Sexy As Hell

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, would 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 dйcolletage, 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 orders 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.”

He didn’t blink or move so much as a muscle. “You’re tired,” he said, his voice level. “I’ll tell Mrs. Aubigny to finish without you.”

“She can’t. Handle that by imperial fiat,” Isolde spat, sullen and pugnacious.

Rather than rise to the bait, Oz shrugged. “Mrs. Aubigny must have your measurements; she can do her best.” He was paying her enough; she’d have to manage. “Here, let me unpin you,” he calmly added, coming to his feet and moving toward her.

“Don’t touch me!”

He stopped, drew in a breath, and slowly exhaled. “You’re my wife.” An act of excessive charity on his part, he rather thought. “I’ll touch you if I wish.”

“You’ll do no such thing!” His air of command was exasperating to someone who laid claim to an equal authority in her own life.

He stopped before her and smiled, a faint, humorless twitch of his lips. “Is the honeymoon over?”

“It certainly is! But I’m sure you need only lift your finger and any of Mrs. Aubigny’s seamstresses would be more than willing to accommodate you. Perhaps Mrs. Aubigny would herself.”

Oz lowered his lids faintly. “Is that what this is about?” “No, it’s about me going home!” A half truth, a lie, her own tangled web of emotions beyond comprehension.

Now that Oz understood their argument wasn’t exclusively about Isolde going home, in the interests of conjugal peace and the two hundred guests arriving in a few hours, he set out to cajole. “I promise you can go home at the crack of dawn,” he said, soft-spoken and conciliatory. “The minute the last guest leaves tonight if you prefer. Be reasonable, sweetheart. Think of all Josef’s work.”

“I’m not your sweetheart.”

“You were last night,” he gently said.

“I’m not anymore!”

She sounded so much like a child throwing a tantrum that he couldn’t contain his smile.

“I’m sure it’s all very amusing to you,” she huffily muttered.

Wiping the smile from his face, he said with punctilious gravity, “Not at all. I want only to serve your interests.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean,” he answered in an ordinary voice.

“Because you’re always amenable to women.”

He generally was but this wasn’t the time to admit it. “It means”-he hesitated and added sweetheart anyway-“that I want to give you whatever you want in order to have you at my side tonight. Name your price. I’ll willingly pay it.”

“I suppose women always say jewelry.”

He supposed they did. “Just tell me what you want.” He wasn’t stupid enough to mention other women. “I’m throwing myself at your mercy because the reception is that important.” Because of Compton’s whisper campaign and also because, at base, he didn’t like to be gainsaid.

“You already promised to be tractable tonight.”

“Ask for something else then.” Compton was coming; below stairs was already buzzing with the news.

“Something expensive?”

“Christ, Isolde, I don’t care.”

This time she was the one who smiled. “When was the last time you faced dissent?”

“Never. Is that what you want to hear?”

“I thought so,” she jibed, triumph in her voice.

“And I didn’t think you could be so bloody stupid,” he cooly returned, suddenly weary of this senseless polemic.

“This reception is meant to establish the authenticity of our marriage. It’s simple. You smile, I smile, we assure everyone we’re madly in love, your cousin in particular, and after everyone eats and drinks all the food and liquor they go home. Then remind me not to play good Samaritan again,” he said flatly. “Especially with an ungrateful bitch like you.”

She slapped him so hard she thought she’d broken her wrist. He flinched but otherwise didn’t move, fighting to control his temper as any number of unacceptable options raced through his mind. Then he turned, walked to the door, locked it, and swiveling back, surveyed her with an icy gaze.

“What are you doing? Unlock the door.”

He didn’t move. He’d lived an untrammeled life too long.

“I’ll scream.”

“Scream.”

“Because no one will come.”

“You’re not stupid after all,” he flippantly noted. “Now let’s get those pins unpinned because I’d like some recompense for all my bloody trouble. Or my Christian charity if you like or”-he smiled tightly-“more aptly, my misplaced altruism.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts, as if so small a gesture would serve as shield. “I refuse to be compensation for some perceived misjudgment on your part.” She lifted her chin and stared daggers at him. “I won’t!”

