“Can’t I visit a neighbor?” he murmured with a smile. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever. I’ve always liked you in that gown.”
“Thank you.” Short months ago, she would have glowed with happiness at not only his compliment but also his visit. And now his words were no more than pleasantries anyone might have uttered—a brother, for instance, or a familiar cousin from childhood. The glorious Lord Lennox had rendered her good service in more ways than one when Will no longer caused her distress. “Honestly, though, Will, Anne won’t appreciate you calling on me.” Anne Verney had made her feelings crystal clear, although she couldn’t bring herself to openly disparage his wife. “You know how servants gossip,” she blandly said instead.
“Don’t worry about Anne. I don’t. I never did.”
She was not only surprised at his candor, but she was also unprepared for her lack of pleasure at his admission. How she would have longed to hear such words short months ago. “Harboring such feelings,” she said with a practical logic no longer hindered by pangs of unrequited love, “why did you marry her?”
“You know why.” He stripped off his gloves and tossed them on a nearby table. “My family insisted.”
“Your family insisted on securing Anne’s dowry, you mean. And you willingly complied. I wouldn’t have thought you so dutiful.” And so willing to relinquish the affection we shared.
“We can’t all be financially secure,” he bluntly replied, dropping into a chair he’d sat in so many times before and stretching out his legs. “Could we talk about something else?”
She’d been unaware of his callousness. Although surely her husband’s callousness was of a kind. She’d not considered herself so naive and yet . . . the implication was clear. “What would you like to talk about?” she asked, telling herself she was capable of civility. “My marriage? Your marriage? The price of cattle?” she lightly queried.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, ignoring her levity, his smile warm and intimate, familiar. “I heard your husband went back to the city. I thought you might like company. Or do you find marriage less boring than I?”
Boring was not a word she’d use to describe her marriage. “I’m sorry you’re bored; I’m quite content.” A lie but he was the last person she was likely to confide in.
“Even abandoned by your bridegroom as you are?”
“He has business in the city.”
“Will he be back soon?”
“Really, Will, do I inquire of Anne’s schedule?” She sat up a little straighter, unwilling to continue in this vein. “Speaking of your wife, you must be aware she takes exception to me,” she ambiguously noted. “I’m not sure you should linger. And I do have a meeting scheduled with my steward and farm manager soon.”
Will gazed at her from under his lashes and slowly smiled. “Are you giving me my congé? After our long and affectionate relationship?”
So he wasn’t denying it. “Former relationship. You married first.”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re still holding that against me?”
She slowly exhaled, his unwillingness to accept responsibility so unabashedly selfish, she was mortified at her obtuseness. Love is blind was a sobering fact, as was a degree of personal naivete she’d rather not acknowledge. “I’m not holding anything against you,” she said, neither angry nor wounded, but awakened now to a sumptuous pleasure Will could never offer her. “I’m simply pointing out that you and I are both married,” she kindly said, “and not in a position to enjoy each other’s company in the same way we once did.”
“You have to admit, darling, we were very good together,” he softly said, holding her gaze. “We could be again.”
“We can’t call back yesterday. Too much has changed.” How easy it was to be gracious and affable when one’s emotions weren’t involved. She began to understand Oz’s casual urbanity.
Unchastened by her words, Will’s smile was smug. “You like sex, darling. We both know it. All I’m saying is if your husband doesn’t find time to return to Oak Knoll anytime soon, I’d be more than happy to accommodate you. Anywhere, anytime, day or night.”
Her brows rose. “And your wife? What do you say to her?”
“Don’t concern yourself with my wife. Remember, darling, anytime . . .”
Suddenly intent on ending this disillusioning conversation, Will’s casual infidelity reminding her too odiously of her husband’s, Isolde came to her feet. That she’d been so blind to Will’s faithlessness was disturbing to a woman who prided herself on being levelheaded. That she wanted no man other than Oz who was cut from the same cloth was even more disturbing. “I do have a meeting, Will. If you’ll excuse me. You know your way out.” And in a swirl of plum silk, she turned toward the door and quickly left.
