“Men can do what women can’t.”
“Allow me to disagree!”
“Just stay away from him or I’ll put a shot through him,” Oz said, his voice ruthless and uncompromising. “I won’t wear cuckold horns.”
“Unlike all the husbands you’ve crowned with horns?” Flaring irritability in every word.
“They chose to accept it. I don’t,” he answered with enormous self-control. “Nor do I fancy being made to compete for my wife’s favors.”
“No more than I fancy being ordered about by you,” she said tartly. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her, and whether prompted by panic or the oppressive atmosphere, she suddenly felt a wave of nausea roll up her throat. Hastily slapping a hand to her mouth, she said faint and unsteady through her fingers, “Oh dear.”
Oz dropped his hands as if burned. Say it isn’t so, he thought, even as he understood that it was not only possible but also highly probable considering their single-minded obsession with sex. Softly swearing under his breath, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, shoved it into Isolde’s hand, leaned over, picked her up, and praying she wouldn’t vomit all over them, carried her down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door.
The fresh air helped Isolde’s roiling stomach, and by the time they reached her carriage she was feeling marginally better. Oz lifted her in, jerked his head toward Dimitri, ordered, “Drive slowly,” and climbing in, dropped into the opposite seat. Leaning back, he stretched out his legs. “Feeling better?” he asked as the carriage rolled down the drive, his voice notable for its restraint.
“Slightly, yes,” she whispered, ashen to the roots of her pale hair. “Tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.”
“Perhaps something you ate is the cause,” he said, not above negotiating with the gods of anarchy and disorder.
“Do you think so?” A glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“It’s possible.” But even as he spoke, he knew he was lying, his imagination racing unchecked toward disaster. He’d practiced coitus interruptus—normally effective—but the risk increased with constant repetition and he’d been on permanent stud duty for weeks.
“You’re right. We have been careful, haven’t we?”
“Fuck no.”
She bristled at his blunt repudiation, at the sullenness of his tone. “Are you blaming me?”
“I don’t suppose,” he said, gently, “it would do much good at this point.”
“You do have some responsibility,” she said, pithy and acerbic, annoyed at his insolence. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Yes, I know. Could we talk about this later?”
“When later?” she said, affronted by his soft and savorless voice.
“When I don’t feel like strangling someone.”
“Me, you mean.”
“No, I don’t mean you. I mean the whole bloody world,” he said sharply.
“It might turn out to be nothing.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Blunt and brusque.
“We’re going to have to talk about it sometime.”
“But. Not. Now.”
Her temper was rising. “You’re acting like a child.”
He shot her a gelid look. “And you’re acting like a shrew.”
“How dare you call me a shrew,” she hissed.
A muscle twitched over his stark cheekbone, and silent, he fixed a cool eye on her.
“Just like a man,” she said, flushed and petulant. “Mute and muzzled when there’s the devil to pay.”
He rolled his eyes but gave no answer, and from that point on, no matter what she said or how she prodded him, he refused to respond. Even when she lost her temper, lunged forward, and slapped his face, he just grimaced, grabbed her, and tossed her back on her seat. Then, bracing his foot against her seat cushion as if to ward her off, he slid down on his spine, shut his eyes, and promptly went to sleep.
Openmouthed, she sat transfixed, reminded of their first night together when he’d said to her, “Observe,” and proceeded to shock her with his instant erection. In the same astounding fashion, he’d fallen asleep, his mastery over his senses extraordinary.
She swore under her breath, debating an outright attack. Not that she was likely to prevail. Nor would such behavior solve her dilemma.
This particular problem required a cool head and thoughtful reflection.
Not that it wouldn’t be satisfying to punch him a few times as well.
If it would only help, she brooded.
Although, if nothing else, the turmoil and fury had served as remedy to whatever had been ailing her. She felt quite herself again.
Except for being mad as a hornet.
CHAPTER 19
WHEN THEY REACHED Oak Knoll, Oz helped Isolde alight. In the presence of grooms and footmen, with Dimitri looking on, he said with cultivated grace, “Would you like me to call your maid?”
“I’m perfectly capable of calling my maid,” she said, bristling at his cool detachment.
He smiled tightly. “If you’ll excuse me then, I’m going for a ride. Don’t hold dinner for me.” He found himself addressing the air. Isolde had turned and was walking away.
He wasn’t obtuse; he understood her anger. But he needed time to sort out the turmoil in his brain, come to terms with the burden of his past. Reconcile what was to have been a temporary marriage with this current dilemma.
As the door closed on Isolde, he swiftly made for the stables. Too restless to wait while a groom saddled his horse, Oz rigged and harnessed Sukha himself. A chestnut stallion from the mountains beyond the Hindu Kush, Sukha had been bred for speed and endurance, and once horse and rider cleared the stable block, Oz let the leathers slip through his fingers. With extended rein and curbless mouth, Sukha was soon racing flat out over the downs.
Literally escaping entanglement, Oz rode fast and hard over the green hills and dales, eyes narrowed against the wind, his hair disheveled by the breeze, his ears deaf to the thunder of calamity riding his coattails. He didn’t want to reason or debate, referee or adjudicate; he just wanted to bolt.
