Sexy As Hell (40 page)

“You know Margo’s intelligence service.” Fitz shoved his coffee cup away and leaned back in his chair. “I give you my word Isolde didn’t send me.”

“So Margo called you here to reform me,” Oz muttered, sullen and gruff.

“I only came as a favor to Rosalind. Sit down; I have no interest in reforming anyone.” Fitz smiled. “That’s Rosalind’s favorite undertaking from which I try to steer clear, present case excepted, of course. I understand your feelings. I was a confirmed bachelor, too; I was thirty-five when I married.”

“Now there’s a reasonable age to succumb to the ball and chain.” With a sigh, Oz finally submitted to Marguerite’s well-meaning interference; at least she hadn’t called in a priest. “Thirty-five is a
perfect
age if you ask me,” Oz said flatly, walking to the table.

“And yet?” An explicit query, gently put.

“I was drunk.”

Fitz laughed. “You’re not the first.”

Oz dropped into Marguerite’s vacated chair. “Nor the first to sober up and repent his actions.”

“Isolde’s a disappointment?”

“Only so much as she’s my
wife
.” Oz kept it simple; the truth was byzantine.

“At the risk of interfering”—Fitz smiled at Oz’s quick sardonic glance—“I have a certain affection for Marguerite, so bear with me; I promise not to lecture. She tells me you’ve called her Isolde on several occasions. Were you aware of that?”

Oz’s surprise and recovery were nearly invisible. “Our conjugal relations were . . . I suppose the word is—
stimulating
.”

“Certainly an asset in a marriage,” Fitz replied with exemplary tact.

“But not sufficient reason to give up one’s freedom,” Oz countered. “As you know, sex is readily available.”

For men of wealth, a statement not open to debate. “What of the child?” Fitz asked instead. “Is that a factor at all?”

Oz hesitated, anger briefly flaring in his eyes. “The child is not open to discussion.”

The hard set of his mouth gave added warning the subject was off-limits. “Forgive me; I’m sure it’s a private matter. As I said, Rosalind encouraged me to respond to Marguerite’s note. I find myself unable to refuse her anything—a matter of considerable embarrassment for a man like myself.” He smiled faintly. “But then love is unrelated to reason, I’ve discovered.”

Slumped low in his chair, Oz gazed at Fitz from under his long, dark lashes. “Wanting what you want is unrelated to reason as well,” he irritably said.

“Marguerite says you’re drinking too much. I did the same, attempting to avoid entanglement.”

“Apparently, it didn’t work.”

Fitz’s brows rose. “Does it ever?”

There was a short silence before Oz lifted his gaze fully and with obvious reluctance asked, “What changed your mind?”

“I thought I’d lost her.”

There was a long interval that Fitz took care not to break.

“Lost her to another man?” Oz finally asked with restraint, a note of weariness in his voice.

“No, to my own stupidity
.”
If Oz was dealing with a third party, there was reason for his aggrievement.

“In my case,” Oz said in measured tones, “the other man is also married, and I’m not feeling stupid so much as resentful of the ménage à trois. Not to mention even under the best of conditions, I’m still too young to be married.” Oz didn’t mention their union was to have been temporary; he wasn’t so discourteous.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Fitz’s eyes widened. He knew Oz was young but not
that
young. He had no argument for so youthful a marriage; at that age he wouldn’t have listened to God himself advocating matrimony. And a third party in the picture changed everything. Had Marguerite not known? He shoved his chair back. “If you ever want a sympathetic ear, I’m always available either at home or at the bookshop. As I mentioned, Rosalind’s obsessed with helping people. I merely serve as banker to her many charitable impulses.” His smile was benign. “A considerable shift in my priorities.”

“While I’m not interested in altering my priorities,” Oz said shortly.

Fitz came to his feet. “I understand. Give Marguerite my regards.”

Oz poured himself coffee with a tot of brandy as Fitz left, drank it down, and poured himself another. He glanced up as Marguerite entered the room. “I should beat you.”

Marguerite’s smile was as sweet as the frothy pale yellow dressing gown she wore, her temper as well maintained as her beauty. “You’re too enervated by resentment and discontent to exert the effort, darling,” she said. “I wonder when you’re going to admit you want your wife.”

Oz flinched. Then keeping his temper in check, he said, “I appreciate your misplaced concern and all your trouble in bringing Fitz out so early in the morning. I don’t recommend, however,” he continued, lightly acerbic, “that you marshal any more forces in your mistaken attempt to save my marriage. It’s my business, not yours,” he finished, a flicker of anger in his dark gaze.

 

 

 

BUT LATER THAT morning, after breakfast with Jess, Oz found himself standing outside Bruton Street Books. He had no idea how he’d happened to come this way, but he was enough of a mystic to yield to the randomness of fate. Although, he expected his time with Jess had brought to the fore a certain preoccupation with babies and pregnancies and by association, Rosalind and Fitz’s invitation to visit.

He wasn’t sober, of course, which proved an irresistible force as well.

Walking up to the canary yellow door, he pushed it open. The store was busy. Standing to one side of the entrance, he surveyed the large interior. Two clerks were behind a counter to his right, displays of books were arranged down the center of the main aisle, customers were perusing books on shelves lining the walls, and colorful paintings were on display through an open archway at the back of the store.

As he searched the crowd for either Fitz or his wife, the door opened behind him and a familiar voice said, “You came. Let me show you around.”

Oz turned. “I have no idea why I’m here.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fitz said with deliberate courtesy. “Come say hello to Rosalind. She’s in back.”

Fitz led the way through the store into the gallery, and coming up behind his wife, dressed in soft apple green silk tussah, he kissed her lightly on the nape of her neck.

