But her carriage was built for speed, her bloodstock prime, and she liked to travel fast. Reaching Oak Knoll in under six hours, she jumped out as the carriage rolled to a stop and smiled at her gypsy driver. “Excellent time, Dimitri. That’s a new record, isn’t it?”
“By ten minutes, Miss Izzy.”
“You’re the best driver in England.” No one knew horses like Dimitri. “Tell Grover you won the bet, and tell him not to grumble about the sum. I really thought I’d win,” she cheerfully observed.
Since news of her wedding had been carried to Oak Knoll by one of her grooms directly after the ceremony, her staff rushed out to greet her as she stepped down from the carriage. Everyone from her butler and housekeeper to her lowliest footman and scullery maid swarmed around her, offering their congratulations and best wishes.
Their pleasure at her marriage was doubly relished after the insult she’d suffered at Lord Fowler’s hands; his treatment of Isolde had been taken personally by a staff who doted on their mistress. And to have wed a handsome nabob! What better revenge, they all agreed!
“Yes, yes,” Isolde replied to the polite, hopeful inquiries concerning her husband’s appearance. “He should be here directly. He had some business to deal with, and I just wanted to get home.” She grinned. “To see you all.”
“You’re looking right chipper, Miss Izzy. Like a blushing bride!” Mrs. Belmont, the housekeeper who’d overseen the household since before Isolde’s birth, beamed. “I expect your nice Lord Lennox will be wantin’ a hearty meal right soon after he arrives.” She didn’t say that the chef had been scouring his repertoire for dishes from India. Nor did she say they’d heard all the gossip about the handsome young lord who had money to burn—one of the groomsmen had ridden hell-bent for leather to bring them the news.
“I’m sure Lord Lennox will enjoy a fine meal,” Isolde said with a smile for Mrs. Belmont. “And see that our best brandy comes up from the cellar.”
“Indeed, Miss Izzy. With a nice cognac for you?”
“Thank you, yes. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a bit of business to discuss with Grover,” she said, turning to smile at her steward.
He gave her a very correct bow because Grover prided himself on the civilities. “I’m at your disposal, ma’am.”
With a smile for her staff crowded around her on the drive, Isolde exclaimed, “It’s wonderful to be home again.” After three hectic days in London, she was indeed grateful to return to the familiarity of her own residence.
The moment she and her steward had made themselves comfortable in his office, she explained her concern. “I’m afraid Cousin Compton is not at all happy with my marriage.”
Her steward smiled wryly. “Deprived as he is of his expectations of marrying you.”
“Indeed. For which I’m vastly pleased as you may perceive.” Relaxing in the old worn chair her father had favored, she gazed across the ancient desk at the man who’d taken care of Oak Knoll well before she was born. “However, he might decide to call, and you can be sure he won’t be up to any good. I wished to alert you to the possibility because I doubt he’ll come alone. In London he bearded me with hired roughs at his back. The staff should be warned.”
“Frederick was always a knave.” Grover’s voice was chill, his beetled brows drawn together in a scowl. “Even as a child he was constantly up to some wickedness and his ambitions are common knowledge. We’ll be on the lookout, miss.”
“Thank you. Compton is imprudent at times, that’s all. I can’t be sure what he might be planning. Lord Lennox tells me his debts are at a point that Frederick himself might be in danger from the moneylenders.”
“Then, as usual, he’ll be coming to you for money. If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Izzy, you’ve been too generous with him in the past. He quite forgets the Wraxell fortune is yours.”
She shrugged. “I have so much; it didn’t seem right to begrudge him.”
“He wants it all, though,” her steward gravely said. “Without a thought for the illegality of his claim or a care for your rights or happiness. There’s a point, Miss Izzy, where one can’t continue to overlook his callous greed.”
Her brows lifted. “You’re telling me that point has been reached?”
“Long since, miss,” Grover quietly said. “As to the present, might I suggest you stay inside for a time?”
“Surely, that’s not necessary.” Isolde smiled at her steward’s solemn expression. “You know my morning ride is sacrosanct.”
