“I can’t,” he retorted, his voice still brusque with temper, his gloved hands clenched in chafing rage. “We have guests coming for dinner.”
“A shame. Some other time perhaps,” Oz murmured, walking over to Isolde and curling his arm around her shoulder. “Although, we may be keeping to ourselves rather more than not,” Oz roguishly added, pulling Isolde close and holding her gaze. “You promised me a full month for our honeymoon, didn’t you, dear?”
“Hush, darling, you’re embarrassing me.” A demur glance for effect.
“Nonsense, my sweet. Lord Fowler understands a man’s needs are a man’s needs.” Oz surveyed Will with good humor. “Isn’t that so?”
“I’ll talk to you later, Isolde.” Taut and curt, Will choked out the words, then whirling around, stalked from the room.
“Dear Will reminds me of Nell’s tantrums,” Oz murmured, releasing her and moving back to the settee and his bottle. “Some lovers take issue with a fait accompli. Don’t they know possession is nine points of the law?”
“If your many lovers who came to call in London are any indication, I’d say no,” she drolly replied.
“Nor did Will appear ready to give up his ownership stake,” Oz gently observed.
“Too bad.” Dropping back into her chair, she contemplated her lounging husband with fondness. “Thank you, by the way. You were superb.”
“You’re more than welcome. Since Will seemed unwilling to relinquish his claims, I thought it only right that he be made aware of our deep and passionate regard for each other.”
“And so you did most excellently. Although I very much doubt Lady Howe or any of the other ladies who came to call are ready to give you up, passionate regard or not.”
“Ah, but he’s close and they’re not.”
“I doubt he’ll be back.”
“I guarantee you he will.”
Strangely, she didn’t care. For the first time since Will’s marriage, she no longer experienced a feeling of loss or having been forsaken. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. Something was different today.” She smiled. “You were here as buffer, I suppose.”
His grin flashed. “You also took pleasure in his discomfort.”
“Yes. Is that so bad?”
“Not at all. In fact I wish him pleasure in his richer-than-you heiress. Gold is little satisfaction in the end. That I know.” At which point, he upended the bottle, drank the remaining dregs, and setting the bottle on the carpet, said with a touch of weariness in his voice, “Ring for someone. I want dinner now.”
CHAPTER 14
AN HOUR LATER, Oz was leaning back in his chair, his half-lidded gaze on Isolde seated at the distant end of a long table, the huge room quiet save for the sound of her spoon occasionally striking the side of her dish. “Do you always dine so formally?”
“In traveling clothes, you mean?” she answered with a smile.
“Should I have changed?” Quizzical and light as down.
“It didn’t sound as though you were inclined to wait.”
His brows lifted. “So you normally adhere to ceremony.”
She shook her head. “The staff is showing off for you. Or were.” Oz had dismissed the footmen once coffee and dessert had been served. “I usually dine in the breakfast room. It’s smaller, cozier, and my dozens of ancestors are not looking down their noses at me.”
“I’m relieved.”
“You don’t stand on ceremony?”
“A waste of time. Speaking of which—are you finished eating?”
“Are you?”
“Long ago. I’ve been observing the courtesies. That’s your third dessert.”
“I, on the other hand, haven’t been counting your brandies.”
“I applaud your restraint. So?”
She smiled. “Such impatience.”
“On the contrary, I’ve been exceedingly patient. You could take that blancmange with you if you like.”
“I might.”
“Excellent.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
Setting down her spoon, she watched him walk toward her, serenely smiling, relaxed, his tall form gilded by lamplight. “Would you think me absurd if I said I’m feeling different about”—she half lifted her hand—“this.”
“Sex?”
“Now that I’m home,” she rapidly finished as he stopped beside her.
He picked up her spoon and bowl of blancmange. “Let me change your mind,” he gently said.
The house was strangely empty of staff as they made their way to Isolde’s bedroom. “Did you say something to the footmen when you dismissed them?” she asked. “There’s not a soul in sight.”
