“Yes, thank you,” she answered, her self-possession restored. “Did you bring them into the paddock?”
“No. We gently nudged them along until they entered the sanctuary of the old oak grove. It’s fenced high, and once the fawn is older, the gate can be opened again. They’re quite safe.”
Isolde smiled, more relieved than she would have thought over a wild creature, more relieved than she would have been a few weeks ago when babies were far from her thoughts. “How wonderful. Thank everyone for me.”
The staff knew what had happened yesterday, of her visit to Lennox House. Her melancholy since acquainted them with the outcome of the visit. Grover briefly debated revealing his second bit of news.
She saw the hesitation. “Is there more?”
“Pretty Polly just arrived,” he quietly said. “She’s in the stable if you’d like to see her.”
It took considerable effort to hold back her tears, to speak with composure, but if she were to surrender to grief at every thought or mention of Oz, she’d be crying from morning to night. “Thank you, Grover. I’ll be out to see her directly.”
“She’s a right fine beauty,” he said, his manner more comfortable with his mistress’s calm reply. “She’ll win you a monstrous number of races.”
“Yes, I expect she will. It was very generous of Oz.”
Grover bowed and quickly left; Miss Izzy’s bottom lip had begun to tremble.
A quarrel erupted in the kitchen a short time later, some of the staff advocating that Miss Izzy’s errant husband be kidnapped and brought back to her bound hand and foot. Others cautioned calm, saying Miss Izzy would never agree to coercion to keep her husband. They all glumly agreed, though, that she loved him.
A sentiment in accord with those of their mistress, who was surveying the nursery one last time before making her way downstairs. As she closed the door on the newly painted murals, the fresh carpets and curtains, the Tudor cradle brought downstairs, the shelves filled with new books and old, she sensibly reminded herself that very few marriages—whether ones of convenience like hers or those marked by normal bonds—were founded on love or long sustained by love. Hers was no different.
Once the child was born, her marriage would cease to be in any event.
And with it, the useless debate.
CHAPTER 29
IN THE FOLLOWING days, Oz recuperated, worked long hours with Davey and Sam, shocked everyone by no longer drinking, and irritated one and all at Brooks’s by continuing to win every game he played. By the end of the week he was considerably richer, not that it mattered.
Not that anything seemed to matter.
He even took no joy in his enemies’ discomfort. Sometimes he thought he should have killed them and been done with it for all the satisfaction the role of warder afforded him.
Jess alone gave him pleasure. Oz had taken to coming down to the kitchen during the day with some new toy to entertain the young boy. He’d sprawl on the floor and talk softly to Jess as he entertained him with the new trinket. Or sometimes he’d just silently watch the toddler absorbed in play.
The little fair-haired boy was Oz’s restorative in a hindered world, indulging the toddler affording him uncomplicated pleasure, buoying his spirits. In more brooding moments, though, he recognized that Isolde’s child might be neither brown haired like Will, nor dark like him, but bright haired like its mother. What then of the father’s identity?
And how much did he care?
The first time the treacherous question entered his consciousness, he dismissed it out of hand. But the troublesome thought returned, restive and refractory, perfidious.
Demanding an answer.
Which he didn’t have.
ONE NIGHT OVER cards at Marguerite’s, with all the players drunk but Oz, the Earl of Barton, too inebriated to know better, unwisely said, “Sober again, Lennox? Can’t call yourself a man if you don’t drink.”
The silence was thick enough to touch.
Oz set down his cards, leaned back in his chair, and gave all his attention to the earl, who’d belatedly noticed the sudden quiet. Then Oz unexpectedly smiled, glanced back at Marguerite who stood behind him, and gently said, “Bring me a bottle, darling. I do believe Barton’s right. Sober, the world’s exceedingly grim.”
Marguerite closed her doors to the earl after that gross stupidity.
Whether a moment of truth had transpired or the strain of sobriety had reached crisis point, Barton’s drunken remark served as impetus for Oz to revert to his former regimen; brandy at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and the hours between.
