Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Read online

  “You’re sure there’s no other way?” Reluctance in every syllable.

  “Nothing so conclusive as the public spotlight. You were excellent in your role at tea yesterday. You can do it again. I’ll be beside you to give you your cues.”

  “You make it all sound so reasonable.”

  He gave her one of his lavish smiles. “It is. A few hours and it’s over.”

  She softly sighed. “I suppose if we must.”

  “Excellent.” Oz smiled. The invitations had already been sent out.

  “When exactly are you planning this reception? I want to return home soon.”

  “Tonight.”

  Her eyes flared wide. “Tonight! Surely no one will come on such short notice.”

  His lips twitched. “Of course they will. I have a reputation for being unmanageable. They’ll want to see if you can manage me.”

  “I can’t, of course.”

  “Tonight you can.”

  “In that case,” she said with a sudden smile, “I must plan my strategy. The thought of you as a tractable husband quite boggles the mind.”

  “Be gentle.” His gaze was angelic.

  Pushing up into a sitting position, she playfully said, “Mock me if you dare. I’ll be holding the whip hand over you in public.”

  The covers had fallen away as she sat up, exposing her sumptuous breasts, their soft ripeness and rosy warmth close enough to touch. Oz’s libido reacted instantly. Fully capable of controlling his impulses, however, his voice was well ordered when he spoke. “Consider, my pet, once everyone is gone, I might be interested in whips as well.”

  “I’m not sure that’s all bad,” she said with wink.

  He laughed. “I should have met you before and saved myself from a good deal of boredom.”

  “And I as well,” she airily replied when short days ago she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of sexual familiarity with a man she barely knew. “Do you really have people waiting in your office?”

  He almost said no, the plaintiveness in her voice clear. If Sam wasn’t waiting for instructions, if Davey wasn’t impatient to have him reply to the morning’s telegrams, if he wasn’t routinely engaged in banking business at this time of day, he might have. “I do, I’m sorry,” he gently said. “But you have an appointment as well after breakfast. A modiste is coming to fit you for a new gown.”

  She frowned. “What if I’d said no to your reception?”

  “Then you simply would have had a new gown. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”

  “You’d better. I suppose my entire day’s scheduled?” she fretfully said, irritated with his apparently inexhaustible authority.

  He put up a calming hand. “Feel free to do as you please.” “Except for the modiste.”

  He smiled. “If you don’t mind. She’ll be here at eleven. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” There was no point in useless argument when his plans were fully en train. He came to his feet. “Davey’s waiting.”

  CHAPTER 8

  MRS. AUBIGNY, THE most sought-after modiste in London, a woman fully aware of her consequence, was brought into what Josef referred to as the sewing room, precisely at eleven. Introductions were made, the door closed on Josef, and the fair, stylishly dressed Frenchwoman surveyed Isolde with a keen, assessing gaze.

  Then she smiled warmly.

  “Allow me to offer you my congratulations on bringing Lennox to heel,” she pleasantly said, an undercurrent of French in her pronunciation.

  “Do I say thank you to such frankness?”

  “But of course, my dear. It’s a compliment. When Lennox’s man came to me I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I see now”—the modiste’s gaze narrowed in a considering way—“you’re quite out of the ordinary. Your pale, blushing beauty bespeaks a sans peur et sans reproche—what do the English say—purity, virtue? A change for his lordship.”

  “You know his lordship personally?” Isolde inquired with her own candor. Was she dealing with another of Oz’s paramours?

  “Non, non, my lady. You misunderstand. His lordship merely patronizes my shop.”

  “Quite often I suspect,” Isolde said. Oh dear, how childish. She instantly regretted her comment.

  This little bride was clearly jealous of her husband’s past—poor dear. “His lordship favors our establishment on occasion,” Mrs. Aubigny equivocated rather than reveal that Lennox was her best customer.

  “I appreciate your tact.”

  Ah, a woman of intuition. “One learns in this business, my lady.”

  “One learns that men and women approach marriage differently,” Isolde returned with equal honesty.

  “Not necessarily. In your case, you and his lordship were obviously in accord.”