“Take a groom with you then, Miss Izzy. A modicum of caution is always sensible.” The entire household understood their mistress’s untrammeled nature. She’d been allowed free rein by her indulgent parents and staff and in consequence was not a model of conformity. “Now,” Grover continued, his thin hands steepled on the desktop, his voice quietly diplomatic, “how would you like your cousin dealt with should he step foot on the estate?”
“I’m not sure. What do you think?”
“I’d call the constable, Miss Izzy.”
Isolde’s eyes widened.
“As a precaution, Miss Izzy. We’re all agreed.”
“The staff has spoken of this?”
“For some time.” He dipped his shiny pate, and his blue eyes twinkled for a moment. “Cousin Compton is universally abhorred.”
She smiled. “I don’t know whether to take issue or be grateful for my staff’s good judgment. But really, Grover, I’m afraid the constable might be a bit much.”
“Compton’s a nobleman, Miss Izzy. And right familiar with doing as he pleases.”
“Oh dear.” She hadn’t considered having him arrested.
“It would be for your own safety, miss. Constable Haw-kins abides by the letter of the law, whether noble or working man.”
Isolde sighed. “Let me think about it.”
“Of course. The decision is yours. You do look right happy, miss, if I do say so myself,” the steward added with a smile. “Everyone is pleased about your marriage.” The scandal sheets hadn’t reached the remote country neighborhood, nor might they ever.
“You’ll like Lord Lennox, Grover. He’s a most charming man,” she remarked. Time enough to define the pragmatic nature of her marriage at some later date. For example, when she announced her divorce plans.
“We all wish you the very best, Miss Izzy. You deserve it. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he politely said, coming to his feet. “The sooner I inform the staff about Compton, the sooner you’ll be protected.”
“Protected from what?”
At the familiar voice, Isolde turned to see Oz walking in, booted and spurred, and shrugging out of his coat.
“Grover, allow me to present my husband, Lord Lennox. Oz, my steward, Grover. We were speaking of Compton and the possibility he might call.”
“A pleasure, sir,” Oz said, nodding at the steward as he strode forward, spurs clinking. Dropping his riding coat on a chair, he raked a hand through his hair as he moved toward Isolde. “As for Compton, I believe he’s checkmated. I spoke to him this morning. Threatened him, as a matter of fact. You travel fast, darling,” he murmured, ignoring Grover and protocol, pulling her up out of the chair and into his arms. “I thought to overtake you.”
She blushed, but the feel of him was much to her liking. “My carriage is built for speed. You made good time as well.”
“I missed you,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on her nose. “So tell me,” he said in a normal tone of voice, releasing her and turning to Grover, “what sort of protection are you planning?”
“It’s just a matter of having the tenants and staff look out for him. They’re sure to recognize Frederick,” Isolde explained. “He might attempt some mischief, particularly if he’s in his cups.”
“In other words, force Miss Izzy to give him more money,” Grover explained. “That’s the only reason he ever travels this far.”
“I see. Are you expecting him?”
“It’s a very real possibility, my lord,”
Grover asserted.
“Then I wasted my money.”
“You gave him money!” Isolde exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I thought it worth a try. He seemed to understand my position when we spoke,” Oz said.
“Only because you threatened him,” Isolde said with a smile. “Naturally, I’ll repay you.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It was the merest bagatelle.”
“Still, Oz, I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense. You’re my wife. Tell her not to give it another thought,” he said, swiveling toward Grover.
“His lordship is most kind, Miss Izzy.” Oz immediately found favor with Isolde’s steward, for his generosity in bribing Compton to stop harassing Miss Izzy, for his obvious concern and affection for his wife. After Lord Fowler’s grievous behavior in breaking off their long-standing engagement, Lennox’s solicitude was especially gratifying. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Izzy, I’ll see that the staff and tenants are alerted.”
As the office door closed on Isolde’s steward, Oz said with a grin, “Alone at last. Show me your bedroom.”
