Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 7

  In the course of her toilette, she took out her fury on the poor woman, unmercifully threatening and upbraiding her at every turn, finding fault with all her words and actions, using the young maid servant as a convenient target for every item of clothing, bit of jewelry, comb, brush, or hairpin that offended her. By the time Nell finally stalked from her boudoir, the floor was littered, but London’s reigning beauty was modishly, even dashingly attired. Her fox cape and black velvet gown served as stunning foil to her pale skin and red hair; pearls the size of pigeon eggs glistened at her throat and ears, and a small beaded bonnet was picturesquely perched on her upswept curls. With her pert chin high, her cherry red lips pursed, she sallied forth to ferret out the truth.

  The instant the bedroom door closed on her mistress, the abigail, ashen and shaking, collapsed in tears. As she loudly sniffled and sobbed, she vowed to seek out another position even if it meant taking a post at some lesser establishment. Even if she was reduced to working for some arriviste mushrooms.

  For her part, Nell was vowing to get to the bottom of the ridiculous, outrageous rumor making the rounds of London. She had no intention of giving up a virile, captivating, obscenely handsome lover like Oz! None at all!

  IT WAS NO surprise to at least one of the occupants enjoying coffee in the baron’s morning room sometime later, when a distrait servant burst in stammering an apology, followed closely by a beautiful, glowering woman in red fox and black velvet who swept into the room like a whirlwind.

  “Sorry, sir,” the servant quavered, sweating. “She weren’t—”

  “Never mind, Jack. You did your best.” A master at awkward situations, Oz rose from the sofa to face his irrate lover.

  “To what do we owe this early-morning visit, Nell?” he blandly inquired.

  “Tell me you didn’t actually do it!” Nell retorted, ill-humored and sulky, swiftly advancing on Oz, her porcelain brow marred by a scowl.

  “News travels fast below stairs it seems.”

  “As you well know! Is it true? It can’t be!” Halting before him, she raked him with a glance. “You did, didn’t you! How could you?” she cried, stamping her foot and swatting him with her beaded purse.

  “Allow me to make my wife known to you, Nell,” Oz remarked, not about to respond to her outburst. Taking a step back, he glanced at Isolde seated on the sofa. “Countess Wraxell in her own right, meet Lady Howe. Nell and I are old friends.”

  If looks could kill, Isolde thought with amusement as the stylish redhead raked her with a murderous glance, her husband would have been widowed on the spot. As for old friends, it was obvious they were rather more than that. “Good morning, Lady Howe. Would you like coffee or do you prefer tea?”

  Oz smiled at his wife, charmed by her poise.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nell snapped. “I didn’t come here for tea.” Flushed with anger, she turned to Oz. “I came to speak with you.”

  “Say what you like,” he answered.

  “I doubt your wife would care to hear what I have to say.” Snobbish and snide, she dismissed the young woman in the unfashionable gown.

  “I’m sure Isolde won’t care; we deal well together.” Shock and chagrin registered for a flashing moment on Nell’s face, his fondness plain when he mentioned his wife. Impossible; not Oz. It must have been a lapse of some kind. “Very well, suit yourself,” Nell said sweetly, shifting her tactics, although the quick look she cast Isolde’s way was anything but sweet. “The truth now, darling,” she murmured, brushing Oz’s arm with her gloved finger in a proprietary gesture. “Surely, this must be some jest.”

  “Not in the least.”

  She tried to interpret his tempered tone. “Is it some absurd wager?”

  “No.”

  His placid reply and faint shrug left little doubt he spoke the truth. “I can’t believe you actually married this, this—little nobody from nowhere,” she petulantly accused, volatile and sullen once again. “You were supposed to meet me at Blackwood’s last night!”

  “Believe it, Nell,” he gruffly said, suddenly impatient. Oz was never in the mood to deal with Nell’s sulks, and this morning was no exception.