“I said we’d be retiring soon. Did I put them to the blush?”
“How exactly did you say it?” A maid or footman could generally be seen in the midst of some task or errand.
“Politely. Unlike, I might add, your Will’s belligerence.”
“He’s not mine, but point taken.” She abandoned the subject. Oz was her husband, at least in her staff’s eyes; he could issue orders as well as she.
Oz had no intention of pursuing the discussion either, and as they made their way to Isolde’s bedchamber, he politely inquired about the various portraits they passed, about the date of a splendid solarium they walked through, why she’d chosen so small a bedroom for herself. The last query uttered as he stood on the threshold of her childhood room.
“We’ll need a larger bed,” he said once she’d explained. “I’ll have one sent up from London if you don’t mind. One with bunny rabbits painted on it,” he added with a grin. “Although that might take an extra day or so.”
“Very humorous. I like my old bed.”
“I might too if I could stretch out my legs. What of your parents’ rooms, or is that—”
She wrinkled her nose.
“I understand. Surely in a house this size you have other choices. Perhaps some state rooms are available? Queen Elizabeth must have slept here once or twice; she did in every other Tudor mansion, I’m told.”
“Is that so?”
The small, quick petulance in her voice prompted a tactful reply. “I was merely alluding to common lore.” And to Amanda Hawthorne’s annotated tour of her Tudor palace one weekend when her husband was in London. “But if you prefer your bunny bed, I’ll manage.”
She softly sighed. “I have no earthly reason to be jealous.”
“Nor I.” He lifted his brows. “Or at least not until Will returns.”
“Enough said on that score,” she muttered. “I apologize again for his presumption.”
Oz put up his hand and grinned. “Please—talk of Will affects my amorous mood.”
“I’m surprised anything can affect your libido,” Isolde said drily. “For which I’m naturally grateful. Come.” She crooked her finger. “We’ll find a bed better suited to your size.”
He followed her down several more hallways of the sprawling house, which had obviously been enlarged over the centuries by Percevals with a penchant for building. She stopped at a small door framed by two beautifully carved female figures attired in gilded medieval courtly dress. “Bend your head going in,” Isolde warned, opening the door and reaching for the light switch. “The room itself is commodious, but Grandmama had a fancy for follies.”
“Along with modern conveniences,” Oz remarked, taking note of an elaborate chandelier suddenly aglow with faux candles as he dipped his head and walked through the doorway. He entered a spectacular room constructed in the English Gothic style, the white-painted ceiling a spiderweb of delicate, soaring arches, its decorative gilt agleam. Tracery windows embellished with scenes from troubadour chronicles lined two walls, the theme mirrored as well in the splendid carpet modeled after the famous unicorn tapestry from Amiens. “Very impressive,” he said. “Including the bed. Thank you.” The vast, canopied bed was large enough to sleep six.
The Gothic revival had been popular midcentury. His grandmot
her had built a summer house in Hyderabad in a similar style. He said as much, then added, “My cousins and I used to sling ropes over finials like those”—he pointed to the decorative moldings on the ribbed vaults—“and climb the walls. Speaking of ropes,” he murmured, his gaze studiously bland.
Isolde laughed. “I have none. Although, come to think of it,” she said, “tying you up might be interesting.”
“We’ll toss a coin.”
“I don’t like being tied up.”
“You speak from experience?”
“Do you?”
“Does it matter?” he replied with composure.
“What if I were to say it does?”
“I repeat, we’ll toss a coin.”
“Or we could just do it the usual way.”
“Which usual way?” Oz pleasantly inquired. “Although we’ve plenty of time for whatever you like. I’m not going anywhere.”
Isolde’s sudden smile warmed her eyes. “I’m very happy you’re staying.”
He debated making his position clear in terms of staying but decided against disturbing her good humor. “While you make me happy in countless ways.”