Isolde smiled. “I’d love to if only the entire staff wasn’t all atwitter to meet you, if the kitchen wasn’t busy making dinner for you, and if I wouldn’t be hideously embarrassed disappearing into my bedroom with you in the middle of the day.”
“It’s our honeymoon, darling. Everyone expects us to lock ourselves away in the bedroom.” He moved toward her.
“Don’t you dare,” Isolde whispered, backing up at his approach.
His smile was cheerfully wicked. “I didn’t ride my horse into a lather in order to worry what your servants think. As for daring, sweetheart, you’re talking to the wrong man.”
“Oz, please,” she begged, holding out her hand in deterrence. “At least wait until after dinner.”
“And if I do,” he softly replied, forcing her back against the door and dipping his head so their eyes were level, “tell me what I get?”
“My eternal gratitude,” she said to the teasing light in his eyes.
“You’ll have to do better than that.” His gaze was amused.
“What do you want?”
He chuckled. “As if you don’t know by now.”
“After dinner, I promise.”
“An early dinner I hope.”
She nodded. “We keep country hours.”
He smiled and stepped away. “Then I shall restrain myself, but I warn you, I eat very quickly.”
“Thank you for your forbearance.”
Her relief was so apparent he said, “Your staff means a lot to you, don’t they?”
“They’re my only family now that my parents are gone.”
“So I mustn’t play the tyrant before the staff,” he remarked.
“Or at all if you know what’s good for you.”
“As I recall,” he said, soft as silk, “you like orders now and again.”
“God, Oz, don’t start. I’m trying to be sensible.”
He liked the heat rising on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her voice. He liked that she wanted him because he’d thought of little else on the ride north. “I’ll be virtuous, darling. But it won’t be easy. I’m in constant rut with you.” Drawing in a breath, he stepped away. “I need a drink.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“I’m very sure,” he said, his voice rough with restraint. “But don’t sit too near me.”
CHAPTER 13
OZ WAS AT his most charming when introduced to Isolde’s staff, so much so that even her butler, Lewis, who prided himself on his dignity, was seen to smile. Mrs. Belmont, less starchy by far, was instantly captivated by Oz, his admiration for her mother’s cameo she always wore at her throat bringing forth blushing giggles that only subsided at a warning cough from Lewis. As for the young footmen and maids, their adulation was plain—a paragon of manliness had come into the family. The staff of the neighboring gentry would be green with envy.
The pleasantries concluded, the newlyweds retired to a small drawing room to await dinner. While still midafternoon, the winter light was beginning to fade, and the blazing logs in the fireplace lent a snug coziness to the chamber. As did the comfortable, well-used furniture from an era long past; it was Isolde’s favorite room.
Oz lounged on a needlepoint settee stitched by some early Wraxell lady of the manor. His jacket was unbuttoned, his booted feet, devoid of spurs now, were draped over one of the curved armrests. An open bottle of brandy, loosely grasped, rested on his chest.
Isolde sat well away from him, framed by an exquisite tracery window purloined from one of the monasteries sacked by Henry VIII. She was doing her best to carry on an essentially one-sided conversation.
“Are you even listening?” she asked after a particularly lengthy period of silence from her husband.
He turned to her and smiled. “You were telling me about your stables. Go on, Miss Izzy,” he added with a grin.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not. I like the name. It suits you.”
As he lifted the bottle to his mouth once again, she marveled at his capacity for drink. He appeared perfectly sober, neither slurring his words, nor becoming disorderly. Her father had held his liquor like that. “You’re drinking my father’s favorite brandy. It apparently meets with your approval.”
“Indeed. He had good taste.” As though to underscore the point, he drank another long draught, after which he said in a ruminating tone, “My father drank claret even though it didn’t travel well. Habit, I suspect.”
“Perhaps it reminded him of home.”
“He was born in India.”
Her surprise must have showed because he added, “As was his father. Our family has deep roots in India.”
“And yet you’re here in England.”
