The most avidly curious were the first to arrive, and as Josef announced them by name, Isolde and Oz smiled the required smiles, uttered the prescribed courtesies and polite trivialities, countered the expected malice with suave malice of their own, and in general averted any overt belligerency with dulcet impudence or in Oz’s case, with the occasional warning glance.
Nell’s transit of the reception line passed without controversy since her husband was at her side and in consequence she was muzzled. Lord Howe had come specifically to meet the woman who’d lured Lennox away from his wife. While Nell was resentful of Oz’s new bride, her husband was intrigued. Well aware of his wife’s sexual expertise and agility, Lord Howe suspected that Lennox’s wife was highly imaginative in the bedchamber.
“A prodigious pleasure to meet you, Countess,” Lord Howe said, his voice silken as he gracefully bowed over Isolde’s hand.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Withdrawing her hand, Isolde spoke with counterfeit warmth. “Do enjoy yourself tonight.” She was surprised that Lord Howe was so good-looking. For some reason she’d naively thought Nell’s search for pleasure was predicated by an ugly husband.
“Thank you, I will.” Lord Howe turned to Oz with an urbane smile. “Congratulations, Lennox. You’ve found a beautiful diamond of the first water. Dashing and spirited I don’t doubt. Why else would you marry?”
The insinuation was plain, the word spirited pronounced with a certain small emphasis.
“Thank you. I consider myself fortunate.” Oz cooly met Lord Howe’s amused gaze. “Did you enjoy Paris?”
“Not as much, apparently, as you did London in my absence.”
“Ah—no one new in the corps de ballet? I heard a young dancer from Hungary was all the rage.”
Lord Howe didn’t so much a blink an eyelash at the allusion to his latest adultery. “You must have better sources than I.”
“I do, of course. Mine are excellent. Enjoy our little soiree. My chef has outdone himself it seems, but then one must allow him his romantic fervor. I don’t get married every day.”
“Indeed. Brooks’s betting book was inclined to wager—never.”
“Then someone won a tidy sum.” Oz deliberately turned to the next person in line, dismissing Lord Howe and his wife. Not that the following couple was an improvement. Another of his lovers had come with her husband, and unlike Lord Howe, the Earl of Dugal took issue with his wife’s infidelity.
“Will married life rein in your debauchery, Lennox?” the Scottish earl demanded in his heavy brogue.
“Marriage has brought it to complete standstill, Dugal. What about you?”
The elderly man turned a mottled red and cleared his throat. “I don’t see how that concerns you,” he growled.
“Nor does it, no more than my life concerns you,” Oz said, an edge to his voice. “Now make your bows to my lady wife and go off and drink my liquor. Unless you have something more to say.”
Dugal’s pretty young wife smirked behind her husband’s back, dipped her head to Oz, and turning to smile at Isolde, said with sweet innocence, “I wish you well, my lady. Lord Lennox is exceedingly kind.”
“I know. Thank you.” She almost felt sorry for the young wife who gazed at Oz with such longing. If she were married to a frightfully old as well as unfaithful man, she’d be looking for love elsewhere, too.
And so it went, the men offering their good wishes with leers at Isolde, the many women who’d slept with Oz predictably offering him seductive smiles and winks and whispered asides. Then there was the general herd who’d come to gawk or scrutinize or hope to ferret out the freakish and unaccountable explanation for Lord Lennox’s marriage. And last but not least, Achille’s reputation was well-known due to Oz’s wild bachelor parties. A small percentage of guests with epicurean tastes had come for the haute cuisine alone.
Those who dared mention Oz’s bites and bruises were ignored if Oz was in a lenient mood or were warned off with a look even the most obtuse recognized if he wasn’t. Also as promised, he was ever gracious and adoring to his wife, so much so that those who didn’t actually believe in love were given pause. If cupid’s arrow could strike a reprobate heart like Lennox’s, surely the concept was more than a matter of poetic license.
Isolde had long ago given up any notion of publically exerting control over her husband. Oz was at his charming best in any event, and at base she found herself indifferent to all but the pressing need for escape.