  Nell met his chill gaze, recognized the restive look in his eyes, and understood there were men at her beck and call and others like Oz who never would be. Sensibly dismissing his marriage as irrelevant, she shrugged her fur-draped shoulders, ceased pouting, and smiled. “Whether you’re married or not doesn’t really signify, does it, dear? Everyone knows a leopard doesn’t change his spots,” she added with a little laugh. “I wish you good fortune in your marriage, Countess.” She threw Isolde a pitying glance, for who better than she knew of Oz’s plans the previous night. Gently touching Oz’s hand, she softly said, “Do call on me, darling, whenever you have time. We always have such fun together. You amuse me in so many—”

  Oz caught her arm in a vicious grip. “I’ll see you to your carriage,” he growled, forcing her toward the door before she said more.

  Isolde heard him swear as he exited the room, and while she had no business feeling smug, she couldn’t help but experience the veriest bit of satisfaction at her husband’s gallantry. True, he might only be acting the part to convince Lady Howe the marriage was real. But he seemed genuinely irritated by his tantrumish lover.

  The beautiful redhead was quite splendid, though, her fiery temper notwithstanding.

  Then again, Oz might prefer tempestuousness in bed.

  Which was neither here nor there, Isolde sensibly decided.

  Her husband would do as he pleased, married or not.

  Lady Howe was right. Oz wasn’t likely to change his spots.

  NOT THAT HE wasn’t trying at the moment. “Goddamn, Nell, what the hell were you thinking?” he muttered as he hustled her down the stairs. “Don’t show up here again.”

  “Don’t order me about! I’ll do as I please!” She gasped. “You’re hurting me!”

  “I’ll strangle you with my bare hands if you come back,” he curtly said, unmoved by her gasp, shoving her across the entrance hall toward the door. “It’s not an idle threat, Nell.” The strength in his fingers was leaving deep bruises. “You’re bloody irritating me.”

  While he seemed immune to his retainers’ stares, Nell tried not to swoon before the several flunkeys in the hall.

  Signaling for the door to be opened, Oz propelled her toward the open threshold and reaching it, let her go. “Don’t come back,” he said loud enough so his servants understood she wasn’t to be admitted again.

  Then he turned, crossed the entrance hall in swift strides, and took the stairs at a run.

  Returning to the morning room, Oz apologized for Nell’s intrusion.

  “She’s a vain, self-indulgent baggage. But we won’t be bothered again. I promise.” Dropping beside Isolde on the sofa, he stretched out his legs, slid into a comfortable sprawl, rested his head against the cushions, and softly exhaled. Nell was a handful. She always had been.

  “You’re quite free to pursue your personal amusements,” Isolde quietly remarked. “You know that.”

  He turned his head enough to smile at her. “I know. However, we should appear the newlyweds for the moment at least—to put Compton off the scent. As for Nell, it won’t happen again.”

  He spoke with a rough brusqueness at the end, and Isolde recalled him offering to shoot Frederick for her. Her husband had a callous streak she’d do well to remember. “Once we’re in the country, we’ll be under less scrutiny—from Frederick or your friends.”

  He nodded, only half listening. Nell would spread the news of his marriage far and wide, including his savaging of her—which would only increase the tittle-tattle. “If you’re up to it, I think it might be wise if we’re at home today. Our marriage is the current overnight wonder; the most avid of the curiosity seekers are bound to call. It would serve your purposes to let the multitudes come and see”—he smiled—“the woman who so swept me off my feet, I was induced to renounce bachelorhood an
d allow myself to be caught.”

  “Please, a stalking female is such a cliché. Would you be averse to the proposition that I was pursued and caught.”

  “Cliché it may be, but it’s true,” he grumbled, having evaded every form of female pursuit since arriving in London, including being surprised in his bed. “I understand, though. Our marriage will be the result of love at first sight on my part. How’s that?”

  “Very gracious of you.” Isolde softly sighed. “I have a confession.”

  “Good God. Don’t say you’re my sister.”

  She laughed. “Rest easy. But your love-at-first-sight fiction is useful to me for another reason.” She took a small breath, glanced away, clearly discomfited.

  “Go on, darling,” Oz prompted. “I’m unshockable.”

