Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation)

by Susan Johnson

  “How dare you!” she hissed, her sharp nose twitching with indignation. “What right has someone like you—”

  “Ah, there you are, darling,” Oz said fondly as Isolde came up to save her husband from Anne Verney’s obvious wrath. “Lady Fowler and I were comparing our mines.”

  “We were doing no such thing!” Anne furiously exclaimed.

  “Mines?” Isolde cast a questioning glance at her husband.

  “I have ruby mines. Didn’t I mention that?” he said, lazy and cool.

  “No, you didn’t. How very nice. If you’d excuse us, Anne, Pamela hasn’t met Oz yet. Come, dear, you’ll like her.” She needn’t have been rude, but she couldn’t resist. Anne always glared at her as though she were the Antichrist; there was no question either that she was being uncivil to Oz. Her scowl had been visible from across the room.

  “Will’s wife’s an arrogant cow,” Oz lazily said as they walked away. “I can see why he’s hell-bent on renewing your friendship. She’s not only pompous, she’s ugly, poor thing. Christ, you’d have to shut your eyes to fuck her.”

  “Hush, Oz,” Isolde reprimanded, suppressing a smile.

  “She can’t help it. The entire family is pompous as the pope.”

  “With no good reason from all appearances,” he said, smiling a little.

  “They’re very wealthy.”

  “Many people are, darling. But I see I’m going to have to keep an eye on you. Will must be desperate to bed you again.”

  “You needn’t keep an eye on me. I’m quite content with your—”

  “Cock?” he murmured with a sparkle in his eyes.

  “Yes, now hush, don’t embarrass me; here’s my very best friend.” Taking Oz’s hand, she smiled at a pretty, slender young woman dressed in russet velvet to match her hair. “Pamela, I’d like you to meet Oz.”

  Pamela was immediately charmed, but then Oz put himself out to be charming, a talent honed to a fine pitch long ago. And once all the pleasantries were exchanged, conversation turned to mutually satisfying subjects having to do with horses and racing—a topic much on the mind of everyone in the environs of Newmarket.

  “Isolde tells me you have some splendid bloodstock from the Hindu Kush.”

  “You’re welcome to ride them anytime,” Oz offered with unimpeachable courtesy. “They’re sweet and well mannered.”

  “And they run like the wind,” Isolde interjected with a smile for her husband. “My morning rides have quite improved since Oz brought them up.”

  “With the spring meets about to begin, we’ll have to see how they perform.” Pamela followed the race meets with the avid interest of someone who owned a prime stable. “I warn you, my husband, Elliot, prides himself on his racing wins.”

  Oz smiled. “We’ll have to exchange a friendly wager.”

  “What wager?” The Earl of Petworth joined his wife.

  “Elliot, have you met Isolde’s husband? Oz, Elliot. We were talking about the new race season. Oz has some bloodstock from India.”

  Several others joined the conversation at talk of racing, and before the hounds were brought up and breakfast over, Oz had met a great many of Isolde’s neighbors.

  But after his encounter with Lady Fowler, Oz monitored Isolde that day with more than ordinary vigilance. Will Fowler’s interest in Isolde had nothing to do with friendship—his angry response to news of her marriage a case in point. And after having seen Fowler’s wife, it was clear that the man had coldly and calculatingly married for money. Nor had he the decency to treat his wife civilly; Will hadn’t come near her at breakfast.

  Nor had she mounted up with the others. She’d stayed behind.

  Hours later, after an exhilarating hunt over miles of green, rolling countryside, Oz and Isolde were riding home slowly, the sun low on the horizon.

  “You needn’t have played duenna all day,” Isolde lightly teased. “As you very well know, you’ve spoiled me for other men. I have no interest in Will.”

  There was a small silence. “That may be, for which I thank you,” he said with a faint smile. “But I don’t trust Will. I may have to call out the dog if he doesn’t stop sniffing around you.”

  “Don’t you dare,” she quickly said.

  “Warn him off, not me. I’m just protecting my own.” There was a faint hint of anger beneath the flat tone.