“Even without rope?”
“Keep it up and I’ll rip those cords from the bed curtains and we’ll see who likes what. Speaking of likes—where do you want this?” He held out the dish of blancmange.
“Whatever do you mean?” she purred.
He laughed. “Focused on sex, are we?”
“You aren’t?”
“I believe I’m quickly becoming focused on blancmange.” He smiled. “Then bondage. And don’t say a word about your staff. This room is built like a medieval fortress. No one will hear a sound.”
She offered him an unblinking look of amusement. “Should I be alarmed?”
“You should,” he said with amiable delicacy, setting the dish down on an oddly shaped table carved from an oak burl.
“But having waited through a long afternoon and an extremely lengthy dinner, I’m first inclined to end my abstinence—if you don’t mind.”
“And if I do?”
He smiled faintly. “You never do.”
“I could.”
“Why don’t we see?” He shut and locked the door.
“Are you going to take off your boots?”
“No.” Catching her by the arms, he turned her and backed her toward the door.
“You are in a hurry.”
He couldn’t say he’d not gone without sex for an entire day in years. “Watching you at dinner took its toll on my restraint. I promise to be more polite next time.” As she came to a halt against the oak panels, he leaned into her, his arousal blatant between them. “Feel that?” he whispered, swiftly opening his trouser fly. “He’s about to explode.”
She normally would have taken affront at such bluntness, but then nothing had been normal from the moment she’d met Oz; she had but to feel his hard, rigid cock and every erogenous portion of her anatomy turned feverishly rapacious. “Me first,” she insisted, as selfish as he, as impatient and greedy.
Hell no. But she was busy hitching up her skirts and untying her drawers, so calling on all his charitable impulses, he drew in a breath of constraint and muttered, “Spoiled brat.”
But he was saying yes, she understood, and he finished unbuttoning his underwear just as her drawers slid to the floor. “I won’t keep you waiting long,” she whispered, grateful for his benevolence.
“Damn right you won’t.”
And the newlyweds who in the past had always eschewed adolescent frenzy, surrendered once again to their raging passions. Lifting her off her feet with ease, he wrapped her legs around his waist while his heart pounded in his chest, his erection stretched higher, and consummation took on a life of its own. Covetous and lustful, she clung to him and dizzy with uncontrollable need, began to seriously believe in sorcery. All else disappeared but her craving to feel him inside her.
Way, way inside her.
Hard and deep and forceful.
Coincidentally, Oz was warning himself not to run amuck and use her too roughly. With more than usual caution, he guided his erection to her sex, and nudging her sleek vulva with the head of his cock, paused, inhaled, and prayed for restraint. Having regained a modicum of sanity, he was able to smile when she wiggled her hips and impatiently hissed, “What are you waiting for?”
“The return of logic, or in this case, your orders,” he said with a grin, and bending slightly, he pressed her against the door for better traction, straightened his legs in a powerful upward thrust, drove deeply into her hot, slick cunt, and felt her gratified sigh warm his cheek. He didn’t move for a breath-held second after her silken flesh closed around him, occupied with the lunatic concept of having come home. But too disciplined to give in to delusion for long, he slid his hands under her bottom to raise her for the next sumptuous plunging descent.
“No, no, don’t!” Isolde cried, a creature of impulse rather than discipline, not inclined to relinquish the pleasure washing over her in heated waves.
Ignoring her exclamation as well as her fingers digging into his shoulders, Oz lifted her bottom until she shuddered on the crest of his erection, panting and pleading for more. When he released her, she immediately slid down his cock with such force, he caught his breath at the strumming rapture.
“If you could just stay right there for a week or so . . . ,” she whispered.
He brushed her lips with a smiling kiss. “Greedy puss.”
“Yes, yes . . . yes, yes, yes.”
But he moved despite her protests because he couldn’t last a week or even five minutes at this point, which was a startling admission for a man who had always been able to control his ejaculation.
