Sexy As Hell

by Susan Johnson

  The latter had been the case.

  Making his way through the crowd, Oz emerged on the verge of the courtyard opposite his wife, braced his back against one of the marble columns supporting the loggia, and proceeded to bid on several of Deveral’s prime racers. He’d bought six thoroughbreds when the filly, Pretty Polly, was finally led into the courtyard.

  Pushing away from the column, he moved closer to the yard and was first to bid on the filly.

  “Three thousand.”

  The sound of breaths sucked in wafted in the air.

  He was starting high.

  Grover glanced at Isolde, she nodded, and he said, “Four thousand.”

  Two other men came in at four thousand two, and four thousand four.

  “Six,” Oz said quietly, the sound clearly heard in the hushed courtyard.

  “Seven.” Isolde spoke up herself that time, her cheeks flushed, her sumptuous bosom gently rising and falling in her seething agitation.

  “Nine.”

  “Ten.” Crisp and taut, challenge in her lifted chin.

  “Twelve.”

  No one else was bidding, the price outrageous; an entire, tolerable stud could be purchased for twelve thousand.

  “Fifteen,” she carefully said, her nostrils flaring, the fingers of her gloved hands tightly twined before her.

  “Thirty.”

  A communal gasp swept through the crowd.

  Abruptly spinning around, Isolde made her way through the throng, everyone leaping aside to let her pass-Grover in her wake. The moment the main door closed on her, conversation erupted in the Tattersalls yard.

  Ignoring the busybodies and voyeurs, the curious and overcurious, the tittle-tattle and speculation, Oz walked up to the accounting clerk, spoke a few words to him, and swiftly followed his wife.

  He didn’t know why he was chasing after her, no more than he knew why he’d not let her have the filly. Sour discontent, exasperation, defiance, the fact that she looked like some voluptuous fertility goddess with her flamboyant breasts on display for all to see. That most of all.

  Damn her!

  Isolde was so bitter, rankled, and out of humor that on reaching the carriage she was literally quivering with rage. “I’m going to walk off my tantrum, Grover,” she said through her teeth. “You take the carriage back.”

  “Are you sure, Miss Izzy?” He’d never seen her in such a pet.

  Drawing in a deep breath meant to calm-ineffective as it turned out-she said tightly, “I’m sure. Please, Grover,” she added more softly, “I wish to be alone.”

  “Yes, Miss Izzy,” he replied, dutiful and loyal. But he stood by the carriage as she stalked off toward Hyde Park and watched her, concerned she was without an escort in the city. He glanced up at Dimitri. “We’ll follow behind to see that’s she’s safe. Lennox bought the filly for thirty thousand.”

  Dimitri softly whistled. “Deliberately?”

  “So it appeared.”

  “Maybe he cares after all.”

  “If he does, he has a queer way of showing it,” Grover muttered. “Oh Christ!”

  Dimitri turned his attention back from Isolde and saw Oz approaching.

  “She’s not here,” Grover said, surveying Oz grimly as he stopped at the carriage.

  Oz glanced into the carriage just to make sure, Grover’s expression unfriendly as hell.

  “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  There, a speck of purple in the distance. Turning back to Grover, Oz gently said, “Why don’t I ask her?”

  “Don’t make trouble,” Grover growled.

  “I thought I’d give her the filly.” A sudden impulse, unrelated to logic or reason or Grover’s growl.

  “Then you should have let her buy it.”

  “I should have.”

  He started running.

  CHAPTER 25

  SHE HEARD THE racing footsteps as they neared, turned, came to a shocked standstill, and thought, Why didn’t I take the carriage?

  “I’m sorry,” he said as he came up. “You can have the filly.”

  “I don’t want her.”

  “You can have her anyway.” God, she looks good.

  “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  He smiled; she rarely screamed when she was angry. She usually spoke in that cool voice of disdain. “Seeing you at close range makes me feel in charity with the world, darling.”

  “I’m not your darling. I believe Lady Howe is at the moment.”

  “I sent her home.”

  “Am I supposed to be appeased?”

  He felt like saying, You should be because it practically cost me an arm and a leg to get her to leave, but he didn’t because he was the transgressor. “Could we go somewhere and talk? Seeing you-”

  “Reminds you of your impending fatherhood?”

  “I was going to say, makes me think of you fondly until you effectively tempered those feelings,” he said drily.

  “I suspect you’re just looking for a change of partners for the afternoon to avert the boredom. Perhaps fondness isn’t a requirement after all.”

  He smiled, capable of overlooking arch derision for a greater purpose. “You might be right. You probably are. But you look delectable in that gown. Come talk to me at least; I’ll attempt to restrain my baser instincts.”