  “You’re mistaken,” she said in a deprecating voice. “Really, Oz, I don’t need your protection.”

  “Believe me,” he cooly said, “with Will, you do.”

  While she might disagree, Oz’s jealousy pleased her—regardless its motivation or degree. “I’m sure you’re wrong, but rather than risk having you call out Will, I’ll take care to avoid him.”

  He turned an impersonal gaze on her. “And I’ll see that you do.”

  “I don’t respond well to orders,” she softly said.

  “Sometimes you do.”

  “I’m serious, Oz.”

  The flexible charm was automatic as was the smile that warmed his eyes. “I humbly beg your pardon, darling,” he gently said. “I had no intention of offending you.”

  He rode with animal grace, she thought; the same grace he brought to the bedroom; the same grace she could no more relinquish than she could contemplate life without him, she thought with an unpleasant lurch of her heart. “I don’t want to fight,” she murmured, shaken by her feelings.

  “Nor I,” he said with forced calm, her feelings clear to see.

  IN THE COURSE of the blissful days that followed, Oz told himself he could take his country holiday in stride; care, but not too much; love his new wife with passion but not with his heart; above all keep the ravishing pleasures they shared in perspective.

  Isolde warned herself she was getting in too deep, allowing herself to be swept away by rapture, becoming too attached to a man who played merely a stopgap role in her life. But then Oz was celebrated for his many charms; meeting his legion of lovers in London served to confirm the fact. Why wouldn’t she be equally captivated? More to the point, why shouldn’t she enjoy her ephemeral pleasures while she may? No reason at all, she recklessly decided.

  Nothing could have stopped them in any case, their need for each other beyond reason. They spent their nights playing at love while their days were given up to the country social calendar, their intimacy and closeness a sumptuous, personal la dolce vita, the very breath of life.

  Oz escorted Isolde to the neighbors without complaint when in the past he would have found such company tame. He briefly questioned his pleasure in such peaceful pursuits but as quickly decided it was irrelevant. Since when did he question degrees of gratification?

  CHAPTER 17

  A FEW DAYS LATER, Isolde and Oz were at Pamela’s dinner party. Since Will and Anne were also guests, Isolde had taken care to stay by Oz’s side—not a hardship by any means. She preferred keeping her distance from the Fowlers.

  But after dinner Pamela had taken her away to see her new Worth gown, which turned out to be as spectacular as claimed—embroidered and jeweled green velvet; the masterful Worth had surpassed himself. A maid had come in as they’d been viewing the gown, calling Pamela away to the nursery over some minor crisis, and Isolde made her way back to the drawing room alone.

  Catching sight of Anne Verney waiting in the corridor outside the drawing room, she almost turned around. The last person she wished to see was Will’s fretful, sullen wife who constantly glowered at her. On the other hand, she wasn’t so craven that she’d let herself be intimidated over something so silly.

  “Has the dancing begun?” she asked as she approached the woman who managed to look frumpish even in an expensive creation of sparkling silver tulle. The violins could be heard through the closed doors.

  “I have no idea,” Anne icily replied. “I have something to say to you.”

  God help me. “If it’s about the flowers for the church, my gardeners tell me the hothouse roses are in bloom. You’re more than welcome to them.”
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  “You insolent hussy. Why would I care about the flowers for the church? I want you to stay away from my husband,” she spat, caustic and malevolent. “I saw you staring at him all through dinner.”

  “I did no such thing!” Isolde retorted, her shock plain. “You’re grossly mistaken.”

  “Don’t play games with me, you slut.” A mottled flush colored her thin face. “I saw you trying to catch his eye.”

  “I have absolutely no interest in your husband,” Isolde calmly said, not wishing to engage with this angry woman. “I’m married and more than content. You needn’t be concerned.”

  “You duplicitous little bitch. Don’t try and placate me with your lies. You always wanted Will. But he’s mine. I bought him!” Blunt as a hammer.

