Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation)

by Susan Johnson

  “Why not, although I doubt this is a cordial call. You’d better bring me some brandy, too.”

  Entering his study a moment later, Oz greeted Malmsey with a natural grace uninhibited by drink. “This needn’t be awkward, Malmsey.” He waved him into a chair. “You’ll find me completely amenable.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’ve been most agreeable; my client is grateful.”

  “Pray be candid,” Oz said, dropping into a chair opposite the solicitor, “or we’ll be talking circles around each other. I know why you’re here.” Leaning back, he crossed his legs and lazily smiled. “Let’s deal with the ledger pages of our mutual responsibilities impartially. You’ll find me willing to sign most anything.”

  “Very well, sir.” Given leave to dispense with the preliminaries, Malmsey went directly to the primary consideration. “If there’s a child, the countess would like full custody.”

  Oz’s brows rose. “That’ll take more than a conventional divorce, won’t it? I’m no solicitor, but women’s rights are limited in practice if not theory.”

  “Naturally, it would have to be a private agreement.”

  Whether impelled by some primal patriarchal impulse or whether he felt Isolde was asking too much, Oz hesitated when faced with the finality of giving up his child. Should a child even exist, he reminded himself. Not a certainty at this point. “Is that common? A private agreement?”

  Malmsey didn’t quite meet his gaze.

  “Ah,” Oz murmured and a malicious glitter entered his eyes. “The countess is taking matters into her own hands—as usual.”

  “Your marriage was outside the norm, sir—if I might be so bold to say. Its dissolution need not necessarily conform to precedence.”

  Oz’s gaze was half hidden by his lashes. “Does she always get her way?”

  Malmsey studied the floor for a moment before he replied with diplomatic obliquity. “As an only child, she was indulged, my lord. Furthermore, an independent title and great fortune confers added scope to one’s freedom. But the countess is kindhearted and obliging, sir, and well respected by all.”

  She was indeed obliging in bed. You couldn’t fault her there. But then Will knows that, too. “There’s a small issue of paternity,” Oz said with careful detachment. He glanced up as the door opened and a servant carried in a tray.

  The men sat in silence while coffee was served, Oz’s brandy was poured, and the servant departed. Quickly drinking down his brandy, Oz leaned forward, set the glass on the table beside him, and picked up the bottle. “As I was saying,” he pleasantly went on, uncorking the bottle, “the issue of paternity may be in doubt. But should the child be mine, I hadn’t contemplated relinquishing my paternal claims. Isolde’s request for sole custody”—he shrugged—“could be a sticking point.” Lifting the bottle to his mouth, he drank deeply.

  “She didn’t think it would be.”

  “Then we have a dilemma,” he cooly said. At Malmsey’s look of chagrin, Oz’s expression altered, and in a completely different tone, benevolent and affable, he added, “Other than the custody issue, I’m quite willing to oblige her.”

  “I’m sure she’d be willing to pay you whatever you like to, ah, reach some agreement.”

  Oz smiled angelically. “I have too much money, Malmsey, not too little. I can buy this country and barely touch my wealth. Now if it was Will you were dealing with,” he sardonically noted, “you might be able to negotiate. For my part, I’ll have to wait and see.” There was a small pause, and then a trace of mockery lightened his voice. “Tell her if it turns out to be my child, it’s not for sale.”

  Malmsey had known before he’d come that Lennox’s wealth would hinder negotiations. A few questions in the right quarters had brought to light the vast extent of his fortune. “Other than custody, however,” Malmsey said, methodical and deliberate, “you have no objection to the divorce?” A solicitor’s question, clarifying the boundaries.

  “None.”

  “Very well. I’ll relay the information to the countess.” Malmsey stood and picked up his leather portfolio.

  “How is she?” Oz asked, his voice guarded.

  “I couldn’t say, my lord. Her note was brief.”

  Oz grinned. “And full of spleen, I warrant.”

  “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “I commend your loyalty, Malmsey. She’s lucky to have you on her side.”

  “If she wishes to compromise, I’ll come back.”

  Oz lifted his brows. “Not likely that, eh, Malmsey?”