  It was impossible to reply truthfully. “My husband is quite convincing when he wants to be.”

  “You must have been convincing as well, my lady. While his lordship’s fondness for women is well-known, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, he’s never been inclined to marry them. Everyone will view you with legitimate wonder.”

  “A position I do not relish.”

  Lennox’s bride spoke with distaste. Any society belle so clever as to have captured Lennox would have vaunted her conquest. “It’s only natural you’d find the full glare of society disquieting after having lived in the country so long,” Mrs. Aubigny kindly said, au courant on gossip. “But then that’s why I’ve been commissioned by his lordship. I’m to see that you’re not only dressed to perfection for your debut but also properly showcased. I assure you, you’ll dazzle the ton.”

  “Did my husband so decree?” An instant, knife-sharp query, Isolde’s antipathy plain.

  Is there a struggle for supremacy in the marriage? Who would have thought the little miss had such courage with a man like Lennox? “His lordship simply wishes to acknowledge you as his wife before the world,” the modiste smoothly replied. “Any and all decisions apropos your toilette are naturally yours to make,” she diplomatically added. “His lordship was quite specific. I’m here merely to assist you.”

  Isolde softly sighed; there was no point in airing her grievances before a stranger. “Forgive me,” she said, silently taking herself to task for her ill-advised outburst. “I do appreciate your help, of course.”

  And so you should, my dear, dressed as you are in that demode country gown. “You’ll be magnificent tonight, my lady,” Mrs. Aubigny bracingly pronounced, knowing she had her work cut out for her with the time allowed. “And you and his lordship will make an absolutely stunning couple.” The modiste kissed her fingertips with a flourish, envisioning the handsome pair with an artist’s eye. “The delicious contrasts—wildness and innocence, dark and fair, Lennox’s powerful virility—la, my sweet, taming him will be exciting. There now, I’ve made you blush,” she murmured. “Come now, enough of my flights of fancy. We must bestir ourselves,” she briskly added, indicating several fashion books on a nearby table, “You decide which design most appeals to you, my dear.”

  Grateful for an end to the modiste’s embarrassing observations, Isolde put to rest her lingering resentment over Oz’s dictates and followed the dressmaker. Taking a seat beside her a moment later, Isolde set about perusing the beautiful illustrations, while the Frenchwoman kept up a running commentary, offering pithy judgments with her usual vigor.

  Amused at the fiction that the decision was hers to make, Isolde waited to see which design Mrs. Aubigny would deem appropriate.

  “Certes, pink is too youthful for a wife,” the modiste firmly declared, wrinkling her nose at a pink confection of a gown. “As is this pastel shade of blue, non, non, completely unsuitable”—another page flipped over—“this daffodil yellow as well—not with your fair skin. Umm—this rose and the sea green—I think not. They’re both too precious by half. A woman of mettle such as yourself who’s taken on a brute like Lennox requires je ne sais quoi—a bit more drama.” Three more pages discarded. “What I’d really like to see you in, my sweet, woul
d be a diaphanous white, wholly feminine creation, but it’s hardly appropriate on such a cold night,” she went on, turning over several more pages. “Black, too, would be wonderful with your coloring, but not quite right I think for a lady of your, shall we say, grace. Nor do I think his lordship would like you in something so seductive.” To Isolde’s quick look, she added, “He’d find the sensual implications unsuitable.”

  “I doubt he’s so pious.”

  “He isn’t, but he’d prefer his wife not attract lustful glances.” Or so his note had asserted—although less directly. He’d used the word lurid.

  “You no doubt know him better than I, but still I’d disagree. His lordship is degage about women.”

  But not about a wife apparently. There was no point, however, in continuing the argument, so Mrs. Aubigny crisply said, “I’m sure you’re right. Tell me now, what do you think of this cobalt blue velvet?” She tapped the illustration with her manicured nail. “In the midst of winter, with the chill and rain, the soft fabric and diamant ornament offers a cozy sense of luxury and warmth.”