Several nights later, understanding personal issues were taboo but increasingly uneasy about Oz’s liquor consumption, Marguerite said, “You’ve not yet fully regained your strength after your brush with death, darling. Perhaps it would be wise to moderate your drinking.”
“I’m grateful for your concern,” he replied gracefully and without temperament, “but I’m quite recovered.” And he poured himself another drink.
He hadn’t completely recovered, of course, nor might he ever after the mistreatment his body had undergone.
“Come now, sweetheart, don’t pout,” he softly cajoled a moment later, reaching out his free hand and drawing her close as he rested against the bolsters of her bed. “Consider, I’ve tempered my violent streak. I haven’t called out anyone in weeks. And I’m more than happy to give you my undivided attention at night.” Dipping his head, he kissed her lightly on her temple. “Surely, I’m allowed one vice.”
She looked up and held his gaze. “Everyone worries about you, that’s all.”
“Tell everyone not to worry.” The thinnest edge shaded his voice.
She was tempted to say, Should I tell your wife, too? But she didn’t because it wasn’t her place to inform him that he uttered Isolde’s name in his sleep. Nor would anyone who ran a business requiring discretion. On the other hand, should she do nothing while he continued to drink himself into his grave? Surely that was misspent discretion. “Do you ever think of your child?” she asked, thinking to prod his charitable impulses. He’d not mentioned Isolde’s pregnancy, but her intelligence network was the envy of the government.
He didn’t answer for a very long time. “No,” he finally said. “And if you insist on taking the pleasure out of my evening, have another bottle sent up first.”
Understanding she’d been imprudent, she offered a conciliatory olive branch in apology. “Would you like me to play Liszt for you instead?”
His smile was instant and equally cordial; they were, after all, two people who knew how to play the game. “Please do.”
She was an accomplished pianist, trained at the Sorbonne in her youth, and she favored him with all his favorite pieces while he lay, eyes closed, drinking. Later, he took over from her and played with technical flair and fury, the wild, explosive music a means—however temporary—of escaping his hellish obsession with his wife.
Since the Tattersalls auction, Oz had given up Nell, his parting gift of the race box at Ascot she’d been coveting so lavish she’d not taken issue with her dismissal. Perhaps she thought he’d come back in time as he’d done before. Or perhaps she’d recognized a restless volatility in him distinct from his previous capriciousness. He hadn’t been the same since his marriage, so much so that she’d actually considered the shocking notion that he might be in love with his wife. That, more than anything, prompted her to accept her congé with good grace and then take up with young Sullivan, who wasn’t quite so beautiful as Oz, nor as talented in bed, but his eagerness was charming. Furthermore, his father owned several railroads, a fact that more than made up for young Sullivan’s occasional clumsiness.
In the absence of Nell, Oz spent a good deal of time at Marguerite’s, although he was no longer interested in prodigal pleasures. Rather, he wished other entertainments from her: companionship, conversation, a level of peace, and only occasionally sex. But even his lovemaking had changed. He was detached, polite, car
eful to please her—intuitively proficient, and preoccupied.
On more than one occasion, he’d unconsciously said aloud, “Isolde.”
After his second bottle one night, when he inadvertently called her Isolde again, Marguerite decided perhaps it was time to lose a customer and instead help a friend. Rising well before him the next morning, she wrote a note calling in a favor, had it delivered by a flunkey, and saw that the breakfast table was set for three.
When Oz woke, he glanced at the clock and quickly rose; his carriage would be waiting to bring him home for breakfast with Jess. As he stepped into his trousers, he heard a man’s voice in the adjoining room and curious, went to investigate. Opening the bedroom door, he came to a sudden stop. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.
“You two know each other,” Marguerite pleasantly said, as if Oz wasn’t standing half-nude in her doorway, hot tempered and scowling. She indicated Fitz, sitting across from her, with a graceful wave of her hand. “I invited Fitz for coffee.”
The duke shrugged faintly. “Rosalind made me come. Women are romantic.”