An hour had passed, Josef had brought Oz several brandies, the number of arriving guests had dwindled, the drawing rooms were crowded—and still no Compton.
Oz was impatient. He needed Compton; he wanted this over.
Isolde was relieved. If she never saw her cousin again, she’d be content.
A footman jogged up the stairs, spoke to Josef, who in turn spoke to Oz. “I think we’ve done our duty long enough, dear,” Oz said. “Why don’t I have Fitz and Rosalind escort you into the supper room. Try some of Achille’s special dishes. He did it all for you. It seems that Sam has something he can’t deal with. I’ll be right back.”
A look of fear came into her eyes. “Is it Compton?”
“No, a matter to do with our departure tomorrow. It’s nothing serious.” Turning, he signaled to Fitz. “Would you escort Isolde into the supper room? I won’t be gone long.”
He waited until Isolde and the Grovelands had disappeared into the crowd before quickly making his way downstairs.
“Sorry to bother you,” Sam said as Oz entered his study. “Davey thought you wanted him to go with you,” he added, indicating the secretary. “I said I thought not. He’s wondering whether he has to pack your business ledgers and papers tonight. Tell him what you want him to do.”
Oz glanced at the clock. “I have to get back. Compton hasn’t come yet. You’re staying in London, Davey. Follow me and I’ll explain what I need.”
As the two men walked down the corridor, Oz gave directions in crisp, rapid-fire accents: he needed a daily courier between London and Cambridgeshire; more than once a day if matters were urgent; Davey could sign anything that wasn’t of singular importance; he particularly needed the shipping schedules of his fleet. “The exact times of departure, dates, hours, the captains, destination. Everything.”
Davey was half running to keep up with Oz’s long stride. “Are you shipping an important cargo?”
“I might. It depends. Make sure that the departure schedules are current—to the minute.” They were entering the entrance hall. “If you have any more questions, we can talk in the morning.” Oz scanned the empty stairway.
“Will you be staying in the country long?”
“Only as long as I must. Not very long as far as I can tell. I’ll let you know.” Catching sight of the man he’d been waiting for out of the corner of his eye, Oz came to a stop. “We’ll talk later,” he murmured, waving off Davey before turning to his right. “What are you doing skulking in my entrance hall, Compton?”
Isolde’s cousin stepped from behind a malachite pillar into the light, a petulant thrust to his jaw.
“No answer? Have you seen all you wish to see?” Oz’s brows lifted faintly. “Mute tonight? Very well,” he calmly said. “Since you’re here, go upstairs and wish Isolde happiness on her marriage.”
“If she’s married,” Compton blurted out. “You of all people married?” he sullenly added. “I’m not the only one suspicious.”
“Would you like to see the marriage license? Your hired minister brought it to the hotel as I recall.”
“He seems to have disappeared.”
Oz looked amazed. “Are you sure?”
“You know damned well he’s gone,” Compton spat. His solicitor had immediately attempted to see the minister.
“You may find this hard to believe, but men of the cloth are of no interest to me.” Oz’s gaze was direct and pointed. “Nor will they ever be.”
Compton’s expression took on a cunning look, and his voice turned si
lken and sly. “Ministers and licenses aside, perhaps the question should be instead—how long will your marriage last?”
Had Compton heard him answer Davey’s question? Perhaps. Did it matter? “Rest assured, my marriage will last longer than you can wait,” Oz bluntly said, for realistically that was all that mattered. “Your creditors are becoming anxious, and Bedlington has been known to break legs and fingers. Time isn’t your friend.”
Compton sucked in his fat belly and puffed up his chest. “I’m still the Wraxell heir. That means something.”
“Good luck in that regard. Isolde’s only twenty-three. She might soon have an heir of her own.” Not that I’ll be involved, but she can marry again and start a family. “Ask Bedlington if he’ll wait fifty years for his money or how he’d feel about never getting paid if Isolde has sons.”
“Will they be yours?”
“Surely you’re not so unwise,” Oz said very, very softly, “as to question my wife’s fidelity to my face.”