“Of course you will,” he said. “You like to fuck.” He pushed away from the door and languidly moved forward, his smile sunshine bright and boyish now. “And I like to fuck you. Really, darling, we’re a match made in heaven. You have to agree.”

“I agree to no such thing!” She clutched her bosom tighter as he neared. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Taking advantage of my spousal privileges.”

He came to a halt before her. Even standing on the dais as she was, he towered over her, intimidating and impressively male, and her voice when she spoke held less conviction than she wished. “You can’t always do as you like, Oz,” she said, a small breathlessness of something other than fear in her words.

He noticed. “But you like it, too, darling. I won’t keep you long.” Lifting his hand, he gripped a handful of soft velvet draped over her shoulder, his slender bronzed fingers slowly closing. As she tensed against his onslaught or his allure or her own base desires, he swept his arm downward and with an effortless strength ripped out pins and basting, dismantling half the gown. A second quick wrench of his arm and the remaining velvet lay at her feet. “Now,” he said, with infinite serenity, “would you like to save your chemise and petticoat or should I destroy those as well?”

Chafing beneath the small avaricious flame kindling deep inside her, resentful of her susceptibility to a man who aroused desire without even trying, she freezingly said, “Uncouth barbarian.”

He smiled faintly. “I’ve been called worse. Now, answer my question. My patience is limited.” It had been a busy morning dealing with his shipping and bank business, weighing the significance of the rumors Compton was spreading, making plans for Isolde’s defense-all the while trying to ignore the image of his sumptuous wife asleep in his bed. And here she was, aroused, defiant, and within reach-the first and third qualities of particular interest. “Answer me.”

The two words were crisp and uncompromising. Oz was in some hotspur, intransigent mood. She could expect no help from her husband’s household, where he ruled like an autocrat. Furthermore, she’d lavished hours of embroidery on her lingerie, she pragmatically reflected, and more craven yet, her senses were in the grip of a rash, reckless, and rising passion. “You have an exaggerated sense of your importance,” she muttered, beginning to unbutton her chemise. “But I’d prefer you not shred my chemise. I have no intention of responding to your boorish behavior in any event. I’m not like all your strumpets,” she said, angrily resigned but still glaring at Oz. “Do with me what you will. I shall remain unmoved.”

He suppressed his smile with effort. “Really.”

“You find that humorous?”

“I do. You’re one hot little piece.”

Glancing up from her unbuttoning, she shot him a furious glance.

“An observation only. But in any event, you’re giving me an instant hard-on, so at least one of us will enjoy this.”

She shouldn’t have looked. She instantly flushed, and when she lifted her gaze, he was smiling at her.

“You do like it, don’t you?” he murmured.

“Don’t they all,” she snapped, reminding herself she was one of an endless multitude.

“Some more than others. You more than most. Don’t stop your undressing. I find myself damned impatient.”

“Aren’t you always.”

“Only with you, darling,” he silkily observed. A revelation had he taken the time to acknowledge it. But driven by lust, he was more intent on seeing her devoid of clothing. To that purpose, he said, “Relax now. I’m going to help you.”

“I could fight you.”

“You think so?” But his voice was benign, as was his dark gaze; her breathing had changed, her nipples were taut, the rosy flush of arousal colored her skin.

“I certainly do.”

“Then I’ll have to be on guard,” he mildly noted, untying the ribbon at the waistband of her petticoat with a brisk dexterity. He understood her willingness better than she. Letting the fine batiste petticoat slide down her hips, he reached for the buttons on her drawers. “Buttons.” He glanced at her. “That’s different.”

“I’m sure you’d know.”

“I’ve just never seen buttons before.” Ignoring her sullen gaze, he smiled. “Is it a Cambridgeshire tradition?”

“Do you really care?”

He shook his head and watched her drawers drop to the floor. “Now this I care about,” he murmured, gently brushing her mons with his fingertips. “I’ve been thinking about you-about this… all morning,” he said, stroking her pale pubic hair, “about the feel of you as you take me in-your heat, warmth… the way you whimper when I’m deep inside you.” He looked up and met her fevered gaze. “Does that interest you?”

She clenched her fists. “Not in the least.”