It turned out to be a very close race to the finish, the feat accomplished only by sheer will and incredible control on Oz’s part. With intense concentration he curtailed his orgasm, exerting himself to pleasure his wife, his powerful legs propelling him upward again and again until Isolde’s orgasm crested and her screams brought him to a standstill deep inside her. Only waiting until her cries began to fade, he jerked her off his cock, dropped her on her feet, ripped his shirt tails from his trouser waistband, and just barely managed to save the carpet from semen stains.
Moments later, still breathing hard, his head braced against the door above her shoulder, he inhaled the perfume from her hair, her warmth, felt the softness of her body against his, and offered up a prayer of thanks to whatever gods had initially guided him to room thirteen at Blackwood’s.
“That—was . . . fantastic—wasn’t it?” Isolde breathed, so filled with bliss she felt lit from within.
“Yes,” he whispered without moving.
“Perfection.”
“Yes.” Lifting his head, he inhaled deeply, took a step back, shrugged out of his jacket, and began unbuttoning his shirt. “Yes to everything, darling.”
Her nostrils flared at his facile reply. “Don’t patronize me.”
He paused in his unbuttoning. “Sorry. You’d prefer I disagree?”
“No, no.” She waved her hand in a little absolving gesture. “I didn’t mean to be fretful. I’m just feeling more in thrall to pleasure than I’d like—to you . . . him—sex with you.” She made a wry face. “It’s not your fault, though, it’s mine.”
“As you know,” he replied with a lift of his brows, “you’re not alone in your craving.” Not that he didn’t have every expectation those cravings would abate. They always did. “Let me wash up,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head with a jerk, bundling it up and dropping it, “and we’ll deal with our mutual randiness.”
“I’m feeling odd in other ways, too.” Dependent. Necessitous.
Women always wanted to talk about their feelings. He’d learned to politely agree. “It’s probably due to the oddity of our marriage,” he said over his shoulder. “You have to admit we didn’t do a lot of planning.” Because he was drunker than usual.
“In contra
st to my previous detailed wedding planning,” she wryly noted.
“There, you see? That’s why you’re unsettled. You’re not accustomed to rash behavior.”
On the other hand, rash behavior had it’s advantages, she decided, contemplating her husband’s powerful physique, his naked torso tautly muscled, the width of his shoulders impressive like his lovely, resilient cock. That he was still booted was perversely arousing as well. Or maybe everything about him provoked her lust, magnificent male animal that he was. If this was obsession, there was pleasure in embracing it.
Quickly washing up at a small sink in the corner, Oz stripped off his boots and remaining clothes. Quickly crossing the room, he stopped before Isolde still motionless against the door, the torpid warmth of fulfillment pulsing through her body. “If you can hear me,” he teased, dipping his head to meet her lethargic gaze, “might I interest you in some less frantic conjugal sex?”
A slow smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “So you don’t mind being my husband?”
“Hell no. I’m delighted to be here. If you’ll allow me, I’ll show you how delighted I am.”
How many times and to how many women had he so casually offered his services? And how could it possibly matter in this business arrangement of theirs? But it must have because she heard herself say, “Would you still be delighted if I said I wanted to tie you up?”
One dark brow rose. “Is this a test?”
“Perhaps—I don’t know. May I?” If not a test, it may have been a means of stabilizing the inordinate power he commanded over her senses and passions, over what had always been an unfettered will. Compensation, too, at some inchoate level, for the serried ranks of his lovers. “Think of it as a minor conjugal obligation.”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, not sure he liked the word obligation or the act of submission itself. “Why not?” he finally said.
Conscious of his small hesitation, Isolde felt nominally redeemed, more herself. Perhaps she wasn’t slavishly obsessed, nor just another of the bevy of ladies in his life, but the woman of independence she’d always been. “Where should I tie you up?” she murmured, half musing.
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 17