She swung around slowly, her pregnancy advanced. “That didn’t take long,” she said with a warm smile for her husband. “Ian must have had the new drawings ready.”

“He did; I approved them. Demolition begins next week.” Stepping to one side, Fitz said, “Look, darling, Oz stopped by.”

“What a pleasure to see you again,” Rosalind pleasantly said, keeping her counsel about the earlier visit. “Would you like tea, coffee”—she lifted her brows—“something stronger perhaps?”

“We’ll both have a brandy,” Fitz said, having drunk his breakfast often enough in the past to keep Oz company. “Come, sit down, Oz. I’ll shut the door so customers don’t wander in.”

A few moments later, they were seated in a corner of the gallery in comfortable chairs and had been served tea and sweets for Rosalind and brandies for the men.

“How are you feeling?” Oz impetuously asked, his gaze concentrated on Rosalind. “You look lovely. Healthy”—he smiled—“I believe the word is
glowing
.”

Rosalind and Fitz exchanged an affectionate glance. “At this stage,” she said, turning to Oz and indicating her belly, conspicuous beneath the soft silk, “I mostly feel fat. But thank you for the compliment.”

“Isolde’s pregnant.” While softly uttered, Oz’s declaration was a precipitous rush of words.

“That’s what Fitz said,” Rosalind smoothly replied. “Congratulations.”

It remains to be seen whether congratulations are in order.
But as capable of politesse as his companions, Oz graciously replied, “Thank you. Isolde’s extremely pleased.”

“Do you have any questions about”—Rosalind again gestured at her swollen stomach—“pregnancy in general or in particular?” He’d not taken his eyes off her since he’d walked in.

“A thousand.” He smiled. “I won’t bore you. Have you picked out a name?”

Rosalind glanced at her husband, then at Oz. “We’re arguing about names,” she lightly said.

“We’re
discussing
names.” Fitz grinned. “I expect I’ll lose in the end. Not that I mind, darling, considering you’re doing all the work.”

“Indeed. Although I’ve been feeling wonderful from the first. Since I never thought I could have a child,” she said on a small exhalation, “I’m not inclined to complain in the least. Oh my,” she murmured, placing her hand on her stomach, “the baby’s kicking again; the little dear’s getting stronger every day.”

The movement was obvious beneath the fine silk.

“May I feel it?” Oz’s voice was low, constrained, his dark gaze fixed on her belly. “Forgive me,” he added in a normal tone. “You must think me exceedingly rude.”

“Not at all. Fitz was just as fascinated, weren’t you, darling? Remember the first time the baby kicked?” She turned back to Oz. “We were all agog. Here, put your hand right here.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Oz reached out and delicately placed his fingertips on her belly.

“Put your palm down so you call really feel the movement. Don’t be shy.”

He did as instructed, the baby suddenly kicked, and Oz jerked his hand back. His heart was racing.

“When is Isolde due?” Rosalind asked, Oz’s expression one of wonder.

“I don’t know. She’s not far along yet.”

Fitz caught his wife’s eye and warned her off. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions for names.” Fitz tactfully changed the subject.

Grateful for the civility, Oz collected himself, and when he spoke, no evidence of his emotions remained. “With my background, my repertoire of names is more Indian than English. I wouldn’t be much help.”

At that point, the conversation turned to India, a country Fitz had visited several times. Rosalind was fascinated, asking a multitude of questions. With India the crown jewel in Britain’s empire, the store’s stock of books on India was considerable. Later, the men compared hunting experiences, India fertile ground for exotic game.

But as they conversed, Oz’s glance would drift back to Rosalind, his fascination with her pregnancy profound. He was young, Rosalind thought, a novice in dealing with the event; she understood his interest. Fitz understood other factors were in play as well, questions of paternity perhaps, although no one had explicitly said so.

After a convivial hour of conversation, Oz took his leave with an open invitation from Fitz and Rosalind for dinner or tea or a visit of any kind.

Fitz escorted Oz out.

“I don’t pretend to know your situation,” he said as they stood on the pavement outside the store, “but if I were to give a single piece of advice, I’d say, don’t burn your bridges.” He smiled. “You never know until you know.”

Oz laughed. “Since I’m currently in limbo, I won’t find it difficult to follow your advice. Now, if only I experience some epiphany before I drink myself to death.”

“At least you’re not involved in a duel every other day.”

“True. Marriage has emasculated me in that respect.”

Ftiz grinned. “I’m sure the members of Brooks’s are relieved.”

“No doubt.” Oz put out his hand. “Thank you. You and Rosalind are an island of calm in a highly volatile world.”

Fitz gripped his hand. “Come visit anytime. I’m always ready for a brandy.”

Later that day, Fitz sent Marguerite a brief note:

CHAPTER 30

AT THE SAME time Oz was riveted by the spectacle of a heavily pregnant belly for the first time in his life, Isolde was riding hard after the hounds. Will and Anne had invited her for the neighborhood hunt they were hosting that week, and since Pamela and Charles had promised to serve as shield to Will’s unwanted attentions, Isolde had accepted the invitation. In a few weeks, she’d no longer be able to ride hell-bent for leather but would have to content herself with a more gentle pace.

True to their word, either Pamela or Charles were at her side throughout the day as well as at dinner that evening. Isolde enjoyed the exhilarating afternoon, the soaring jumps and wild gallops, the warm spring temperatures and lush green countryside, the agreeable company of her neighbors, other than the Fowlers. All in all, she had a most gratifying time.

Even dinner was pleasant, with Charles and Pamela on either side of her at the table, the conversation animated, farming and horses favored topics, the food excellent. And when it came time to retire—the company staying over as was usual—Pamela saw her to her bedroom.