CHAPTER 22
BACK IN THE city, Oz threw himself into work and dissipation with signal zeal. By the third day, his staff was rolling their eyes and trying to stay out of his way. He was short-tempered, short of sleep, and savagely critical of anyone who dared to question him. Only Jess escaped his temper. Even Marguerite bore the brunt of his resentments one night when she suggested he delay opening a third bottle. He turned to her and in a freezingly hostile voice said, “Pray don’t advise me. I have all the managing women I need in my life.”
When he came awake in her bed the next morning, he offered her a blanket apology—not exactly sure what he’d said or done, but at the sight of her wary gaze, he understood that he’d been rude or worse. When he returned home, he had his secretary send her a large bank draft with a written apology, then he soaked in the tub until his head stopped pounding. After which, he dressed, went down to breakfast, drank two brandies with his beefsteak and eggs, and began another day much the same as the previous one.
It was Sam who had the nerve to confront him in his office at the end of the second week. Standing just inside the door, he surveyed Oz’s languid pose, the taut fatigue of high living evident on his face, the slackly lidded gaze.
“You may go, Davey,” Oz said without lifting pen from paper, smiling faintly as his secretary quickly came to his feet. “I believe Sam has something unpleasant to say to me.”
Both men waited in silence until the door closed.
“I don’t suppose,” Oz said, putting his pen down, his dark brows level, “it would do any good to say, ‘Go away.’ ”
“You haven’t been sober since you returned to London,” Sam said, clearly not relishing his task. “Do you think it might be wise to slow down?”
Sliding lower in his chair, Oz put his fingers together on his chest and very gently said, “Did you draw the short straw in the household vote?”
“They thought me better able to deal with your drunken charm,” Sam said, sardonic and disapproving. “I was delegated to tell you you’re going out of your way to piss off everyone.”
Oz smiled. “I’m not going out of my way.”
“If your wife bothers you so much you’re drinking day and night,” Sam said sharply, “why don’t you go and see her?”
“Why would I do that?”
“So you might be less overdrawn on sleep and less pickled in alcohol.”
Oz softly sighed. “Go back to my needlessly worried staff and tell them they’re all remembered in my will. And tell them, too,” he said, his voice grating very slightly, “it’s my affair how I go to the devil.”
But that evening, Marguerite confronted him as well, although in a more tactful way.
“Oz, darling, you’re losing weight drinking, not eating, rarely sleeping. I worry about you.” The proprietress of one of London’s elegant brothels was seated across from Oz, a small fire in the grate between them, the lights dimmed in her sitting room because Oz found bright lights objectionable of late.
“I’m fine.” Since that night he’d been vicious to her, he took care to be civil. “I’ve never needed much sleep.”
“You do need some, though.”
“I sleep at home,” he lied.
Monkish, Oz was not.
“Sam was over,” she quietly said.
He didn’t look up, his gaze on the glass balanced on his chest as he lounged in his chair, his eyes heavy lidded. “Ignore him.”
“They’re worried about you.”
“Ignore them all,” Oz crisply said, and lifting the glass to his mouth, he drained it and reached for the bottle on the table beside him.
“You know Fitz, don’t you?”
He looked up from pouring. “Groveland?”
She nodded. “He didn’t quite know how to deal with love either,” she said, not sure she wouldn’t be tossed out of her sitting room for mentioning the word love.
His gaze sharpened, a spark of anger visible even in the shadowed light. But when he spoke he’d sufficiently curbed his temper. Setting the bottle aside, his voice was mild when he spoke. “Spare me your romantic sentiments, darling. My drinking has nothing to do with love. I don’t give a tinker’s damn about love. I’m bored with life in general and my life in particular and overset with ennui. I wish to be insensate.”
“You should talk to Fitz.”