“I’ll wager you a thousand pounds it does,” he said, sliding her chemise down her arms and disposing of her last item of clothing. “Think about it,” he added, lifting her in his arms and scanning the room for a suitable piece of furniture. “If I’m mistaken, you’ll be the richer for it, and if I’m not, I’ll donate my winnings to your favorite charity. This little episode could be a profitable venture for-” He grunted as she sank her teeth into his earlobe. Curbing his temper and his urge to strike back, he drew in a restraining breath. “You’re drawing blood,” he grimly said of the warm trickle running down his neck.

Little episode indeed! Isolde enjoyed a moment more of satisfaction before releasing his ear. Leaning back in his arms, she cooly surveyed the damage she’d done. “I don’t respond well to authority,” she said.

He felt like saying he disliked aggressive women. But he had blood dripping down his neck, which indicated she wasn’t in a reasonable mood, so politesse would better serve his purposes. “I apologize of course.”

“You don’t mean it.”

“I might.”

“And I might bite you again.”

He sighed. “I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Am I supposed to be frightened?”

“Christ, Isolde, can we stop this wrangling?”

“Someone’s going to have to wash those blood stains from your collar,” she said instead, reminding him of her little triumph.

“Maybe you could.”

“If only I knew how.”

“I could have someone show you,” he said in a tone of voice any of his dueling opponents would have recognized.

“I doubt I could learn.”

“What a defiant little wife,” he unpleasantly said, considering forcing himself on a woman for the first time in his life. “Then again, you’re always more manageable after a few orgasms.”

“Not today.”

His brows lifted slightly. “Why is today different? You were always ready for sex yesterday.”

“Because I despise you today,” she peevishly said. But her traitorous body was considerably less hostile, Oz’s allusion to her sexual readiness triggering a flood of lubricant in her vagina, her unruly senses effectively priming her for intercourse without so much as a by-your-leave from her brain. “Damn you, Oz,” she hissed, trying to quell her ruinous yearning even as her arousal spread and pulsed through her blood with every beat of her heart. “I hate you. I hate your arrogant assumption that every woman wants you. And that insolent smile. Stop it. Do you hear? You needn’t look so bloody smug.”

“I can smell you, that’s all. You need me.”

“So I should jettison my principles.”

“We’re talking about sex, darling-not principles. You feel good, I feel good, we feel good together. Don’t make it complicated.”

“What a romantic soul,” she sneered.

“I didn’t know it was romance you wanted. I thought it was hard cock.”

“And you’re here to serve me.”

“You could have had two orgasms by now.” He didn’t say, I don’t have all day, but that’s what he meant.

Quite independent of logic and good judgment, the word orgasms was instant impetus to another flame-hot wave of prurient sensation, her body reminding her flamboyantly and graphically of the inexpressible bliss of sexual congress with the glorious Lord Lennox. “Very well,” she briskly said. “I yield to your pragmatism and irresistible charm,” she acidly added. “But Mrs. Aubigny will never forgive you.”

He was tempted to ask her whether her crosspatch tone precluded screaming during orgasm but decided against it in the interests of speed and future harmony. “Don’t worry about Mrs. Aubigny. I’ll deal with her.”

“After you deal with me.”

He smiled. “I have my priorities.”

“Sex first, last, and always.”

“Same as yours.”

“Just for the moment,” she matter-of-factly said, having come to terms with her insatiable desire for her husband, the fierce pulsing between her legs a potent reminder of the immense pleasure he delivered.

“At last we agree. So tell me what you want,” he murmured, moving toward a large red damask, down-cushioned sofa. “Slow, fast, nothing but orgasms, or playtime?” Bending, he deposited her on the scarlet cushions.

She looked up at him with a mocking smile. “You’re giving me a choice?”

“Of course.” He had what he wanted; the menu was hers to choose.

“First, a few orgasms,” she neatly said. “After that-playtime.”

As if he didn’t know. “My pleasure, sweetheart,” he blandly replied, sliding his frock coat down his arms, undressing with more than his usual speed.

