Sexy As Hell

CHAPTER 4

MR. PELHAM’S RESERVATIONS were overcome with a generous gift to his parish, Malmsey’s with a quickly scrawled note by Oz in which he relinquished any interest in Isolde’s property, and shortly after, in room thirteen of Blackwood’s Hotel, with Malmsey and Fremont as witnesses, Miss Perceval and Baron Lennox prepared to outmaneuver Frederick Compton.

“Make it short,” Oz instructed the minister. At Pelham’s frown, he thought him an ungrateful bastard considering the sizable sum he’d donated to his church, but rather than argue about the man’s lack of appreciation, Oz turned to Isolde and gently said, “Unless you prefer the entire ritual, darling. Although you really shouldn’t be standing that long.”

He was brazen and shameless out of bed as well, Isolde thought, as a blush pinked her cheeks at his insinuation. But she answered with cool equanimity. “A short ceremony would please me.”

How like her, Oz reflected, recalling that same mild tone from their first meeting. “As you see, Mr. Pelham. The lady wishes brevity.”

But as the minister grudgingly flipped through the pages of his prayer book to the essential passages, Isolde reflected on the stark difference between this humble ceremony and what she’d once envisioned for her wedding day. Like every young lady of wealth, her dreams had been romantic and starry-eyed. The family chapel would have been filled with fragrant summer flowers, she would have been radiant in a magnificent couturier design instead of her travel gown, scores of guests would have been in attendance, and of course, a different bridegroom would have stood at her side.

But then Will had been obliged to marry Anne Verney.

Frederick’s coercion had taken a dangerous turn.

And here she was-harsh reality dispatching romantic dreams.

Oz chose not to consider the bizarre occasion other than as a temporary solution to a lady’s dilemma that offered him at least a month of deeply satisfying sex. As for romantic dreams, his had been buried in India two years ago. When the minister paused at the point in the ceremony where a ring was required for the bride’s finger, Oz pulled off his gem-cut signet ring and slid it on Isolde’s finger. It was less suitable perhaps than the emerald on the fourth finger of his left hand, but that ring was too precious to relinquish.

Once the ceremony was over, Oz saw that Isolde took possession of the marriage certificate, then he thanked the various participants and politely ushered them from the room. Shutting the door, he leaned back against it and looked at his new wife, his lashes at half-mast, his gaze unreadable. “So,” Oz spoke softly. “How are you feeling?”

She was silent for a moment. “Filled with doubt,” she quietly said. Plucking up her spirit because she wouldn’t become some vaporish female now that the deed was done, she added in a more normal tone of voice, “What about you?”

He shrugged, more sober suddenly than he wished. “It’s over. Let’s get out of here. We’ll wait at my house for the more definitive documents from Malmsey. We’ll have some champagne to celebrate the happy occasion,” he offered, hoping to lift her spirits-although he could use a bottle or two himself right now. “I have an excellent library if you like to read, a china collection of my mother’s I’m told is good”-women like china collections, don’t they?-“I also have a damned fine chef who’ll cook you anything you want. From cakes and tea to bloody beef and anything in between. Are you hungry?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do I look so forlorn you must cajole me?”

“Like a lost puppy, darling.” His voice was idle as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “Come, we’ll discuss Compton’s blighted hopes over breakfast,” he said, the familiar amusement back in his tone. “That should please you.”

She smiled ever so faintly as he moved toward her. “How blighted are his hopes? Lie if necessary.”

“Blighted beyond redemption. No lie. And as your savior,” he said with a wicked wink, taking her hand in his, “I shall expect my reward in short order.” Better sex than morbid reflection-his mantra of recent years.

“Shameless libertine,” she accused, although her voice held a hint of levity. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

“Not with you around.” Taking the marriage parchment from her hand, he dropped it on a chair and pulled her close. “See?” His remedy of choice to moments of chagrin.

Lacing her arms around his waist, she moved her hips against his rising erection and, gazing up at him from under her lashes, saw the familiar smoldering flame in his dark eyes. “You’re always ready to oblige a lady, aren’t you?” she murmured, a familiar glow beginning to warm her senses.