“I don’t appreciate this, Margo,” Oz curtly said, quickly closing his trouser placket with deft fingers.
“Fitz was kind enough to come. Talk to him at least.” Marguerite came to her feet, more familiar than most at dealing with difficult men in difficult situations. “Why don’t I leave you alone.”
As the door closed on her, Oz shot an irritated glance at Fitz. “I’m not doing this,” he muttered and turned to leave.
“Marguerite tells me Isolde’s expecting. I imagine she’s looking forward to the new baby.”
Whether it was the unexpected disclosure, or the temperate tone, Oz slowly turned back and said, cool and precise, “How did she know?”
“You know Margo’s intelligence service.” Fitz shoved his coffee cup away and leaned back in his chair. “I give you my word Isolde didn’t send me.”
“So Margo called you here to reform me,” Oz muttered, sullen and gruff.
“I only came as a favor to Rosalind. Sit down; I have no interest in reforming anyone.” Fitz smiled. “That’s Rosalind’s favorite undertaking from which I try to steer clear, present case excepted, of course. I understand your feelings. I was a confirmed bachelor, too; I was thirty-five when I married.”
“Now there’s a reasonable age to succumb to the ball and chain.” With a sigh, Oz finally submitted to Marguerite’s well-meaning interference; at least she hadn’t called in a priest. “Thirty-five is a perfect age if you ask me,” Oz said flatly, walking to the table.
“And yet?” An explicit query, gently put.
“I was drunk.”
Fitz laughed. “You’re not the first.”
Oz dropped into Marguerite’s vacated chair. “Nor the first to sober up and repent his actions.”
“Isolde’s a disappointment?”
“Only so much as she’s my wife.” Oz kept it simple; the truth was byzantine.
“At the risk of interfering”—Fitz smiled at Oz’s quick sardonic glance—“I have a certain affection for Marguerite, so bear with me; I promise not to lecture. She tells me you’ve called her Isolde on several occasions. Were you aware of that?”
Oz’s surprise and recovery were nearly invisible. “Our conjugal relations were . . . I suppose the word is—stimulating.”
“Certainly an asset in a marriage,” Fitz replied with exemplary tact.
“But not sufficient reason to give up one’s freedom,” Oz countered. “As you know, sex is readily available.”
For men of wealth, a statement not open to debate. “What of the child?” Fitz asked instead. “Is that a factor at all?”
Oz hesitated, anger briefly flaring in his eyes. “The child is not open to discussion.”
The hard set of his mouth gave added warning the subject was off-limits. “Forgive me; I’m sure it’s a private matter. As I said, Rosalind encouraged me to respond to Marguerite’s note. I find myself unable to refuse her anything—a matter of considerable embarrassment for a man like myself.” He smiled faintly. “But then love is unrelated to reason, I’ve discovered.”
Slumped low in his chair, Oz gazed at Fitz from under his long, dark lashes. “Wanting what you want is unrelated to reason as well,” he irritably said.
“Marguerite says you’re drinking too much. I did the same, attempting to avoid entanglement.”
“Apparently, it didn’t work.”
Fitz’s brows rose. “Does it ever?”
There was a short silence before Oz lifted his gaze fully and with obvious reluctance asked, “What changed your mind?”
“I thought I’d lost her.”
There was a long interval that Fitz took care not to break.
“Lost her to another man?” Oz finally asked with restraint, a note of weariness in his voice.
“No, to my own stupidity.” If Oz was dealing with a third party, there was reason for his aggrievement.
“In my case,” Oz said in measured tones, “the other man is also married, and I’m not feeling stupid so much as resentful of the ménage à trois. Not to mention even under the best of conditions, I’m still too young to be married.” Oz didn’t mention their union was to have been temporary; he wasn’t so discourteous.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
Fitz’s eyes widened. He knew Oz was young but not that young. He had no argument for so youthful a marriage; at that age he wouldn’t have listened to God himself advocating matrimony. And a third party in the picture changed everything. Had Marguerite not known? He shoved his chair back. “If you ever want a sympathetic ear, I’m always available either at home or at the bookshop. As I mentioned, Rosalind’s obsessed with helping people. I merely serve as banker to her many charitable impulses.” His smile was benign. “A considerable shift in my priorities.”