“You overstep,” he said very, very softly, his gaze over the rim of his glass touched with violence.
“I know. Someone has to when you’re acting like an undisciplined child.”
“I may give you a thrashing again,” he said, lightly mocking. “Have you thought of that?”
“I’ll call for Jeremy. He’s bigger than you and sober.” Unblinking, Oz placed one hand on his coat pocket. “But does he have a weapon?” His smile was faint, his voice passionless. “Just so you know before you call him.”
Her fine nostrils flared. “How tedious you can be, Oz.” Coming to her feet in a rustle of rose silk, she said in a voice brittle with temper, “Go and talk to your wife for God’s sake!”
He stared at her back as she walked away, then at the door that closed behind her, nothing moving in his lounging pose for so long he might have been comatose. Even his breathing was indistinguishable. Until finally, he set his untouched glass aside, ran his fingers through his hair, uncut since leaving Oak Knoll, exhaled softly, and heaved himself to his feet.
Emptying his pockets of money, the sum capable of launching a midsize business, he dropped the bills on Marguerite’s desktop and slowly walked from the room.
He couldn’t go home yet. It was too early. In the morning he could be distracted by the daily transactions necessary to the efficient functioning of his shipping line and merchant bank. Each day at eight o’clock sharp, he bestirred himself to listen to Davey’s recital of cargoes loaded and unloaded, of ships arriving and embarking, of telegrams received from his Indian banks; he dutifully signed all the new documents prepared for him and issued what orders were required. Those few hours were the only respite he had from the persistent, damning thoughts of Isolde that confounded and perplexed and in general screwed with his mind. Her physical loss had unsettled him more than he’d expected, complicated his life more than he’d expected. Left formless doubts abrading his spirit.
He glanced at his wristwatch as he stood on the pavement outside Marguerite’s. Eleven. So—where now?
He was in St. James, close to all the clubs and brothels.
He smoothly turned as Marguerite’s front door opened, his physical facilities unimpaired by drink. “Harry!” He smiled. “Just the man to join me somewhere—anywhere, so long as the liquor flows and the company amuses.”
“I don’t know about the company, but there’s liquor aplenty at Harvey’s,” Harry said, swiftly descending the stairs. “I promised my wife I’d be there an hour ago. Come and shield me from her sharp tongue and sharper temper.”
“You might want to change first,” Oz pleasantly said. “You reek of cunt.”
“You can stand in front of me. She’ll think it’s you.”
“By all means, allow me to be your shield and protection from domestic outrage,” Oz cheerfully intoned.
“Better you than me,” Harry grunted, taking Oz’s arm at the elbow and propelling him down the street.
The entertainment was in full swing at the Harvey’s in Grosvenor Square, the curb lined with carriages, every window alight, the sound of music faintly heard as the men approached the entrance.
“Why the hell are you obliged to make your bows?” Oz asked as they moved up the stairs. “It’s not as though you and Vanessa share many social occasions.
“Something about her mother,” Harry mumbled. “I didn’t listen. But she made it clear I was expected to play husband tonight and smile when required. Christ, she’s going to be pissed; I should have been here long ago.” He grimaced as the front door opened. “I’m expecting you to take the brunt of her displeasure. I’m blaming my tardiness on you.”
“And how exactly have I postponed your arrival?” Oz asked with sardonic deference as footmen took their coats. “Give me a hint.”
“Jesus, I don’t know,” Harry muttered as they made for the rose-garlanded staircase. “Think of something. Who better than you knows how to make excuses to women?”
It was true of course; he’d made it a practice the past few years. So moments later when they found Harry’s scowling wife tapping her foot outside the ballroom, Oz smiled winningly. “It’s my fault entirely, Vanessa. I forcibly conscripted Harry in the interests of the nation. We were entertaining Wales. Daisy’s in Paris with her husband and Wales is moping.” The Prince of Wales’s newest affaire was in that frenzied early phase of overwrought passion.