  “Everyone knows you bought him,” Isolde snapped back and instantly contrite, quickly added, “Forgive me, I shouldn’t have said that. He’s yours, Anne, truly he is—in every way.” She felt foolish for ever lamenting Will’s loss, embarrassed as well that she’d been so blind to his lies.

  “I don’t need you to tell me he’s mine. He was never yours,” she said with deliberate malice. “Never. He told me so—that you were always in hot pursuit, trying to entice him into your bed, using your body to lure him, you witch!”

  Isolde could have disputed who had pursued whom, but more than ever, she wanted this confrontation to end. The malicious glitter in Anne’s eyes was alarming enough to motivate a quick retreat. “There’s no need to argue over Will, Anne. He’s indisputably yours. I wish you both much happiness.”

  “Spare me your spurious good wishes,” she snapped, her color high, the pulse in her neck beating violently. “Just stay away from my husband!”

  “I most certainly will,” Isolde soothingly replied, edging away from the enraged woman. No longer concerned she might appear fainthearted, she fled, jerking open the drawing room door and slipping inside like a thief in the night.

  “I needn’t ask how she was,” Oz murmured, pushing away from the wall beside the door as Isolde entered, white-faced. “I saw Anne go out, but I thought Pamela was with you.”

  “I wish she had been.” Isolde shivered faintly. “The woman’s crazed.”

  “Poor darling,” he gently said, taking her hand and drawing her away from the door. “But consider, dear, you’re outrageous competition for a plain sparrow like Anne.”

  “I’ve never given her any indication that I covet her husband. In fact, I told her in no uncertain terms I had no interest in Will.”

  “And she didn’t believe you.”

  Isolde grimaced. “She said I was looking at her husband during dinner—I wasn’t.”

  “He was looking at you.”

  “He was? Oh God.”

  “He was looking at you with prurience, lust, and adultery on his mind,” Oz delicately said.

  Isolde groaned. “Don’t start, Oz. I’m sorry I ever met the man.”

  A smile transformed the trifling unease in his eyes. “In that case, would you care to dance?”

  And so the drama continued in the small exclusive world of dinner parties and country entertainments.

  Will was restive under his wife’s constant guard.

  Oz was mildly watchful and surprised that he was.

  Isolde, with nothing to hide, openly enjoyed her husband’s company and wasn’t amazed to discover that Oz also danced better than anyone she’d ever met. But then he did everything better than anyone she’d ever met.

  Which meant she must remember her life was her own and not lose her grip on it. Oz exerting the full power of his charm made one forget.

  CHAPTER 18

  A LOVELY, IDYLLIC week later, one in which the newlyweds had refused to leave Oak Knoll, they finally foreswore their hermitage because a singer Isolde particularly liked was performing at Constance Banning’s afternoon musicale.

  “Do you mind?” she’d asked the previous day as she and Oz lay hot and sweaty in the shambles of the bed.

  He’d turned his head as he lay panting beside her, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth. “After—that last orgasm—how can . . . I refuse you . . . anything.”

  “How lovely, how sweet—”

  “How likely . . . I am to fuck you again . . . as soon as I catch . . . my breath,” he’d rasped. “Yes to the musicale—now come here . . . I have something to show you.”

  WHY IS HE here? Isolde thought as she and Oz entered the Bannings’ sunny music room. Will disliked sopranos, music in general, and Constance Banning.

  Well, well, if it isn’t the ex-lover in hot pursuit. Oz knew very well why Will Fowler was here.

  But after greeting their hostess, Isolde took a seat well away from Will and joined the gathering of well-dressed gentry who were fond of music. The audience was primarily female—no surprise. Oz had come out of consideration for his wife, as had a handful of other husbands. Will was alone and here out of consideration for himself.

  A boy prodigy Constance had brought up from London performed first, his virtuoso skills on the violin breathtaking for someone so young. Isolde was entranced, leaning forward slightly as though drawn to the beautiful sound.

  His head resting against the back of his chair, Oz watched her, aware of the violent passion she evoked in him, equally aware that his normal impersonal dealings with women had altered. As the boy’s dazzling technique brought Tchaikovsky’s fantasia to life with nimble-fingered energy and brio, the audience listened in breath-held silence, and Oz wondered, mildly disturbed, if he was less indifferent than he wished.