  More than willing to defer to Mrs. Aubigny’s expertise, Isolde yielded without argument. She’d never been a martinet to fashion in any event. Country ways were considerably less modish. “If you think it suitable, then I agree.”

  “It’s perfection.” Mrs. Aubigny made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and briefly held it aloft to underscore her point. “We have a bit of dashing spectacle, but not too much. The sumptuous fabric draws the eyes, the shade of blue is perfect against your pale skin, the décolletage, if I might say so, is everything that’s proper, yet revealing enough to discretely display your lovely breasts.”

  Her attention called to the low neckline of the gown, Isolde murmured, “You don’t think it too shocking?”

  “Non, non—it’s the perfect compromise. Wifely, yet alluring.”

  “Very well.” Isolde wasn’t overly concerned with gowns in general. Had they been perusing photos of new breeds of cattle, her attention would have been more engaged.

  The necessary approval granted, Mrs. Aubigny immediately rose from her chair, clapped her hands, and called out, “Vite, vite, my little helpers!” The door to an adjoining room opened and the room was soon awash with pretty young assistants. Isolde was quickly stripped to her chemise and petticoats and placed on a small dais that had been carried in with all the paraphernalia required for a fitting. Mrs. Aubigny commenced cutting then draping blue velvet on Isolde while a dozen chattering young women expertly pinned and basted the fabric in place.

  The gown was taking on structure and form when the door quietly opened and closed.

  Isolde looked up, Mrs. Aubigny turned, and a dozen seamstresses went motionless en masse.

  “Don’t let me disturb you,” Oz affably said. “Very lovely, darling,” he softly added, moving to a chair. Sitting, he leaned back, stretched out his legs, and gazed at Isolde from under his long lashes. “That cobalt blue velvet is perfect with your coloring.”

  “You’re well versed in women’s fripperies,” Isolde observed.

  He knew what she meant; he also knew Mrs. Aubigny was discreet. “I told you—fabrics are part of my shipping cargo. Even Venetian velvets like that, although my trade is mostly in Eastern silks.” He almost said, Is that better?

  “Consider yourself fortunate, my lady, to have a husband who notices such things,” Mrs. Aubigny interposed, conscious of the small heated note in Isolde’s voice, hoping to forestall a contretemps. She had very little time to create a gown of suitable magnificence for Lennox’s wife. “Most men care nothing for the subtleties of dress.”

  “Or undress.”

  “Behave.”

  The single word was softly spoken, almost a whisper of sound, the authority beneath it giving rise to Isolde’s sudden high color, Mrs. Aubigny’s increased anxiety, and an explosion of gasps among all the wide-eyed seamstresses.

  “Now, now, children,” Mrs. Aubigny swiftly intervened. “Need I remind everyone of our time constraints? I think not. Charlotte, hand me my shears. This train is a bit too long.”

  Isolde bit back the remark on the tip of her tongue.

  Oz’s assent took the form of a faint smile.

  And possible disaster was averted.

  For his part, Oz was more than content; the view was enchanting, his plans were well in hand, and if his wife chose to show a bit of spirit in public, he had no complaint. In fact, her audaciousness was one of her many charms. Although, at the moment, he was rather more drawn to her shapely breasts exquisitely mounded above the blue velvet drapery.

  “A little less fabric on the shoulders, Mrs. Aubigny. If you please.”

  Isolde flushed under his assessing gaze and the bluntness of his injunction. He could have been some prince of the blood directing his minions with the bland assurance in his voice. And while she took intellectual issue with his explicit command, unfortunately the deep timbre of his voice provoked and stirred her senses, his stark beauty tantalized—as usual, as always, and quite against her will, a small heat began to warm her blood and pulse in the core of her body. Damn him—how dare he simply look at her and make her want him without so much as lifting a finger? How dare he turn his smile on all the pretty little seamstresses and tantalize them with equal ease.

  Familiar with adulation, more familiar of late with that rosy flush rising up his wife’s throat, Oz pushed himself upright in his chair and out of concern for Mrs. Aubigny’s schedule, interfered with Isolde’s warming passions. “I actually came here on a bit of business, my dear, for which I beg your indulgence. It seems the jeweler will be here at three. I know, another appointment to ruin your day,” he added at her frown. “It won’t take long. What do you think? Sapphires with that gown or would a contrast be more appropriate?”