Sliding his hands down her back, he pressed her into his rigid length. He couldn’t say sex had been his substitute for feeling the last two years. “Why don’t we pull down the carriage shades,” he said instead, “and entertain ourselves on the drive home.”

“You do know how to cheer me up.”

“What’s a husband for if not that?” he offered with a grin. “My God,” he exclaimed, “I’m going to engage in carnal relations with my wife.”

“Your temporary wife.”

His grin widened. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

But their plans were curtailed once they reached the lobby for Malmsey was waiting for them. “Forgive me,” he said with a rueful smile, “but I still have questions to put to you both before I can draw up the settlement papers.”

Oz glanced at Isolde, who stood at his side, her gloved hand resting on his arm. “Do we have time?” She was less inclined to forgo her pleasures than he.

She hesitated.

He was about to make some excuse to Malmsey when she leaned into him and looked up from under the hood of her blue velvet cloak. “It’s up to you.”

It made no difference to him one way or the other; he’d be fucking her soon enough. But Malmsey’s hopeful expression couldn’t be overlooked. “Ride with us and ask your questions,” he kindly offered. “You need paper and pencil, don’t you? Fremont!” He gestured as if writing. “Fetch a pencil and paper!”

The distance to his home wasn’t sufficient for Malmsey to interrogate them fully, so Oz invited him in.

As the trio ascended the shallow bank of stairs, the front door of Oz’s mansion opened before them with smooth efficiency, and Oz ushered Isolde over the threshold into an entrance hall of palatial proportions, considerable colored marble, and an impressive display of gold gilt.

A majordomo of indeterminate age and considerable consequence stood at attention before them in a simple black livery.

“Good morning, my lord.” Neither his expression nor manner indicated the singular occasion. Oz did not bring his lady loves home. “Would you be needing refreshments?”

“Yes, please.” Relieving Isolde of her cape, Oz handed it to a footman. “I have a small announcement,” he remarked with the tranquility of a man long accustomed to indisputable power. “Allow me to introduce my lady wife and your new mistress, Lady Wraxell.” His gaze moved from his retainer to Isolde. “Josef will cater to your every whim, darling, as he has to mine for as long as I can remember. You may wish us happy, Josef,” he finished with a smile.

“May we offer you our most hearty congratulations, sir,” the tall majordomo said without so much as a glimmer of surprise in his cool, grey gaze, nor a glance at the disheveled state of the newlyweds’ clothing. “What a great pleasure it is to meet you, my lady,” he added, turning to Isolde with a look as bland as that he’d offered Oz. “I know I speak for the entire household when I wish you both much joy.”

Oz dipped his head. “Thank you, Josef, and thank the staff as well. I’m afraid we’re both tired and hungry. It’s been a busy, energetic many hours. If someone could show Mr. Malmsey to my study,” he added with a glance at the barrister, “we’ll join him there.”

As Malmsey was led away, Oz looked at Isolde. “Now, is there anything you’d like, darling?”

She blushed.

He smiled, mouthed the word soon, then shifting his gaze, addressed his majordomo with imperturbability. “See that my lady’s valise is brought in and put in the ivory chamber. We both need a bath drawn. Have coffee and some small nourishment brought to the study. Brandy for me.” He took Isolde’s hand. “This shouldn’t take long, darling. We’ll send Malmsey on his way in short order.”

As they walked away, Josef turned to the several footmen on duty who displayed varying levels of shock. “I suggest you stop gaping and see to your duties. Have the lady’s valise brought in, see that she has a servant waiting in her chamber, and inform Achille that our master is home, hungry, and newly married.”

“A prodigious surprise,” the elderly hall porter said, his long-standing employment in the household allowing him such frankness.

“But a pleasant surprise,” Josef murmured. “The boy has long needed a companion.”

“As if he ain’t had enough of those,” a footman said under his breath.

“That’s quite enough, Ted. Mind your tongue.” Josef clapped his hands. “I believe you all have duties to perform. We wouldn’t want our new mistress to find the household deficient in any way.”