  This time, the pink-faced solicitor betrayed a modicum of feeling in the calibrated neutrality of his face. “I was told she was unhappy,” he slowly said. Then, turning, he walked from the room, leaving Oz mute.

  WHILE MALMSEY WAS presenting her case in London, Isolde was lying abed at Oak Knoll, weary and fatigued after a sleepless night, her stomach in questionable straits, her mood sulky. In an effort to overcome her joyless spirits, she reminded herself she’d only known Oz seven weeks. There was no point in falling into some vaporish or resentful gloom over the departure of a wild, charming, irresponsible man who never intended to stay. Before long, she’d look back on his sojourn at Oak Knoll as no more than a tiny blip in the full and vital continuum of her life. Except for the child in your belly, a little voice pointed out.

  Which observation triggered a wave of nausea she fought down because she was too tired to get out of bed and she wasn’t about to vomit where she lay. Drawing air into her lungs, she breathed shallowly and slowly until the queasiness receded, and as if gaining control over her stomach somehow translated into fresh authority over her life, she felt refreshed. Sliding into a seated position against her pillows, she decided, rationalizing furiously, that the delicacy of her condition was no doubt the cause of her sleeplessness and melancholy. There was a very good possibility that neither circumstance had anything to do with Oz. It was purely physical.

  Good; that was settled.

  She’d always had a disgust for females prone to megrims.

  Now that her recuperation was in hand—as if on cue—a soft knock on the door indicated her breakfast had arrived. She bid her maid enter.

  Ah, the comforting familiarity of a daily routine.

  She smiled. Nothing had changed.

  She was alone at Oak Knoll as she’d been for many years. She was healthy and young; Grover was no doubt waiting to discuss his plans for the day. He’d be pleased she was ready to assume the estate duties she’d abandoned while Oz had been in residence.

  With regard to the routines of local society, she was also pleased that she wouldn’t have to deal with Anne Verney’s triumphant looks. She wouldn’t have to concede victory to her on pregnancy at least. Bitchy and trite though it might be, irrational as well, Isolde’s feelings of satisfaction and redress were gratifying. As for her being pregnant, she was relatively certain of her condition with her morning nausea so pronounced.

  While her feelings for Oz might be muddled and moot, or more to the point, useless, she had no such doubts about this child. She was excited, elated, filled with delight. She had been from the first.

  Taking the tray from the maid, she arranged it on her lap, wished Libby a cheerful good morning, and tucked into her breakfast.

  After all, she was eating for two.

  LATER THAT MORNING, she went to see Betsy and Jess before they left. Betsy, who had the same bright hair as her son, was finishing her packing and she turned when Isolde entered her room. “The baron has a temper, my lady. But he always gets over it, Sam says.”

  “Izzy, Izzy!” Jess dropped the wagon he was playing with, jumped up, and ran to Isolde, his arms wide open.

  Isolde scooped him up and hugged him hard. They’d become good friends in the weeks he’d been at Oak Knoll.

  “We going London!” Jess squealed, his smile wide. “You go, too!”

  “Maybe I’ll come later. Grover needs me to help with the farming right now.”

  “Me stay help.”
He glanced at his mother. “Me stay, Mummy?” Jess had attached himself to Grover and spent hours every day accompanying Isolde’s steward on his rounds of the estate.

  “We can’t stay now, darling, but we’ll come back,” Betsy said, knowing how to pacify an insistent toddler. “Miss Izzy’ll tell you so.”

  “Of course, sweetie. If I don’t see you in London, you make sure you have your mummy bring you back for a visit.”

  “When, Mummy?” A wide blue gaze swerved to his mother.

  “Next week.”

  “Fer sure?”

  “For sure, Jessie,” Isolde lied, kissing his plump cheek and swallowing hard to stanch her tears.

  Seeing the wetness in Isolde’s eyes, Betsy distracted her son. “Come, darling, show Miss Izzy your new wagon,” she said with a smile, taking Jess from Isolde.

  “Grover found that toy wagon in the village,” Isolde said, as Betsy set Jess down by his new toy. “It’s rather sweet, isn’t it?”