  “If I might make a suggestion,” the Frenchwoman smoothly interjected. “Pearls would be the perfect complement.”

  Oz held the modiste’s gaze for a fleeting moment before turning to his wife, Mrs. Aubigny’s perception acute. Pure white, matchless pearls resting on those soft mounded breasts, the contrast discreet, erotic, was a perfect symbol of marriage—romantic and carnal love in harmony. He wondered if Mrs. Aubigny had heard Compton’s rumors. “It’s up to you, of course, my dear.”

  “Is it really? I doubt it. Nothing has been so far,” Isolde tartly said, bristling at her husband’s artful pretense when nothing about this entire occasion was up to her. “I’m not your pawn to be moved hither and yon,” she heatedly added. It was not a role with which she was acquainted. Although, what provoked her most—disobedient jealousy defying reason—were the looks of longing on the faces of all the pretty seamstresses gazing at her husband. To which he was profoundly indifferent.

  A lesson there.

  If her task wasn’t so formidable, Mrs. Aubigny might have enjoyed the power struggle she was witnessing. She glanced at Lennox, wondering if she dared interfere. Perhaps not, she decided. She’d seen him like this before when he was out of patience with one of his inamoratas.

  “I didn’t realize you felt that way,” Oz quietly said, his jaw set.

  “Then you didn’t listen to me this morning. Or did and chose to ignore me.”

  “I must have misunderstood.” The faintest twitch slid along his jaw.

  “No, you didn’t. But I’ve had enough of this charade,” Isolde waspishly said. She turned to Mrs. Aubigny. “Unpin me.”

  “Would you excuse us for a moment?” Oz spoke with exquisite courtesy, his glance at the dressmaker barely perceptible. “One of the footmen will show you to the conservatory. Tell him to bring you tea.”

  He might have been God himself for the speed with which the room emptied.

  He waited silently until the door closed. “What seems to be the problem?” he asked with a cool and deliberate civility, hoping to appease his wife before the situation turned into open warfare.

  “The problem,” she caustically said, “is you giving me order
s and your obsequious dressmaker pretending you’re not, and the fact that I’m opposed to all of this as you well know! I want to go home!” Partial truths. The rest having to do with all the wistful seamstresses didn’t bear closer reflection. Since yesterday she’d come to understand that Oz didn’t pursue women; it was the other way around. And stupidly, it irritated her.

  “We went over this before,” he said with restraint. “You can’t go home just yet.”

  “I certainly can. Just as soon as I’m unpinned from these bloody yards of velvet,” she pettishly muttered, plucking out pins.

  Oz blew out a breath, his exasperation showing for the first time; Josef and everyone else were moving mountains to see to this night’s work. “Don’t be a child. You can go home tomorrow.”

  She glared at him in the midst of her unpinning. “Since when did God appoint you his authority on earth?”

  His smile was impudent. “It’s been a while. Any other questions?”

  “Tell me honestly, how can any of this possibly matter?” she said, lowering her voice, trying to match his restraint. “Compton’s going to believe what he wants to believe regardless of this spectacle.” While I’m going to have to watch all your lovers stalk you tonight, like the breathless little seamstresses gazing at you with such hope. She jerked out a handful of pins.

  “We’re going to change his mind tonight.”

  She paused in her unpinning. He was speaking to her softly as he would to a recalcitrant child, damn his bloody composure! “I don’t happen to agree with you,” she snapped, her effort at restraint melting away. “Do you hear me!”

  His nostrils flared. “The entire household heard you. Let’s not argue, though,” he smoothly said, focused on achieving success tonight. “I apologize for anything I’ve done to offend you.”

  “I don’t want your apology. I want to go home! Don’t look at me like that. And don’t speak to me like I’m a bloody child. I’m not obliged to agree with you on everything. For one thing I think I know my cousin slightly better than you. And more importantly, you can’t tell me what I can or cannot do.”