But she was trembling when he lowered himself between her legs, her sex his current Nirvana, and it took no more than a second to bury himself to the hilt in her tight little cunt. They both stopped breathing for an instant while the earth steadied on its axis and more practiced, or perhaps more impatient after so much useless resistance, Oz moved first. But she wouldn’t let him withdraw, her grip on his back sensationally strong. “Stay,” she whispered, inundated by bliss.

Since he was infinitely stronger and single-mindedly intent on pleasure, he broke free and launched himself into a driving rhythm of thrust and withdrawal he was confident she’d like even better.

It was like an explosion of bodies the first time, forceful and wild, predatory, neither interested in anything but taking and taking. Isolde was wet with craving and lust, voracious; Oz’s cock was so hard his eyes were slits against the agonizing ache. Both were frenzied, impatient, resentful, too, of their mutual compulsions, engaged in something more than fornication as they hammered their way to a violent climax that ended with Isolde in tears.

Dragging her into his arms, Oz kissed away her tears, whispered apologies that were more courteous than penitent, and wondered why sex with her was so different. Lurid instead of lucid, crude, rude, and barbarous-a desperate onslaught he was unable to contain. And the more he fucked her, the more he wanted her. Not his usual pattern where tedium quickly extinguished desire.

But Isolde suddenly twined her arms around his neck, pressed her soft, lush body against his, began kissing him back with sweet fervor, and his thoughts focused on more pertinent issues.

Soon their skin was slippery with sweat, Oz’s hair was damp, Isolde’s blonde tresses clung in coils on her face and neck as they explored sensory overload in a swift succession of orgasms. Not that anyone was counting orgasms or was even rational enough to count. Not that even a scintilla of thought was involved in their continuous, frantic coupling.

She shoved Oz away once, pushed him on his back, and straddled his hips with a kind of purposeful concentration that brought a furrow to her brow.

Lying spread-eagle on the sofa, Oz flicked his wet hair behind his ears with his forefingers and grinned at his rosy-cheeked wife, who was up on her knees, absorbed in conducting the head of his penis to her slick cleft. “Don’t I get time to catch my breath?”

“No,” she said without looking up, in the process of lowering herself over his undiminished erection. A moment later she came to rest on his thighs with a contented sigh and met his amused gaze. “You’re my new toy. Mmm.” She shifted slightly to experience the full measure of his massive size.

He groaned, his libido highly charged and infinitely resilient in close proximity to his wife. She was a damned fine jockey, too, he decided soon after, watching her ride him, feeling a deep sense of gratitude as she languidly slid up and down his erection. And when her desires reached that wild, impassioned stage he was beginning to recognize, she shut her eyes, threw back her head, and rode him full tilt. Grabbing her hips, he secured his hold on her slippery skin, saved her from tumbling off, and saved himself from unnecessary injury.

In their frenzied search for sensation that fine winter day, desire and lust melded in a tempestuous composite of slick skin and melting friction, sweet stickiness and sweeter rapture, redolent scents and lush tastes, heartrending touch, all faintly wild, fresh, and new. New even to a jaded man.

For Isolde, every sensation was new.

She’d led a different life than Oz.

“I’m broadening my horizons,” she playfully murmured much later, trailing kisses over Oz’s face as he rested briefly between bouts. “Does that feel good?”

“Do fish swim?”

“Perfect. Hmm… you have such beautiful eyes.” She brushed her mouth over his dark brows. “And a perfect nose.” A light kiss down the bridge of his nose. “And of course your delicious mouth.” When she finally lifted her lips from his, her breathing was labored and her lips were pursed in a sulk. “Must you do everything so damned professionally?”

He laughed. “Is that a compliment?”

“I’m practically climaxing after a kiss for God’s sake.”

“If it makes you angry, I won’t kiss you anymore.”

“That’s not the point.”

He knew what the point was and he wasn’t going anywhere near the subject

“How many women have there been?”

He silently groaned. “Need I remind you that you’re not actually my wife?”

“Don’t be so reasonable. I’m not in the mood.”

“I could probably put you in a better mood. Come, dear,” he softly said, “this is a foolish argument.”