Compton immediately took a step back, the lethal threat in Oz’s eyes turning his blood cold. “No, no, of course not. I meant—nothing . . . of the kind,” he stammered. But beneath his trembling fear, he knew what he’d heard. Then again, perhaps not.
“Go and wish your cousin happy,” Oz growled. “And don’t be rude or you won’t have to wait for Bedlington to break your fingers.”
As Compton scuttled away and made for the stairs, Oz watched him with a frown. Had he overheard his discussion with Davey? Merde. As if he needed another complication from the little worm. Oh, hell, he’d best be standing at Isolde’s side when she spoke to Compton.
He ran for the stairs.
Just as Isolde’s back stiffened at the sight of her cousin making his way through the crowd, Oz came up behind her.
“I’m here. Relax.” He nodded at Fitz and Rosalind, who flanked his wife. “Let me deal with this.”
“In that case, I think I’ll speak with Lady Buckley,” Rosalind said, smiling up at her husband. “She keeps looking your way. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course I do. There’s no reason to bother with her.”
“But I wish to gloat, of course. Come now, indulge me.”
“Just for the record,” Fitz grumbled, “it was a long time ago. Clarissa’s no more than a blur in my memory.”
“Only because there were so many, dear. You must allow me this satisfaction. Did I tell you she came to the bookstore once and was exceedingly rude? Go and get yourself a drink. I can handle this perfectly well.”
When it came right down to it Fitz wasn’t so cavalier as to allow his wife to face Clarissa without protection. “I’ll get a drink afterward. I’ll need it. Let’s get this over with if you insist.”
“You’re so incredibly sweet.”
“Only because you give me enormous pleasure.”
“I do, don’t I?” the duchess said with a sultry glance.
It was left to Fitz to deal with Clarissa, however, for the moment they met, Clarissa took one look at Rosalind and curled her lip. “I see you didn’t waste any time breeding.”
“Nor was it the immaculate conception,” Fitz cooly said. “How are your children?”
“Good God, you can’t mean Buckley’s loathsome brood.”
“Buckley’s heirs, aren’t they?”
“How tiresome you can be, Fitz. You know perfectly well, I’m getting my share.”
“In bath soap?” Rosalind dulcetly asked. “Someone said your husband is giving Pears soap stiff competition.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I don’t deal with such bourgeois matters.”
“Other than bourgeois husbands, you mean,” Rosalind said in honeyed accents.
“What a vicious little cat you have for a wife, Fitz. Does she amuse you?”
“Every minute of every day.” Fitz turned to Rosalind. “Darling, please, I need a drink. Now,” he growled.
“Of course, sweetheart. Why didn’t you say so before? If you’ll excuse us, Lady Buckley.”
“I hope you’re satisfied,” Fitz muttered as they walked away. “Christ, I don’t—”
“—know what you saw in her?” Rosalind supplied. “I suppose you didn’t talk much,” she angelically noted.
Fitz shot her a disgruntled look. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
“Very much. Thank you.”
He smiled. “You can thank me when we get home.”
“Whatever do you mean?” the duchess purred.
“I mean I’m going to keep you up all night.”
Rosalind lowered her lashes and offered him an enticing smile. “Maybe we should leave now.”
Fitz glanced at Oz and Isolde over the heads of the crowd. “We’ll check with Oz as soon as Compton’s gone.” He looked down and grinned at his wife. “And you’re not allowed to talk to anyone else.”
“None of your former lovers, you mean.”
“That’s exactly what I mean,” he whispered, leaning over to kiss her without regard for the public. “Start thinking about what you want first . . .”
COMPTON DISPLAYED NONE of his sullenness or pomposity when he stopped before Isolde. He merely said, subdued and ingratiating, his gaze nervously flicking to Oz, “My compliments . . . on your marriage, cousin. I wish you the best.” He saw Oz frown and quickly added, “And much happiness . . . in the future. Naturally . . . from Maman as well.”