  But the music came to a precipitous end, the crowd erupted in applause, and Oz’s musing gave way as everyone came to their feet in homage to the boy.

  In the interval between performances, Constance Banning’s footmen carried around trays of champagne and sweets, the audience fell to gossiping, and Oz was drawn off by the few husbands in attendance where talk turned naturally to horses. Newmarket was the Nirvana of bloodstock fanatics, and Oz’s racers had won all the early meets in the neighborhood. The men were anxious to hear how best to obtain entree to the mountain tribes that bred Oz’s racers.

  Oz noticed Isolde leave the room with Constance, and shortly after their hostess returned alone. Scanning the room, he saw that Will was absent as well, and experiencing an unbridled rush of anger, he excused himself from the group of men with a smile and a bland excuse and went in search of his wife.

  Unfortunately he found her.

  At the soft footfall on the threshold of a nearby drawing room, Isolde snatched her hands from Will’s and turned to meet the hard, ruthless gaze of her husband.

  He was standing in the open doorway, challenge in his stance, in the merciless set of his mouth, menace in his gaze. “Am I intruding?” His voice was meticulously soft.

  “No, not at all.” She was doing nothing wrong; there was no need to blush. “Will just called me in to tell me he’s going to be a father. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

  Oz turned his unpleasant regard on Will, then his lids lowered slightly, there was a fractional pause, and he said in a controlled voice, “Congratulations.” He sketched Will a self-contained bow. “If you’ll excuse us. Come, Isolde. The Florentine soprano’s about to begin.”

  Will was as tall as Oz, and heavier, a solid, handsome man with grey eyes that contemplated Isolde with more than a casual claim. “I’m not sure Izzy wishes to leave. You needn’t, Izzy.”

  As Oz took a threatening step into the room, Isolde hurriedly said, “I’m perfectly fine, Will. I’m looking forward to Miss Rossetti’s performance. Do give Anne my best.” Quickly moving toward the door, she brushed past Oz and hastened away down the wainscoted hall adorned with portraits of Banning thoroughbreds.

  Walking very fast, Oz’s swift tread behind her, she’d almost reached the music room when she was jerked to a halt and spun around. Grabbing her shoulders, his effort at self-control obvious in the slight tremor in his arms, Oz growled, “What the hell was going on?”<
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  “Nothing. I told you,” she said, bracing herself against his implacable gaze. “I was on my way back from the powder room when I met Will. He told me that Anne’s having a baby. That’s all.” She tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me.”

  His grip only tightened, his long slender fingers like vises. “He couldn’t tell you that in the music room?”

  “We met by accident.”

  “The hell you did,” said Oz shortly.

  “Oh, very well. He may have been waiting for me.”

  A muscle clenched high over his cheekbone, and when he spoke his voice was like steel. “In the future, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself if you don’t want to make Fowler’s wife a widow. Do you understand?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She met his cold gaze with a determined lift of her chin. “I don’t respond to male tyranny; you have no jurisdiction over me.”

  “On the contrary, my dear wife,” he said with sudden impatience, “I have considerable jurisdiction over you. The law is not yet in your favor, and while the double standard is deplorable, in my current frame of mind it is not entirely objectionable.”

  He sounded like any rich man, assured and confident of his place and power in the world, female autonomy no part of his life. She had a choice of further provoking him with bravura challenge or calming the waters and thereby avoiding a possible embarrassment should someone come out of the music room. “For heaven’s sake, Oz,” she said, her voice deliberately unruffled, “if you recall, our marriage is temporary. There’s no need for this autocratic display of temper. You’re making too much of an innocent encounter. Will and I’ve been friends forever and—”

  “Slightly more than friends as well,” said her husband, his lip curled in a sneer.

  “If only you weren’t an infamous libertine,” she shot back, “you might have cause to take issue with me.” A lifetime of indulgence was unlikely to long sustain a spirit of submission.