Drawing in a small, restorative breath, she reminded herself of their temporary arrangement, reminded herself as well that taking issue with the women in Oz’s life was useless in countless way. “You’re right; I stand corrected. I’m fine, really. Where was I?” Returning to her amorous play, she kissed the firm line of Oz’s jaw, dipping her head lower after a time to lightly caress the smooth curve of his shoulder blades, his hard, muscled shoulders.

Relaxed now with Isolde’s brief resentment resolved, Oz lay and watched her from under his lashes as she suddenly came up on her knees and pressed her mouth into the little dip at the base of his throat.

And began sucking with vigor.

He lightly touched her head. “You’re going to leave a bruise.”

“I know,” she said against his throat, the vibration drifting down his nerve endings in lush temptation, mitigating a portion of his unease. “I want to,” she whispered, moving upward slightly, adorning his throat with a second brazen imprint.

She was deliberately leaving bruises on his neck when he’d never allowed the London ladies such latitude. His policy was a hands-off one when it came to proprietary claims. The little puss was bold and cheeky. On the other hand, he knew where her trail of kisses would end.

By the time Isolde had satisfied her jealous pangs and paid homage to her husband’s splendid body-kissing and caressing his bulging pectorals, his nipples, the hard ripple of his abdominal muscles, the dip of his navel, the crisp black hair at the juncture of his thighs, Oz was in a cold sweat, curtailing his climax by sheer will alone.

Circling his penis with her fingers, Isolde drew it away from his stomach and met his hot gaze. “You’re not going to last much longer, are you?”

He shook his head.

“Then I suppose it’s up to me to do my wifely duty.”

“Sooner rather than later or you won’t have to,” he said on a suffocated breath.

“But of course I want to. Wait-wait!”

He was almost undone by her wistful zeal, and as she quickly obliged him and the crest of his penis slid into her mouth, he felt an unparalleled suffusion of spine-tingling pleasure. Whether it was her accommodating mouth, the continuous assault on his libido, or the rare level of delirium she incited, the fierceness of his ejaculation coursed through his body like a shock wave.

When Isolde swallowed the last drop and he was debating whether he was paralyzed or could still move, she slid up his body and kissed him on the mouth, her lips still wet with semen. Lifting her head, she smiled at him. “How was that? Do I please you, my lord?”

He smiled. “It was perfect, darling, and yes, you please me. I must send Fremont a thank-you gift.”

“Not just yet,” she sweetly said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not while I still have a heartbeat,” he replied with a grin, sliding a finger inside her as if her willingness was ever at issue. She was open and ready, her cunt slick and warm, pulsing around his finger. “The gates of paradise are ever open, I see.”

“Always for you,” she whispered, wiggling against his finger. Reaching up, she brushed the light bruises on his neck. “And these are for me.”

He laughed when in the past he would have risen and left. “Is that a fact?”

Her smile was bright and she spoke not rationally, but with her heart. “They mark you as mine.”

“In that case I’ll have to make you mine,” he drawled, fully rational and proficient at this game, his cock apparently engaged in some endurance contest. Rolling over her, he slid her under him with practiced ease and plunged into her slick sweetness with the unclouded concentration of a libertine in full command of his much-practiced talents. “This is mine,” he whispered, withdrawing completely and driving in again. “And this… and this… and this,” his lower body slamming into her on each blunt utterance.

She gasped at each forceful downstroke, a soft, breathy pleasure sound, and on each upstroke, she clung to him-loathe to lose him.

It was never enough-no matter how many times they climaxed that afternoon.

They were filled with lust, vibrating with lust.

Seething, feverish, out of control.

Until wild-eyed and hysterical, she shoved him away, fell on her stomach, and shuddered uncontrollably.

Oz gently stroked her back until her tremors ceased.

She rolled over then, her eyes wet with tears. “Hold me.” He gathered her into his arms, settled her on his lap, and leaning back against the sofa arm, held her with unaffected tenderness. He whispered all the love words, the play words, the amorous phrases meant to soothe and placate and disarm. He knew them well, glibly some would say, but his make-believe wife pleased him and he willingly uttered the words of affection.

She fell asleep quickly, like an exhausted child after too much excitement.

He waited for her breathing to settle before carefully shifting his position and easing her onto the sofa. Placing a pillow under her head, he covered her with a paisley shawl, and in an unprecedented gesture of sentiment, bent and kissed her cheek.