  “It’s not actually shocking.” Her voice was subdued. “In fact, it’s quite common I suspect—a betrothal gone awry.”

  His brows lifted. “Yours, I presume.”

  She nodded. “It turns out”—she grimaced—“the man I planned to marry had been promised by his family to another. He felt honor bound to marry her.”

  “In this day and age?”

  “Country ways are more traditional.”

  “Ah.”

  “It’s true,” she insisted.

  He put up a hand. “I didn’t mean to disagree.” He smiled. “As I understand it then, you’d like your husband—me—to be head over heels for you as compensation for all the local gossip you had to endure with this, er, foiled betrothal.”

  She looked down briefly before she met his gaze. “Do I seem silly and foolish?”

  “Not at all.” He knew about wanting things that could never be, about the cruelty of gossip. Do you love him still? he thought, knowing how much he missed Khair. Not that any of it mattered. “In truth, posing as your lovesick husband will actually serve as explanation for my extraordinary behavior. I was a confirmed bachelor; everyone knew it.”

  She smiled, relieved for inchoate, possibly stupid reasons. “Thank you. It shouldn’t be for long in any event.”

  “No.” Especially after I scare the hell out of Compton.

  “Now then,” she said, cheered by Oz’s casual chivalry, “do you think we’ll have many visitors?”

  Shoving himself upward, Oz reached for a bottle Achille had conveniently left for him. “I know we will,” he said, uncorking the bottle.

  And he set about fortifying himself for the ordeal.

  CHAPTER 6

  BEFORE LONG, THE busybodies, scandalmongers, and a great many of Oz’s inamoratas came to call, all morbidly curious to see the clever, artful woman who had managed to lure Lennox into the marriage trap. They smiled and bowed and offered their felicitations; they took tea and made idle conversation—all the while frantic to know the reason for Lennox’s marriage.

  “She’s but a child,” the matrons whispered, Isolde’s girlish gown offering up an image of innocence. “And clearly unworldly, wearing a simple gown like that without a speck of jewelry. Where did she come from? Where’s her family?” And then their eyes would narrow, as if the answer to this odd marriage would be revealed with closer scrutiny.

  The men discounted innocence, their focus instead, male-like, on sex. “Lennox lusted after that buxom, young maid,” the men murmured, surveying Isolde’s curvaceous body with heated gazes, envying Oz his voluptuous, new bride.

  “The bitch. The clever bitch,” Oz’s resentful lovers hissed under their breaths, their veiled glances sullen. How had she brought him to the altar when so many had failed? Although, she’d have competition soon enough they didn’t doubt. Which thought consoled and heartened them.

  “Have you known each other long?” the visitors invariably asked, each arrival—thanks to Nell’s on dits—sensible of the startling suddenness of the marriage. It must have been a necessitous marriage, they all thought. Why else would a cheeky young profligate like Lennox marry?

  The first time the question of their acquaintance was posed, Isolde turned to her husband. “Oz likes to tell the story,” she said with a smile. “It’s quite romantic.”

  “We’ve known each other since we were children,” he blandly lied—repeating the fiction often in the course of the day. “A family connection—distant, of course. Isolde always wrote to me over the years, didn’t you, darling,” he fondly murmured, lifting her hand to his lips at that point for a gentle kiss. “And then suddenly, I found my little Isolde all grown up and I fell head over heels in love.”

  She blushed prettily.

  The room always went quiet for a second at such blatant affection from a man who’d seduced women far and wide but never loved them.

  “She’s shy,” he’d say, smiling fondly at his bride. “An admirable quality in a wife.”

  Another moment of shocked silence would ensue.

  Oz had always preferred audacious women.

  And so the at-home visit went, Isolde smiling through it all, accepting society’s spurious good wishes and pointed glances at her belly with grace, Oz discharging his role of doting husband with careless panache. All the while the servants keeping the cake plates and teacups replenished.

  It was a long, albeit productive day.

  Until finally, an old roue made the mistake of saying, “If I was twenty years younger, Lennox, I’d vie for the lady’s favors myself.”