But once everyone had dispersed, Josef allowed himself a pensive moment. He’d been with the young master since birth, having served his father before him. He hoped the boy hadn’t made too hasty a decision. He hoped above all that the new Lady Lennox would bring their headstrong master joy. Two years ago, young Oz had lost the woman he loved as well as his parents in the space of six months. He deserved some happiness.

COMING TO A stop outside the door of his study, Oz pulled Isolde close and stole a kiss. “Mmm-you feel good. Don’t go far.”

She smiled up at him. “Since I seem to be addicted, you needn’t worry.”

He drew in a quick breath, let his hands drop away, and reached for the door latch. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want anything of yours. Correction, anything material. You I want. Ready?” At her nod, he shoved open the door, waved Malmsey back into his chair, and escorted Isolde into his book-lined study. The room smelled of leather bindings and hashish, of masculine cologne heavy with musk. Of brandy most of all. He spent his evenings here reading and smoking before his nightly excursions into London’s clubs, society, or stews.

“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.

“Very well, but you may have it back later,” she said with equal imperiousness, at which he smiled and said, “Of course. As you wish.”

Then he committed himself to entertaining Jess, speaking low, explaining the names of the dinosaurs, helping the toddler rearrange the figures to his satisfaction, not so much as glancing Isolde’s way as she selected her wedding ring from a sumptuous collection of jewels.

“There, are you happy now?” She held out her hand, a heart-shaped ruby sparkling on her ring finger.

There was a small pause while Oz obliged Jess by moving a figure slightly to the left before he turned to his new bride and smiled. “Very well behaved. Thank you.” Then his smile changed to one of lethal charm and he said, “Forgive me for being childish. I’m afraid I’m not used to a wife. That was one of my mother’s favorite rings by the way. It suits you.”

“I apologize as well. We are both singularly determined.”

“I remember that,” he softly said, delight in his gaze. “A quality I much admire in you.”

She flushed deeply and nervously glanced at Achille.

“Achille hears nothing, darling. Do you, Achille?” Oz murmured with a raised brow to his friend standing by the sideboard.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Oz turned back to Isolde. “There, you see? We are quite alone, especially while Jess is transfixed with his toys. Now, come, darling,” he placidly said, “enjoy your breakfast.”

But even as the newlyweds breakfasted with a noisy, busy toddler, rumors of Lennox’s marriage were racing like wild-fire through the ton. A servant at Blackwood’s Hotel had spoken of the surprising marriage to his cousin who valeted for the Duke of Buccleuch-disclosing the news in the strictest confidence, of course. The duke’s valet whispered the juicy bit of gossip into the butler’s ear who in turn conveyed the astonishing tidbit to his counterpart in the Earl of Derby’s household. And so it went, the shocking event made known to the whole of society in less than two hours.

As reports of their marriage were touching off shock and wonderment in boudoirs and breakfast rooms around town, Oz and Isolde shared a companionable meal, finding that they could converse easily like friends of long-standing rather than recent acquaintances. Jess had been diverted with his toy chest, which was conveniently at hand under the sideboard, and was oblivious to the adults as only a toddler fully engaged in play could be.

Oz, having eaten well, was at ease, his wife’s presence across the table surprisingly soothing-a revelation for a man who’d always carefully avoided morning-after occasions. It occurred to him that she was very restful. She didn’t disrupt his normal routine or look askance at Jess, who hadn’t yet warmed to a new acquaintance at breakfast; nor did she introduce a jarring note into what had always been for him a tranquil time. She quietly read the paper, commenting from time to time on some topic that actually interested him, intelligently answering his infrequent remarks with a degree of acuteness that made him conclude that he might have been amusing himself with very shallow females prior to Miss Perceval.

Isolde was equally surprised she was so comfortable with a man she barely knew. Furthermore, a man of such notable seductive skills hardly seemed the type who would entertain a child at breakfast and manage to exude tranquility across the breakfast table as well. And yet he did. Like an old shoe, she incredulously thought.