“Thank you, Compton,” Oz remarked, bringing the stumbling recitation to an end. “We appreciate your kind regards. I’m sure Isolde and I desire all the very best for you as well,” he offered in a meticulously gentle tone. “Might I tempt you with some of my chef’s offerings or a drink perhaps,” he added, taking Compton’s arm in a hard grasp. “If you”ll excuse us, darling.” Isolde was ashen. Catching Fitz’s eye over the crowd, he nodded at his wife and drew Compton away.
“You’re shaking,” Rosalind murmured moments later, taking Isolde’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t be so fainthearted,” Isolde said with a small sigh. “Frederick’s been intimidating me too long, I think. I’ll be fine in a minute.”
Rosalind looked up at her husband.
“We could put an end to that intimidation,” Fitz said, reading his wife’s gaze. “Oz and I.”
“No, no, please—that’s not necessary.” The duke sounded just as Oz had when he’d threatened to shoot Frederick. “I’m sure my cousin will leave soon. Perhaps if I sit for a minute . . .”
“Of course,” Rosalind said. “Would you like Fitz to fetch you a lemonade? Good. Fitz, darling. We’ll go and sit down over there.”
Moments later, Fitz returned with Oz and the lemonade.
“He’s gone,” Oz said, unruffled as he’d been throughout. “Here, dear, take a sip, although you probably could use something stronger.”
Isolde drank down a good portion of the lemonade before handing it back to Oz. “I’m feeling more myself now. Thank you, everyone. I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
“Nonsense. You may do as you wish.”
Isolde experienced a great wave of relief at the transcendent power in her husband’s simple words. He lived his life without restraint, uncowed and undaunted. And with Frederick’s menacing image still vivid in her brain, she deeply appreciated the confidence and strength that lay beneath Oz’s glittering charm. “If you mean it,” she said, astonished at the timidity of her tone, “perhaps we might—”
He smiled. “End this charade?”
She nodded, suddenly exhausted in body and spirit.
Oz turned to the Grovelands. “Many thanks for your support and assistance tonight. I’m sure you’re as ready to leave as we.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice,” Fitz said, taking Rosalind’s hand. “I hope you’re more yourself in the morning,” he gallantly added with a smile for Isolde.
“I will be, I know. I so appreciate your company.”
Oz met Fitz’s gaze, the men of a height, temperam
ent, and understanding.
“If you need anything, let me know.” Although in terms of human management, Oz’s skills were impeccable. Turning to Isolde, Fitz offered their good-bys.
“We must have dinner when you’re back in town,” Rosalind said, their earlier conversation touching on their departure for Cambridgeshire.
“Yes, thank you,” Isolde said, because it was expected of her.
Oz nodded. “We’ll call on you.”
A moment later, Oz quietly said, “Would you like me to carry you?”
“Heavens no!”
He smiled at her alarm. “You have to learn not to give a damn, darling. I’ll teach you.”
“Just not at this moment if you don’t mind,” she quickly said, coming to her feet. “I’m fine . . . really—perfectly fine.” She held out her arm. “Look—a steady hand.”
He liked that toughness she prided herself on—occasional moments in reference to Compton notwithstanding. Her stubborn intrepidity was what had first endeared her to him. Not that her independent streak didn’t turn mutinous at times, but then that only added to her allure. He wasn’t bored yet when he always was long before this.
“Am I allowed to take your hand?” he sportively inquired, doing just that.
“No.”
“Thank you,” he murmured, tightening his clasp. “You’re always so accommodating. That must be why we get along.”
“We get along because I can keep up with you in bed.”
“And even exceed me at times.” He shot her a grin as they moved toward the corridor. “I find that exceptional flair most attractive in you.”
His hand was large and firm and reassuringly warm. “While I find you exceptionally difficult.” She was smiling though.
“But loveable.”
“If only so many other women didn’t think so as well.”
“How can it matter?”
“So practical, Lennox.”
“We both are.” His voice was relaxed. “Practical with regard to this marriage.”
“And with regard to the sex.”
“Especially the sex. Which provides me uncommon delight.”
She wanted to ask, For how long? but consoled herself with knowing that he was feeling perhaps as beguiled as she.
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 14