“After everyone died there was no reason to stay.”
His words were almost inaudible. “I’m sorry. Your memories must be painful.”
“Not with this.” He lifted the bottle slightly. “My anesthesia.” He suddenly smiled. “As are you in a much more pleasurable way.”
She dipped her head, responding to his more lighthearted comment in kind. “Pleased to be of service, sir.”
He grinned. “Hold that thought until after dinner.”
“If you must know, I think of little else.”
“Not another word,” he gruffly said, stabbing her with his glance. “I’m barely holding on.”
“Should I leave?”
“No.” Quick and curt. “Talk to me. Distract me with some more benign conversation. What do you read, for instance, or how did your crops fare this year? Does Mrs. Belmont always giggle like that? Who made that hideous traveling gown you’re wearing?”
Her gaze narrowed. “I beg your pardon.”
“Throw it away after dinner. I’ll buy you ten better ones.”
“Tut! Do I complain about your tailor?”
“I should hope not. Poole even manages to make fat Wales presentable.”
He was exquisitely dressed, dusty boots notwithstanding, his tailoring expensive, elegant, and deliberately austere. “I shall tell you what I’m reading of late,” she primly said. “Prepare to be edified.”
He groaned.
Exacting vengeance for his rebuke of her dressmaker, she went on at some length about her recent reading. The books she favored were generally agricultural publications having to do with new crop hybrids and livestock breeds, and when he’d not taken a drink for some time she rather thought he’d nodded off. “So I decided to plant pineapples and bananas on my acres and had a most successful harvest,” she finished with a flourish.
“Unlike you, we actually grow them in Hyderabad,” he drawled, turning his amused gaze her way. “As for edification, I’ve been translating a rare Urdu manuscript, an ancient romance with warring kings and armies on the march. You may read it once I’m finished. Now, when are we going to eat?” He shook the brandy bottle. “This is da
mned near empty.”
The drawing room door opened as she was about to answer and an agitated footman stood on the threshold. “Lord Fowler, my lady,” he nervously announced, only to be shoved aside by the man she’d once thought to marry.
“What the hell’s this about you marrying!” Striding into the room, tracking mud with each step, his gaze hot with temper, Will Fowler bore down on Isolde like a man possessed. “The news is all over the neighborhood!”
“This must be Will.”
A man’s voice, languid and softly mocking, brought Lord Fowler to a standstill, and Isolde thought, Oh dear.
Spinning around, Will saw a man undraping himself from the settee and lazily coming to his feet. “Who the hell are you?” A rhetorical question, fractious and cross as a bear.
“Will, allow me to introduce my husband,” Isolde quickly interposed before someone tossed down the gauntlet. “Osmond Lennox, Baron Lennox; Will Fowler, Baron Fowler.”
Will’s gaze swiveled to Isolde. “You never told me about him,” he snapped.
She bit back a similar comment about his wife, unwilling to enter a verbal skirmish of no practical use to anyone.
“Ours was a whirlwind love affaire,” Oz said sweetly, setting down the bottle he was holding. “The moment we met, we fell head over heels, didn’t we, darling?” A ghost of a smile on his face, Oz inclined his head slightly toward Isolde.
“Indeed, we did,” Isolde agreed, performing her role.
“Ah, the magic of love—easy as falling off a log and yet more baffling than the riddle of the universe. Would you care to stay for dinner?” Oz continued with exquisite grace, ignoring Isolde’s forbidding look. “I’m told we sit down to table soon.”
“I’m sure Will is expected home for dinner. Aren’t you?” The pleasure she derived from her innocent query was tawdry perhaps but wholly satisfying.
Oz watched his wife with a discerning gaze, and playing the indulgent husband, pressed Lord Fowler to stay. “Why not send Lady Fowler a note so she needn’t worry? Isolde was telling me I must get to know the neighbors.”
How wicked and sweet of Oz, Isolde decided, exchanging a whimsical glance with her husband. “One of the grooms can ride over with the note, Will. Do stay.”
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 16