“Mother’s been asking for you.” She shot a vexatious glance at her husband, who was partially concealed by Oz’s large, well-developed frame, although everyone knew an invitation from Wales was a royal command. “Come, darling,” she said, her tone modified by understanding, her gaze quickly swiveling to Oz so the diamonds in her ears twinkled. “I’m sure Oz can find someone to amuse him.”
As Harry followed his wife, he shot Oz a raised-brow look over his shoulder. Clearly he had no idea why he was being summoned by his mother-in-law.
Oz entered the ballroom a moment later and stood preoccupied and attractively powerful on the verge of the floor for no more than five seconds before a bevy of females descended on him like vultures spying a fresh carcass. Very pretty vultures as it turned out and as determined as their bird-of-prey counterparts to plunder the spoils.
If only his senses responded to the lovely, perfumed throng dressed in courtier gowns, glittering with jewels. If only he gave a damn about all the fawning females. But their bare shoulders and low décolletages displaying comely breasts like so much ripe fruit, the smiling mouths and seductive glances paying homage to him, the salacious double entendre that passed for conversation reminded him instead of the sameness he’d come to detest. Restive and moody, he replied to their artifice and banter with disinterested courtesy even as he was tempted to say, Pick a number between one and ten and I’ll take you in turn. Or, he thought, surreptitiously scanning the room over their perfectly coiffed heads, a quick retreat would satisfy more.
He shouldn’t have come to this pointless affair. What had in the past served as amusement no longer amused; what had passed for diversion now left him indifferent. Whatever human impulses had served him in the two years since India hadn’t survived his departure from Oak Knoll, his ability to conjure up tender emotion gone.
Having listened to the fifth or tenth or twentieth sweetly insinuating remark about his new singleness, he’d just decided to make his excuses and leave when he was tapped on the shoulder and a familiar, honeyed voice said, “Finally, the prodigal has returned.”
Turning around, he saw salvation of a sort outfitted in cloth of gold and smiling up at him. “Nell,” he said with a freshening sense of appreciation. His dark gaze drifted down her splendid body, flauntingly
festooned in shimmering gold. “I thought you were abroad.”
“I was. Excuse me, ladies,” she crisply said, taking Oz’s arm. “Lennox promised me this dance.”
He hadn’t danced since he’d danced with Isolde at Pamela’s, but Nell’s sophisticated chatter, the comfortable feel of her in his arms, her indifference to emotion, made her safe, helped his demons recede—if only temporarily.
But it was enough after a fortnight of alcohol and too vivid dreams.
It was enough not to shrink from a woman.
Everyone watched, of course, as they always did with a new scandal brewing. Beautiful Nell, known for her passionate appetites, her glorious red hair foil for her glittering gown, melted against Oz’s tall dark form as they gracefully glided across the ballroom. Her pale cheek rested on his lapel, her curvaceous back, bared to the waist, lured every man’s eye, envy in their gazes. Women, too, watched with envy, wishing they were held in Oz’s powerful arms.
He was very drunk, very charming, and recklessly irresponsible.
As usual.
Indifferent to the shocked appraisals and whispers, the handsome couple swirled past the avidly curious in their circuit of the ballroom. Look where his hands are, so low on her back, curved around her neck! Look how tightly he’s holding her! You can’t even see her right hand—the little slut! My God, she kissed him! He kissed her back! He’s drunk! He’s always drunk! She left her husband in Egypt! He abandoned his wife in the country!
Everyone knew how close they’d once been, how torrid their love affaire, how Nell had hysterically bearded Oz on his wedding morning, how he’d thrown her out and given orders she wasn’t to be admitted again.
They knew everything; everyone always did in the ton.
What they didn’t yet know was that the moment Nell had heard Oz had left his bride, she’d come back—her journey from Cairo more tedious than it should have been, her husband more difficult about her leaving than he should have been.
But the pyramids would always be there, and Oz, restless and changeable, might not.
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 23
