“We’re at your disposal,” he courteously said, conducting Isolde to a leather wing-back chair and dropping into a chair beside her. “Ask away, Malmsey, although you only need protect your client’s property. I’m not concerned with mine. I have more money than I need. I own the largest merchant bank in India.” He smiled at Isolde. “Unlike your cousin, I only want you.”
Since he’d already signed away any interest in her property, she hadn’t been concerned, but
my goodness
,
the largest merchant bank in India?
Apparently, Malmsey was equally impressed. He had to clear his throat several times before speaking. “I see. Would that be the National Bank of Delhi?”
“That’s one of mine, yes, although our headquarters are in Hyderabad.”
“And you’re active in the operation?” Isolde inquired, startled.
“Yes.” He grinned. “Are you surprised?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Then I’ll have to educate you in that enterprise as well.”
She blushed. He’d meant her to. “I’m familiar, indeed overfamiliar with legal documents,” he said to Malmsey, allowing his wife a moment to regain her composure. “You need only show me where to sign.”
“I understand, sir. Nevertheless, certain procedures must be followed.”
Oz said no more; barristers were of a suspicious nature. He settled back to politely endure the inquisition.
Once his brandy was carried in, he suffered the occasion with considerably more forbearance.
“I’ll have the papers drawn up and delivered to you this afternoon,” Malmsey said at last, clutching a fistful of papers covered in spidery script and rising from his chair.
Coming to his feet, Oz put out his hand. “Thank you for your able assistance in the recent turmoil.”
Isolde smiled at her barrister from the depths of the burgundy leather wing-back chair, her hair like spun gold against the dark leather. “Thank you, Robert, for being so helpful. I’m in your debt.”
“It’s a pleasure to serve you, my lady.” Malmsey’s bow was quite elegant for a portly little man.
The door shut with a small click a moment later, and Oz turned to his new bride.
“At the risk of offending you, darling, that took so long I do have to eat now. I’m starved.” He dipped his head in a deferential gesture. “We can eat breakfast in bed if you like, but eat I must. You drove me damned hard last night.”
She smiled at the heated memory. “I’m feeling a little peckish myself.”
He blew out a breath. “Thank you.”
Her brows rose. “Am I that difficult?”
“No, not at all—the thing is . . . honestly—I don’t usually have a lady in my house. More to the point—a wife.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m improvising. Look,” he abruptly said, “let me call Achille, you tell him what you want for breakfast, then we’ll go upstairs and bathe and change while he’s doing whatever he does in the kitchen.”
“Did my valise come in?” She’d brought a single change of clothes with her to the hotel since she’d planned to return home the morning after her staged denouement.
He nodded. “I’m sure it’s upstairs.” Josef had risen to the occasion with his usual aplomb on being introduced to Isolde; not so much as a raised eyebrow had testified to his shock. But then Josef had been with Oz a long time; nothing shocked him anymore.
As they ascended the broad marble staircase, Oz softly swore. “We forgot to have Malmsey see to the marriage announcement for the papers. My secretary will arrange it,” he promptly resolved. “It’s simple enough.”
“Must we?”
He shot her a look. “Cold feet?”
She took a small breath. “There’s a certain finality to an announcement in the
Times
.”
“But not as final as Compton stripping you of your fortune,” he said drily.
“I know—you’re right.”
“I would have been more right if you’d given me leave to kill him.”
“Please, don’t even think it!”
“Sorry, I’ll say no more.” But he and Compton were going to have a little talk. “Much as I’d like to join you in your bath,” he murmured, deliberately changing the subject as they moved down the corridor, “I’m going to beg off. If we were to bathe together, we wouldn’t be eating anytime soon.”
She smiled. “And you’re starving.”
“An understanding wife is a blessing,” he drolly said, stopping before a door and opening it.
“As is a husband who does his conjugal duty by his wife.” Isolde offered him a playful wink as she walked past him.
“Once we eat, consider me at your disposal for my husbandly duties. I’ll clear my schedule.”