Evade and avoid.
Until he no longer could.
The banner of defeat hoisted itself at the signpost for the village of Upper Framton, where his exhausted mount stumbled and nearly went down. Leaping from the saddle, Oz apologized to Sukha, who’d carried him across most of India as well as along London’s fashionable gallops, and turning back, he walked his lathered horse until the huge chestnut was rested enough to take his weight again.
His return to Oak Knoll proceeded at a gentle pace, the March light slowly fading, a light mist rising in the low ground as evening approached. No matter how often he tried to flee—whether from formidable memory or disquieting emotion—Khair’s memory remained fixed in his mind: beautiful and full of grace, her skin like alabaster against her dark hair, her eyes smiling, her soft voice teasing and playful. They’d grown up together at the court in Hyderabad, had always assumed they’d marry. But his suit had been rejected, her family committed to a union that would ally them to a powerful northern prince. Not that her family had had a hand in her death, but they’d been the reason she’d taken her own life rather than marry a man she didn’t love.
A part of him had died with her that day, and in the years since, he’d not found the means to salvage his life. Immediately after Khair’s funeral, he’d fled to England, where he’d dealt with his anguish in his own dissolute way. He was there when his father and mother had died, both prey to a summer fever that decimated the Anglo community. And ironically, while his English ancestry had cost him the woman he loved, the fact that his grandmother had been a native of Hyderabad permitted him to inherit the largest bank in India. Not adequate compensation for so heavy a loss of those he loved, but at least his road to destruction was paved with limitless gold.
Long accustomed to his particular method of escape, he was case-hardened to withdrawal, untaxed by the sensibilities that touc
hed other men, thick-skinned with practice, and wholly selfish. Devoted to no living soul, when he finally came to a decision apropos Isolde, it was unequivocal. His certainty would have come as no surprise to those who knew him.
The moon was pale on the horizon when he rode into the stable yard, all turmoil and doubt resolved.
Isolde, unable to evade the behemoth in the room, had spent the ensuing hours fretting and stewing and in general working herself into a pet. It wasn’t that she was blaming Oz completely; naturally, she shared responsibility. Nor was she irrational when it came to the necessary decision making if—there was still the remote possibility she was jumping to conclusions—if she should be pregnant. However, she didn’t think herself unduly difficult in expecting Oz to discuss the situation. Although that might be too demanding for a man who’d apparently avoided permanence in his relationships. More to the point, a man who’d offered her his name with the clear understanding that there existed an express time limit to the offer.
It was her mistake, she ruefully thought, to have become so enamored and infatuated that she’d surrendered completely to passion and neglected the most fundamental prudence. Resting her head against the chair back, she softly groaned.
She should have known better.
The door to the small drawing room opened so softly, she wasn’t sure for a moment whether the sound was real or imagined. But the familiar voice, drawling and languid with impudence, brought her head around.
“I see you’ve eaten with your usual appetite.” His dark gaze surveyed the remnants of several dishes on the small table near the fire as he walked into the room. “You must be feeling restored.”
Isolde had eaten supper in the cozy chamber as was her habit prior to Oz’s arrival. “I do feel better, thank you. And you?” She was capable of sarcasm as well. “You look wet.”
His hair and clothes were damp from the evening mist. “It’s always wet in England.” He stripped off his gloves as he approached and tossed them on a chair.
“Should I apologize?”
“Not unless you control the weather as well as my passions.”
Her brows rose at the caustic edge to his voice. “Allow me to set your mind at rest concerning the weather at least.”
“As to the other, I’ll contrive to master that myself.” He stood before her now, his large form silhouetted against the firelight, his face half in shadow, a restiveness to his stance. “I’m not staying.”
“Fine.”
“What do you mean, fine?” His surprise showed for a fleeting moment before, more clear-eyed, he saw his advantage.
“Did you think I’d beg and plead for you to stay?” She held his gaze for a moment. “On the contrary, should I be pregnant, it’s my problem, not yours.” She’d had plenty of time in his absence to deal with the practicalities. You could no more hold Oz in bondage than you could shackle the wind.
“You might not be pregnant at all.” He stood there splendid, half-tamed, unencumbered.
“I agree.”
“Naturally, if you are, I’ll assume any financial responsibility,” he said, cool and businesslike.
“There’s no need. My fortune is considerable.” She smiled faintly. “And thanks to you, secure. Sincerely, Oz, I’m most grateful.” Her smile widened, and her eyes sparkled in the firelight. “For all your many services rendered.”
He forced himself not to move, even as powerful lust urged him to pick her up, carry her over to the sofa, and fuck her until hell froze over. “I think I’ll leave tonight.” Sheer self-preservation. What had appeared sensible and reasonable on his ride back no longer seemed so astute, logic and lust seriously at odds.
“I’ll have Lewis help with your departure.” She picked up a small bell. “Although Betsy and Jess should wait until morning before they set out for London.”
For a flashing second he debated plucking the bell from her fingers and changing his plans.
They’d been together long enough that she read that small hesitation.
And out of hope, she waited a second more.