  “Do you dare be seen with me?” she said, snide and abrasive. “How will you explain it to Nell?”

  He never explained anything to Nell, but rather than aggravate his wife’s fractious mood, he decided to eliminate some of the obstacles from the landscape. “Would it help for me to say I was sorry?”

  “For which licentious offense? Surely you don’t confine your amusements to Nell.”

  “How’s Will if we’re into full disclosure?” he acidly inquired, his gaze suddenly cool like hers.

  “Annoying. Can you say the same for Lady Howe et al?”

  “I could.” A mirthless smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “But that wouldn’t be very gentlemanly of me. How often does Will annoy you?” Fine-drawn malice at the last.

  She softly sighed. “Why are we doing this? It can’t matter in the least.”

  “No, I suppose not.” Struggling to keep his temper in check, he reminded himself that Will was there before him and so it would remain. “Tell me,” he diplomatically said, “how are you feeling?”

  Her smile was heart-stopping when it shouldn’t have been, when it shouldn’t have mattered to him one way or another, when he’d been trying for weeks to forget that sunny smile.

  “I’m feeling fruitful and happily pregnant. The staff has assembled a lovely layette and”-short of missing you, she thought-“I’m quite content. How about you?”

  “Disgruntled and sullen. Although you could make me feel better.” He smiled sweetly, better seduction than actual feeling. “Come, darling. I promise to behave if you wish. Talk to me, that’s all. Davey can sit in the room with us if you like.”

  She shouldn’t. She was just exposing herself to more heartache; he was more beautiful than ever even with the dark circles under his eyes. “I shouldn’t,” she said.

  “I shouldn’t have asked. Come anyway. We’ll worry about the practicalities later.”

  “Don’t you always.”

  He grinned. “I could think about changing for you.”

  It was smooth and suave and untrue. “No need for such a sacrifice,” she said, smiling herself, suddenly jettisoning better judgment because she was being offered a few moments in Elysium. “Perhaps I can stop by for a short time.”

  “Thank you,” he quietly said, surprised at the shocking degree of pleasure he felt. Offering her his arm, he half turned, raised his hand, and signaled for his carriage, which had been following behind.

  “I should tell Grover,” Isolde mentioned as he handed her into his closed landau a few moments later.

  “Send him a message when we reach my house. Or would you like to drive back and tell him?”

  “No, a me
ssage will do.” It was too embarrassing to face her steward after succumbing so readily to Oz’s invitation. But then love made one foolish.

  Dimitri and Grover watched Oz’s carriage drive up, watched Isolde step inside, looked at each other, and lifted their brows.

  “It’s good,” Dimitri said. “She wants him. Why shouldn’t she have him?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to be had,” Grover muttered. “Damn him.”

  CHAPTER 26

  AS THEY ENTERED his house, Oz said to Josef, “Have Achille prepare some refreshments for my lady.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Isolde quickly interposed. “Really, I’m not staying long.”

  “He doesn’t mind. Brandy for me, Josef. And send a message to-” He glanced at Isolde.

  “Perceval House, Mayfair. Give Mr. Grover my direction.”

  “There now, all is in order,” Oz pleasantly said. Leading her across the hall, he opened the door into a small drawing room. “Please make yourself comfortable.”

  She hadn’t seen the little jewel of a room before, but then she’d not been in residence long and the house was very large. “How lovely.” Standing on the threshold, she surveyed the octagonal room, brilliant with sunlight, the window walls framed with gilded moldings, the painted ceiling a pale blue sky filled with colorful birds.

  “My mother’s room,” he said. “She painted.”

  “This?”

  “Some of it.” He eased past her. “Come, sit down. I’ll send the filly up to Oak Knoll tomorrow. Consider it an apology for my various sins.”

  “An expensive apology.” She followed him in.

  “Only because of my vicious temper,” he said and turning, offered her his practiced smile. “I have no excuse. You’ll enjoy her, though, so maybe the gods were in charge after all.”

  “Any special god?” Arch riposte to his facile smile.

  Unmoved, Oz said, “Take your pick,” then added in a more agreeable tone that took in account the reason he’d invited her here and the pleasure he felt for the first time in weeks, “Please, sit here.” He indicated a sofa. “You can put up your feet.”

  “I don’t need to put up my feet.”

  “Ah,” he murmured, cool tempered to her pet. “That’s how little I know about pregnancy. Sit where you wish then.” Dropping onto the sofa, he swung his booted feet up onto the flowered chintz, crossed his ankles, and resting against the upholstered arm, slid into a comfortable sprawl. “I didn’t know you had a house in town.”

  “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, b
ecause 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?