She turned around to reply only to see the door close. After having his warm body next to hers all night, she felt strangely bereft. Not a sensible feeling considering the pragmatic nature of their arrangement, nor one she should dwell on. Instead, she scanned the large chamber she’d entered. The decor was exotic—the walls composed of carved ivory panels, the furniture, inlaid mother of pearl, the upholstery and draperies vividly colored silk. She was surrounded by the splendor of India. She must ask him more about his family.
“Your bath is ready, my lady.”
A young maid appeared from behind a latticework screen.
She lived more simply in the country. Not that Oak Knoll wasn’t a sprawling Tudor mansion filled with relics from the past, but Oz’s home was resplendent of wealth, from the huge staff to the glorious furnishings suggestive of eastern potentates.
“My lady, the water’s cooling.”
Prodded from her reverie, Isolde quickly said, “Thank you. I’ll be right there.” But she would do well to remember that a marriage of convenience had no room for emotion. Especially with a man like Oz.
Driven by hunger, Oz sped through his toilette, and fifteen minutes later, bathed and dressed, his wet hair slicked back, he entered the breakfast room and inhaled the welcome fragrance of hot coffee and bacon.
“Congratulations. I hear she’s very lovely.” Achille was standing beside the sideboard.
“She is, thank you. I need coffee.” Oz made for the table, where his chair was occupied as it was most mornings by a two-year-old, fair-haired boy who at the moment was smiling at him through a mouthful of jam-filled pastry, the remnants of the cruller held out to Oz in one sticky hand.
“At your place. I ground it myself. What can I get you this morning?”
“Two of everything—make that three. Morning, Jess. Is that good? It looks good.” As the little boy vigorously nodded and chewed, his uplifted face shining, Oz picked him up, sat down with the toddler on his lap, and reached for his coffee cup. “Thank you, Achille,” he said, his gratitude plain as he lifted the cup to his mouth. “I
need
this.”
“Try dis!”
Narrowly averting an ungentle meeting between pastry and coffee cup, Oz swept his cup aside just as the much-handled cruller struck his chin. He laughed. “You missed—here,” he said, bending his head, “try again.”
“Me wike.” A wide, jammy smile. “You wike, too.”
This time the pastry was on target to the satisfaction of one chubby-cheeked toddler who liked Oz as much as Oz liked him. The son of a new member of his staff, Jess often enlivened Oz’s mornings.
“Not much sleep last night?” Achille set two plates before Oz.
“Very little.”
“I thought so. I made the coffee strong.”
The men were of an age and friends of long-standing. Oz had found Achille in the Maldives years ago where the cook had been stranded when his employer along with his employer’s yacht had been sunk by the pirates who plagued the eastern waters. A long way from his home in Marseilles, Achille had been cooking in a waterfront dive; Oz had hired him on the spot.
Quickly draining his cup of coffee while Jess busied himself running his sticky fingers down the gold buttons of Oz’s waistcoat, Oz set down the empty cup. “
That
was a lifesaver. Now some food and I might survive another day.”
“She must have been delightful, but you don’t usually marry them.”
“It’s a long story. One I can’t divulge at the moment. But in time, all will be revealed.”
“Sounds mysterious.” Achille reached down, picked up a damp cloth, conveniently set on the table for just such a purpose, and quickly wiped Jess’s fingers as the toddler struggled against his grip.
Oz shook his head, chewing a mouthful of very wet scrambled eggs done just as he liked them. “Not mysterious,” he said a moment later. “Just a minor crisis. Soon to be resolved.”
His attention diverted from the buttons, Jess recalled more important issues. “Me toy, me toy, me toy!”
It was a daily ritual. “Look in this jacket pocket.” Oz pointed. “And tell me if you know what’s in there.” While the boy was plunging both hands into Oz’s pocket, Oz asked, “Is that the bacon from Normandy? It is? Give yourself a raise. I thought you couldn’t get any more once Monsieur Battie died.” He speared a thinly sliced round.
“His grandson came home from Paris and took over the farm.”
He smiled without looking up. “Obliging boy. Give him a raise, too.”
“You’re in a damned good mood for a man who vowed never to marry.”
Oz said, “It’s your food, Achille,” before turning his attention to the boy in his lap.
Having pulled out two small, brightly painted animals, Jess was frowning at them.
“Do you know what they are?” Oz gently asked.
“Cows?”