  “It go faaasssst!” Jess exclaimed, launching the wagon across the floor like a projectile, quickly scrambling after it. Like any two-year-old, he was easily diverted.

  “How are you feeling, miss?” Betsy quietly asked as Jess was once again engrossed in his toy. “Better than yesterday?”

  Everyone knew; not that she’d thought otherwise. “I felt a little unwell when I first woke, but once I ate”—Isolde smiled—“I’m quite myself again.”

  Betsy smiled back. “I know what you mean. Those first months can be a trial. Me and Sam wish you all the best, miss. Men can be a right handful, and I should know,” she said with a grimace. “My Richie left me God knows why. But things are bound to work out—for you and Lord Lennox. Sam says he’s never seen his lordship so over the moon for a woman; I thought you should know.”

  “Thank you. His lordship is very loveable in turn, but life takes strange directions at times.” And I don’t believe for a minute that Oz would ever be over the moon for a woman. “I’m very pleased with the child, though; I’m grateful to my husband for that.” She took a small breath to steady her nerves, talk of Oz and the baby adversely affecting her composure. “Now please, come and visit anytime. You and Sam and Jess.”

  “Sam’s buying me a wee house, so you must visit us as well.”

  “I’d love to. Send me your direction when you know it.”

  A short time later, as she stood on the drive and waved good-by, Isolde felt less forlorn knowing she could visit Betsy and Jess again—without having to see Oz. In the past few weeks she’d become attached to the adorable, affectionate little toddler and she’d miss him.

  She’d become attached to an adorable big boy, too.

  A shame he was no longer on her visitor list.

  CHAPTER 21

  BOTH ISOLDE AND Oz set about restoring their lives to a cultivated and intentional normalcy, working very hard to rebuff or rout any memories of the weeks they’d spent together.

  There was no point in dwelling on the past, Isolde decided, especially after having heard from Malmsey. Oz was going to be difficult about the divorce—no surprise from a man who conducted his affairs very much as he pleased. Not that she wasn’t grateful for all he’d done to save her from Frederick. But the original agreement had established a clear-cut time frame to the marriage. And so it would remain. Furthermore, it suited her purposes that he wished to wait until after the birth of the child to divorce. She’d avoid unwanted gossip, and since few noblemen played nursemaid to their pregnant wives, an absent husband wasn’t unusual.

  Naturally, news of Oz’s departure spread quickly through the neighborhood, as all gossip did in a small, insulated community. Isolde’s staff protected her by bruiting abroad that Lord Lennox had business in London.

  Isolde said as much when Pamela called on her the day after Oz left, knowing full well the time would come when such bland pronouncements would no longer serve. In the meantime, however, she smiled at her dearest friend and said with a sigh, “Men and their business. He wouldn’t be deterred.”

  “Isn’t that always the way with them,” Pamela commiserated over tea. “Although, if you ask me, it’s hard to keep any husband in the country for long.”

  “I’ll admit I don’t exactly mind,” Isolde replied, half-truthfully. “I’m much more familiar with my own company.”

  “You always were a bit odd.” But Pamela was smiling kindly. “We never could induce you to spend much time over cards and gossip.”

  Isolde returned her smile. “I have my acres to care for and my stables. And as you well know, I detest cards.”

  “Still, you must miss your darling husband now and again. He’s a proper handsome devil with a smile that can charm the birds out of the trees.”

  “If I miss him too much, I’ll hie myself to London,” Isolde dissembled. “Tell me about Annabelle’s new baby,” she said, deliberately changing the subject, Pamela’s sister having recently given birth. “She must be pleased to finally have a daughter.”

  “She’s in raptures and writes of nothing else. The child is a paragon of every earthly virtue according to Annabelle, although I fail to see how even a mother can tell at three weeks of age.”

  “How are her boys dealing with their new sister?”

  “I doubt they noticed, roughnecks that they are. They spend every minute out-of-doors. Not that their father is much of a homebody.” She raised her brows in reproach.