  “If you were twenty years younger, Wilkins, I’d call you out,” Oz said, his expression uniquely unpleasant. “Consider yourself lucky.” As if suddenly reaching some indefinable breaking point, Oz rose to his feet, surveyed the social herd he despised, and said with cool precision, “My wife is fatigued. I trust you know your way out.”

  No one debated staying with the grim set of Lennox’s mouth.

  The room emptied in minutes.

  “No one else gets in, Josef,” Oz ordered, nodding at his majordomo, who’d held the drawing room door open for the departing guests. “Not God himself.”

  “Very good, sir. Would you like a brandy?”

  “Another bottle if you please.” He’d moderated his drinking while they had guests, fearful of losing his temper before all the breathless voyeurs. But he’d finally run them off, and dropping onto the settee beside Isolde, he unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat and loosened his cravat.

  “Champagne for the mistress?”

  Oz glanced at Isolde.

  “Cognac, please.”

  Oz grinned. “We deserve it.”

  “Indeed. You were everything a loving wife could wish for. Thank you.”

  “You may thank me later in a more personal way.”

  She laughed. “My pleasure.”

  He grinned. “I know.”

  But when the fresh bottle arrived, she watched him drink with a kind of reckless speed that was disconcerting. Noticing the apprehension in her eyes, he lifted his glass to her and offered her a glittering smile. “After hours of posturing and guile, darling, I need to wash the bad taste from my mouth. Don’t be alarmed. I’m never difficult until my third bottle.”

  “Perhaps you should eat something.”

  “Very wifely,” he murmured, pouring himself another brandy. “But I’m not hungry.”

  A timid knock on the door was shouted away.

  Josef was brave enough to open the door and announce, “A Mr. Malmsey, sir.”

  “I’ll see him,” Isolde said, jumping to her feet.

  Oz lunged and caught her wrist. “Stay. Send him up, Josef. Sorry, did I hurt you?”

  Rubbing her wrist, Isolde shook her head.

  He gave her credit for courage; he’d have to be more careful. “Why don’t you order us some food,” he suggested in atonement. “I probably should eat. Anything,” he added to the query in her gaze. “You decide.”

  He consciously set out to be civil, greeting Malmsey with good cheer, thanking him for his quick service, signing each document without looking at it, his bold scrawl dwarfing Isolde’s fine copperplate script. “Would you like
a drink?” he asked when the last paper was back in Malmsey’s leather portfolio.

  He caught Isolde shaking her head behind his back and grinned. “My wife is alarmed at my drinking, so I won’t insist you join me. Is there anything else?”

  It was dismissal no matter the softness of his voice.

  But Malmsey glanced at Isolde, wondering if she required his help.

  “I’m perfectly fine, Malmsey,” Isolde said. “My Lord Lennox assures me he’s not difficult until his third bottle.”

  Oz lifted the brandy bottle from the table. “Two, Malmsey. Your client is quite safe.”

  But he didn’t eat when the food arrived, and when he broached his third bottle, Isolde said, “I think I’ll see about finding a book to read in your library.”

  As she made to rise, he put out his arm, forcing her back. “Talk to me instead. Tell me the world is good”—he smiled tightly—“discounting the fashionable world, of course. Parasites all,” he muttered.

  “You’ve been too long in the ton. Country society is not so brittle.”

  “But is it good? Convince me of that with your betrothed—what was his name?—leaving you at the altar.”

  “He didn’t precisely leave me at the altar.”

  Oz looked at her and snorted.

  “Well, I suppose he did in a way.”

  “His name is?”

  “I’m not grossly wounded, Oz. His name is Will, Baron Fowler, and you needn’t snarl.”

  “I wasn’t snarling. I was grumbling. Achille brought you cake I see. Was it to your liking?”

  “Everything he makes is to my liking.”

  “Good, because he’s coming with us.”

  “When?” The papers were signed.

  “Tomorrow morning. The roads at night can be treacherous. Traveling by day is safer for you.”

  “You’re not coming?”