“Dinosaurs. There’s more in the other pocket. Set them on the table and I’ll tell you their names.”
As Jess was digging in Oz’s other pocket, he returned to his breakfast.
“I think your good spirits might be because of something more than my food,” Achille remarked, Oz’s marriage as shocking as his casual disregard of the event.
“Don’t get all intuitive and sensitive on me,” Oz scornfully said, scooping up another forkful of eggs. “You’re wasting your time.”
“As you say,” Achille acceded, Oz’s reply exceedingly blunt. He changed the subject. “I hope my lady likes Madagascar chocolate.”
“God knows. We’ll find out. Here, Jess, line them up here; there should be five. Can you count to five?” He looked up. “What did she ask for? I didn’t listen.”
“Steak and kidney pie if I had any in the larder.”
“For breakfast?” Oz shrugged. “Did you have any?”
“Of course. And cake.”
“She wanted cake? I suppose you had that, too.”
“Need you ask?”
Oz grinned. “No, you smug bastard.”
“You keep an excellent kitchen, mi’lor,” Achille said with a smile.
“Do I indeed? Glad to hear it. On a serious note, though, we’re going into the country soon, and I need you along. Her cook won’t know how to prepare Indian food. There’s one more, Jess. You have to find one more.”
“I’ll start packing supplies after breakfast.”
“We leave either tomorrow or the next day.” Oz glanced up as the door opened, bent to whisper in Jess’s ear, quickly came to his feet, and left the little boy in his chair, busy with his dinosaurs.
With a bow for his new mistress, Achille returned to the sideboard to fetch Isolde’s breakfast.
Oz moved to greet his wife and, meeting her in the center of the large room, casually said to the question in her eyes, “He’s the son of my sous-chef’s sister. He likes to breakfast with me. By the way, you look good enough to eat.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “I like your girlish gown.”
She wore a simple morning dress of raspberry silk with a matching ribbon in her pale, frothy hair. It was the only gown she’d packed, and the traveling dress she’d worn to London needed pressing.
Since nonchalance seemed to be the order of the day, not to mention perhaps the usual mode of living for her new husband, Isolde lightly said, “You clean up rather nicely yourself.” His tweed jacket and buff trousers were casual morning attire, his gleaming half boots testament to his valet’s competence. His crisp linen was immaculate, his foulard waistcoat smeared with jam the only flaw in the elegance of his dress.
“Two-year-olds,” he said, noting her glance. “The bane of my valet. Although I’m assuming we’ll be undressing again soon anyway. Malmsey won’t be back until afternoon.”
“How tempting,” she said. “You do know how to—” Isolde paused at a knock on the door.
A young man entered at Oz’s bidding, and after escorting Isolde to her seat at the table and resuming his, toddler on his lap, Oz introduced her. Jess was devoted to lining up dinosaurs on the linen cloth.
“Darling, this is my secretary, Charles Davey. Charles, my lady wife. You have the announcement I see.” Oz nodded at the sheet of paper in Davey’s hand.
“For your perusal, sir, and”—he dipped his head toward Isolde—“my lady.”
It was a brief two lines giving their names and the marriage date. Oz glanced at it, handed it across the small table to Isolde, who surveyed it and gave it back.
“Have it published in all the papers tomorrow,” Oz instructed, holding it out to his secretary. “We should be gone from the city before the news is broadcast.”
“Very good, sir. Are you home today?”
Oz looked at Isolde. “Are we home?”
She shook her head.
“We are not it seems,” he said with a smile for his wife. As his secretary walked out, Oz gestured at a small gold coffer of medieval character, set with large cabochon gems.
“Pick out a more appropriate wedding ring. My mother kept some of her jewelry in London. There should be something suitable in there.”
“I don’t need a ring, but thank you. I expect you want your signet back.” Quickly sliding the ruby cut with the Lennox cipher off her thumb, she handed it to him across the small table.
“Don’t argue. Think how tongues will wag in the ton if I don’t bestow a suitably lavish symbol of my affection on my new bride. Be a good girl,” he quietly said, “and take one.”
She’d not yet come to know how much he disliked resistance, but understood beneath the softness of his voice was a well-mannered command.