“While I’m not interested in altering my priorities,” Oz said shortly.
Fitz came to his feet. “I understand. Give Marguerite my regards.”
Oz poured himself coffee with a tot of brandy as Fitz left, drank it down, and poured himself another. He glanced up as Marguerite entered the room. “I should beat you.”
Marguerite’s smile was as sweet as the frothy pale yellow dressing gown she wore, her temper as well maintained as her beauty. “You’re too enervated by resentment and discontent to exert the effort, darling,” she said. “I wonder when you’re going to admit you want your wife.”
Oz flinched. Then keeping his temper in check, he said, “I appreciate your misplaced concern and all your trouble in bringing Fitz out so early in the morning. I don’t recommend, however,” he continued, lightly acerbic, “that you marshal any more forces in your mistaken attempt to save my marriage. It’s my business, not yours,” he finished, a flicker of anger in his dark gaze.
BUT LATER THAT morning, after breakfast with Jess, Oz found himself standing outside Bruton Street Books. He had no idea how he’d happened to come this way, but he was enough of a mystic to yield to the randomness of fate. Although, he expected his time with Jess had brought to the fore a certain preoccupation with babies and pregnancies and by association, Rosalind and Fitz’s invitation to visit.
He wasn’t sober, of course, which proved an irresistible force as well.
Walking up to the canary yellow door, he pushed it open. The store was busy. Standing to one side of the entrance, he surveyed the large interior. Two clerks were behind a counter to his right, displays of books were arranged down the center of the main aisle, customers were perusing books on shelves lining the walls, and colorful paintings were on display through an open archway at the back of the store.
As he searched the crowd for either Fitz or his wife, the door opened behind him and a familiar voice said, “You came. Let me show you around.”
Oz turned. “I have no idea why I’m here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fitz said with deliberate courtesy. “C
ome say hello to Rosalind. She’s in back.”
Fitz led the way through the store into the gallery, and coming up behind his wife, dressed in soft apple green silk tussah, he kissed her lightly on the nape of her neck.
She swung around slowly, her pregnancy advanced. “That didn’t take long,” she said with a warm smile for her husband. “Ian must have had the new drawings ready.”
“He did; I approved them. Demolition begins next week.” Stepping to one side, Fitz said, “Look, darling, Oz stopped by.”
“What a pleasure to see you again,” Rosalind pleasantly said, keeping her counsel about the earlier visit. “Would you like tea, coffee”—she lifted her brows—“something stronger perhaps?”
“We’ll both have a brandy,” Fitz said, having drunk his breakfast often enough in the past to keep Oz company. “Come, sit down, Oz. I’ll shut the door so customers don’t wander in.”
A few moments later, they were seated in a corner of the gallery in comfortable chairs and had been served tea and sweets for Rosalind and brandies for the men.
“How are you feeling?” Oz impetuously asked, his gaze concentrated on Rosalind. “You look lovely. Healthy”—he smiled—“I believe the word is glowing.”
Rosalind and Fitz exchanged an affectionate glance. “At this stage,” she said, turning to Oz and indicating her belly, conspicuous beneath the soft silk, “I mostly feel fat. But thank you for the compliment.”
“Isolde’s pregnant.” While softly uttered, Oz’s declaration was a precipitous rush of words.
“That’s what Fitz said,” Rosalind smoothly replied. “Congratulations.”
It remains to be seen whether congratulations are in order. But as capable of politesse as his companions, Oz graciously replied, “Thank you. Isolde’s extremely pleased.”
“Do you have any questions about”—Rosalind again gestured at her swollen stomach—“pregnancy in general or in particular?” He’d not taken his eyes off her since he’d walked in.
“A thousand.” He smiled. “I won’t bore you. Have you picked out a name?”
Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Page 29