Conscious of the time, his dressing was swiftly accomplished, and when he left the room, he closed the door with the utmost quietness.

Going directly to the conservatory, he ignored the pointed interest of the young seamstresses and apologized to Mrs. Aubigny. “I understand the delay is a serious inconvenience with time so limited. Allow me to offer you a substantial monetary incentive to both forgive the interruption and bring in additional help to complete my wife’s gown. I do apologize,” he said again.

“There’s no need to apologize,” the Frenchwoman said, fully conscious of Lennox’s wealth as well as the power of amour. His lordship was still sweating, his hair damp. “My lady has a mind of her own. It alleviates the boredom, I wager.”

“Indeed,” Oz replied with a faint smile. During the past two years, he’d spent considerable time in Mrs. Aubigny’s shop with one woman or another; he and the modiste were on friendly terms.

“I’ll need the fabric, of course,” she said with a lift of her brows.

“A servant will fetch it. Ask Josef for whatever else you need and he’ll see to it. Davey will bring you the additional bank draft for your trouble, and when my lady wakes, I’ll see if she’s available for another fitting. Although, I’m not sure,” he carefully said, “if she will be or not.”

“I have her measurements.”

His expression cleared. “I thought you might. Excellent. By seven then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

He bowed with grace. “I’m in your debt.”

She watched him walk away, the brilliant light in the conservatory betraying the bruises on his neck as well as the bite marks on his ear left by his wife’s passion. Despite his bride’s look of innocence, they appeared well matched. As for Lennox, his wildness was common knowledge. He was also as experienced as any man when it came to amour. He wouldn’t have been marked unless he’d allowed it.

Oz went next to meet with the jeweler.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Martin,” he said, walking into his office and smiling at the heavyset man who looked more like a prizefighter than a jeweler. “Did you get coffee? Good. I hope you have pearls.”

“Some very fine ones, sir. The kind that rarely come on the market.”

“Sounds intriguing.” Oz pulled up a chair beside the jeweler. “I’m sure my wife will appreciate them,” he said with such obvious good cheer Martin was taken aback.

Martin, as the premier jeweler to those of prodigious wealth, had served Lord Lennox on occasions too numerous to count, but none in which the baron had appeared in such jovial spirits. He wasn’t a man one would characterize as jovial. Or even animated; his natural reserve was as notable as his willfulness.

Martin briefly wondered at his lordship’s sobriety. He was known to drink away his days with some frequency. But after a surreptitious glance as he was laying out the splendid necklace of large matched pearls, Martin saw that the baron was surprisingly sober.

He gently arranged the pearls in a circle on the pad of black velvet he’d set on the small table before him. “This exquisite piece was a Napoleonic trophy brought back from Italy-from a Venetian collection. The maker’s mark on the diamond clasp, however, indicates Constantinople as the original provenance, with the original recipient Empress Theodosia. See-here-the imperial cipher.”

Oz leaned forward to witness the imperial stamp. “I’ll take it,” he said, sitting back and offering Martin a smile. “I don’t suppose you have earrings to match?”

“Unfortunately not. Sets rarely survive the centuries. But I have some superb pearl pendant earrings you might appreciate.”

“I’m sure I will. Your taste is always impeccable.”

Martin spread out a collection of expensive baubles; Lennox only wanted the best. A design question from the baron, another about a diamond clasp, a query as to gem-stone quality, one about a goldsmith, and their business was quickly done. Lennox generally knew what he wanted, but then Martin understood the baron owned ruby mines in India. He wasn’t a novice with gems. In short order Martin left Lennox House with a light step and a broad smile. The baron never quibbled over price, but more surprising-as gossip suggested-he seemed enamored of his new wife. His lordship had purchased all the jewelry shown him, including the diamond and onyx tiger brooch that was so dear even the Prince of Wales had balked at the price.

Needless to say, the faint scent of sex clinging to the young lord’s person, in addition to the disheveled state of the baron’s clothing and hair, bore witness to the fact that he’d only recently left his wife’s bed. As any jeweler knew, such gratifying creature comforts lent themselves to a certain generosity on the part of husbands.