“I’ll have Sam tell Betsy,” Oz said in a neutral voice. “And if you need anything at anytime, don’t hesitate to let me know. My resources are at your disposal.”
A shame you aren’t, she thought, although he’d been clear about his role from the start. “If I should prove to be with child, would you mind if the divorce waited until after the birth? As a matter of clarity.”
How often he and Khair had spoken of having a family. And now he might become a father by a woman he’d known a few weeks. A sudden disquieting thought raced through his brain. “As a matter of clarity since Will’s already married and your child needs a father, you mean?” His voice was suddenly soft with malice. “I don’t recall you having your menses since we wed.”
A blush of disbelief washed up her face, replaced an instant later by a look of burning outrage. “How dare you suggest such a thing!”
“Then tell me,” he said, unsympathetic and hard as nails, “how do I know this child is mine?”
“There might not be a child,” she cooly replied.
“One can but hope,” he drawled.
She went utterly still, her eyes held his for a stark moment, and with an equal measure of sarcasm, she softly said, “I’ll thank you to shut the door behind you when you leave.”
He was as motionless as she, his gaze knife sharp. “Coloring like mine runs true.” He flicked a finger toward his face. “We’ll find out the identity of the father soon enough.”
“All I need from you is a divorce.” Clipped and curt.
Anger flickered through his eyes. “Except not just now.”
“Anytime,” she said grimly. “I’ll send Malmsey directions.” She took a small breath, and her eyes were dark with rage once again. “Do you think I care what people say? If I did, I’d never have spread my name in all the scandal sheets. So you’re free to go back to London and your women—”
His dark eyes, full on her face, narrowed. “And you to Will.”
“No. Unlike you, I don’t break up marriages.”
“Nor do I,” he said suavely. “I just make life bearable for the wives.”
“How commendable,” she said, ten generations of ice in her voice. “I wish you well in your benevolence. Now, if you won’t go, I will.” She came to her feet.
“Relax, darling,” he said without inflection, a faint smile on his lips. “I’m leaving.”
CHAPTER 20
OZ WAS BACK in London by ten, and by half past he was slipping into a chair at one of Brooks’s gaming tables, in command of his feelings once again.
“You win, Harry,” young Telford said with a grin. “You bet seven weeks. Evenin’, Oz,” he cheerfully said. “Marriage worn thin?”
“Don’t they all.”
“Could have told you.” The young marquis had been married four months.
Oz flashed the table a grin. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You were probably three parts drunk.”
“No probably about it. What are the stakes? I’m in the mood to gamble.”
And as was normally the case with the wealthy and privileged young noblemen who amused themselves at Brooks’s, talk of wives and marriage was quickly exhausted. Play was high that night, thanks to Oz’s reckless mood, and liquor flowed like water—that, too, due to Oz’s largesse. He was drinking heavily in an effort to dislodge the images saturating his brain and raising havoc with his peace of mind: Isolde in bed, in the bath, in his arms, her voluptuous body warm against his, her honeyed sweetness his paradise on earth—his irresistible temptation.
The irresistible part unnerved him; it pissed him off.
Reaching for his remedy for aggravation, he found his glass empty. He shot a gimlet-eyed glare at a footman, the servant quickly filled his glass, and so it remained—never less than brim full—the rest of the night.
He consistently won, of course.
Didn’t he always?
But he was drunker than usual, or more accurately, drunk when he stood on the pavement outside the club and squinted against the morning sun.
“Ready for some cunt?” Harry inquired in slurred accents.
Oz turned and surveyed him for a speculative moment. “I’m not sure,” he said regretfully, “I’ve the stomach for it just yet.”
“Marriage can sour you, that’s a fact,” Harry commiserated, five years’ married and a father three times. “Just don’t think about it. That’s my advice.”
It was advice Harry’s wife pursued as well. Rumor had it her last child was Paxton’s. Oz’s brow knit in a black scowl; like the child of questionable paternity his wife might be carrying. “I’m off to bed,” he muttered. “I’ve a helluva headache.”
“Hair of the dog, Oz. It’s the only way. Let’s go to Marguerite’s; her brandy’s fine, and if you change your mind, the ladies are finer.”
“Some other time. You go. Give Marguerite my regards.”
“She’s been asking for you, you know.”
Oz shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow.” The gilded brothel, and its equally resplendent owner, had been a habitual home away from home for Oz in recent years. “I’m bone tired, brain weary, and out of sorts with the world; you’ll have to fuck ’em without me,” he said over his shoulder as he moved away.
When Oz entered his house a short time later, Josef greeted him with studied civility.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Oz said, shrugging out of his coat, his voice entirely prosaic, not a hint of drink in his tempered syllables. “She told me to go, and if someone told you something different, they shouldn’t have had their ear to the door.”
“Yes, sir,” Josef said with scrupulous restraint, having heard it all from Achille. Taking Oz’s coat from him, he nodded to his right. “You have a visitor in your study, sir. Mr. Malmsey.”
“That was quick,” Oz said drily.
Josef didn’t have to ask what he meant; everyone at Oak Knoll knew what had transpired. Nor would he have asked in any event with Oz’s mood unchancy. “Would you like coffee brought in?”
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 21
