds to money,” he mildly replied, resuming his unbuttoning. “Unlike you.”
“I have enough money.”
He glanced up. “Apparently.” He didn’t say,
I know because you tried to buy my child.
“I’m jealous of her when I shouldn’t be, when your life is your own.” Isolde envied his cool restraint, her own feelings in tumult.
“She means nothing to me, nor I to her.”
How was it that he could cooly dismiss a woman linked with him by gossip and she didn’t see him as heartless. She only saw the man she loved. Although, she’d be sensible to remember that this occasion was about sex, not love, and to that purpose, she said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Nell. It was tactless of me.”
“Say anything you like.” His smile was indulgent, his voice untouched by umbrage. “I’m just happy you’re here.” The buttons freed, he slipped the violet silk jacket over her shoulders, down her arms, and over her hands. Tossing the garment aside, he stood for a moment surveying her, a forceful sense of droit du seigneur suborning his better judgment. “Your breasts are—”
“Larger.”
My property by law.
“Stunning,” he said instead, her splendid breasts straining the delicate silk of her chemise, his libido in a decidedly proprietary frame of mind. Locked rooms suddenly inviting his interest.
“Pamela tells me it’s the first visible sign of pregnancy.”
He took a small breath to steady his brutish impulses. “You’re sure then, about the pregnancy.”
She smiled. “Very sure.”
An unmistakable concern entered his gaze. “Is it all right—that is . . . would there be any reason to—”
“Sex is permitted if that’s what you’re wondering.”
He exhaled. “Good. Thank you,” he simply said. “I’m very much a novice when it comes to this.”
“We both are.”
“Indeed,” he softly agreed, the full impact of Isolde’s pregnancy suddenly undeniable. His gaze examined her with naked interest. “If I should touch you in any way you find uncomfortable,” he said, precise and delicate, “please let—”
“Oz, stop,” she said with exasperation. “I’m just the same. Other than perhaps being slightly more demanding sexually,” she added with a lift of her brows.
The term
sexually demanding
gave him pause when in the past he would have greeted it with delight. “Perhaps we should think about this. How can you be sure it’s safe?”
“Good God! Don’t tell me you’ve brought me this far to begin to equivocate! I won’t allow it! Do you hear?”
He looked at her for a considering moment. “So I must perform no matter what,” he said with a sliver of a smile.
“Surely it’s no hardship.”
“And if I don’t?” he lightly inquired.
“Then perhaps I’ll go somewhere else and—”
“Don’t say it,” Oz said in sudden anger, Will, too convenient, too available, as unmarried as he.
“I was joking. Unlike you,” she said, her blue gaze direct and open, “I’ve not been entertaining at night.”
He felt a fleeting surprise, followed by an elation he chose not to decipher. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn. Allow me,” he blandly replied, “to render whatever services you require.”
“I should reject such a cooly dispassionate offer. And if I wasn’t so famished for sex,” she said, leaning back on her hands and shrugging faintly, “I might. But you’re here and I’m here and—”
“You’re famished,” he finished with a practiced smile. “I remember your charming impatience.” Her uncorseted breasts were raised high in her languid pose, the taut nipples and plump contours conspicuous through the sheer white silk of her chemise. “And I’m not in the least indifferent to you. In fact, I’m deeply moved by your presence in my home and bed.”
“While I look forward to being deeply moved by your presence in
me
,” Isolde sweetly replied, amusement in her clear-eyed gaze.
“We always did agree on that,” he drily said. “Even when all else was at odds.”
He was standing quite still, his gaze unreadable. “I feel as though I’m negotiating something of grave consequence instead of an afternoon of sex,” she said just a trifle shortly. “Is my pregnancy prompting your reluctance?”