  “At least he’s in the hunting field and not in some hussy’s bed.” Oh dear, a stabbing reminder of Oz’s favorite activity. “Speaking of husbands,” she quickly went on in an effort to distract her thoughts, “is Elliot at home or in the city?”

  “Don’t ask,” Pamela said in chafing accents.

  Isolde was sorry she had for Pamela went on at length describing Elliot’s loathsome family and how he’d had to run to London and set to rights some Simpson dispute. The disparaging comments continued apace, a largely one-sided conversation as was often the case with Pamela. But Isolde didn’t mind. While her friend detailed the lunacy of her husband’s family, Isolde had the leisure to reminisce about recent, pleasurable events in which a devilishly handsome man with a charming smile played a major role.

  It was all well and good to logically dismiss the weeks of her marriage as nothing more than a pragmatic alternative to Frederick’s harassment. It was quite another matter to quash the enchanting memories of that blissful interlude.

  Clearly, Oz had lived up to his prodigal reputation.

  In due time Pamela ran out of invective. “Dear me, do stop me when I rant on like that,” she ruefully muttered. “I apologize.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve listened to enough of my grumbling and laments over the years. At least you aren’t in London dealing with the unruly Simpson mob; consider yourself fortunate.”

  “You’re right. Elliot’s mother orders everyone about like a despotic harpy; I have to constantly refrain from saying something rude to her.” She waved her hand in a little dismissive gesture. “That’s enough—on to more pleasant subjects. Can I coax you to come to Cassandra’s luncheon tomorrow? She promises us a lecture on dahlias, which in itself isn’t enticing, but apparently, the young landscape specialist giving the lecture is very, very handsome. Irish.” She winked. “You know those dark Irishmen are absolutely delicious.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Isolde said with amusement. “Nor do you.”

  Pamela smiled. “We can at least look.”

  “You look. I’ve promised Grover we’d purchase some new Scottish cattle he’s excited about.”

  “Good God, darling, you should have been a man with your outrageous interest in farming. Wherever does it come from?”

  “From my father as you well know. Papa was a very accomplished farmer.”

  “My father’s expertise was in vingt-et-un. Fortunately, he was good at it.”

  “And you’re the richer for it,” Isolde lightly said. “Never a bad position to be in as a woman. Particularly since the law now all
ows us control of our property.”

  “Speaking of which, what were the terms of your marriage settlement? We all discovered what Will was looking for in marriage. More than your considerable fortune, the greedy man.”

  “So it seems. I was naively unaware he had a market price on marriage.”

  “You were coddled from the cradle, darling. How could you possibly know the world wasn’t all sunshine and moon-beams. Try growing up in a family of five brothers like I did. Now, Oz didn’t want your money, did he—a nabob like him?”

  “No. He insisted I keep my own property, so my world is unchanged.” And she had a fortune in new jewelry as well, Oz generous in all but his constancy.

  “Lucky you. A rich, handsome, deadly charming husband who doesn’t make demands on your wealth. Surely, he’s an anomaly in the beau monde.”

  “I suppose he is.” But rather than continue a discussion that would only require her to contradict portions of it when her divorce was announced, Isolde said instead, “Do convey my apologies to Cassandra, but you know I’m not interested.”

  “Of course; she won’t be surprised you’ve declined.” With a glance at the clock on the mantel, Pamela began gathering up her gloves and bonnet. “My dressmaker is coming over to fit that Worth gown, so I must be off.” Placing the velvet confection on her curls, she tied the ribbons under her chin. “I could say don’t be such a stay-at-home,” she said, slipping on one glove, “but since you are, I’ll come over again soon and regale you with the latest gossip.”

  “Thank you.” Isolde grinned. “I shall wait with bated breath.”

  The second glove in place, Pamela smiled. “Enjoy your Scottish cattle purchasing.”

  Isolde dipped her head. “I shall.”

  But after Pamela left, Isolde hadn’t even had time to finish her cup of tea before Will was announced.

  “Your wife will hear of your visit,” Isolde remarked as he strolled into the drawing room, the image of a well-tailored country squire in chamois breeches, riding boots, and a tweed hacking jacket. “You must have met Pamela on your way in.”