The past was the past.
He’d be a father soon. The concept was strange but pleasing, he thought, smiling faintly.
“Why are you smiling?”
He turned to find his wife half-undressed, her pale hair tumbled on her shoulders, her blue gaze speculative and watchful. “I was thinking about fatherhood. You must tell me what to do.”
“Love us both.”
“That’s simple enough. And until such a time, I’ll love you.”
Her smile was pure sunshine. “How?”
“Any way, every way. And I apologize. I smell of horse.”
“Would you like to bathe?”
“I did before I rode up, but if you want me to.”
“No. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be. I’ve decided to become a farmer. Even if you want me to leave, I won’t.”
“So you can be troublesome coming or going,” she playfully noted.
“In some ways I’m not troublesome at all.” He moved closer and taking her face in his hands, kissed her gently. “Let me show you.”
A sharp rap on the door was followed by Grover’s voice. “Do you need anything, Miss Izzy?”
Isolde’s eyes widened. “I don’t believe Grover has ever stepped foot in this wing.”
“He’s here to save you,” Oz kindly said.
“I already have someone saving me. Let me tell him.”
Finding a robe, she went to the door and opening it a small distance, assured her steward of her safety. Shutting the door a few moments later, she turned to find Oz facedown on her bed in a dead sleep.
Drawing up a chair near the bed, she sat and studied the wild, young man she loved to distraction. His breathing was deep and slow, the dark shadows under his eyes indication of his exhaustion, of his wastrel ways, of the overindulgence that marked his life. Would he cease his debauch for her? Could he? Was she a fool to think he might? Was she a bigger fool to think she could tame his headstrong ways and turn him into an obliging husband?
She softly sighed.
He came awake with a start, instinctively scanning the room as if waking in strange places was habitual. His gaze stopped on Isolde, and he smiled the beautiful smile that had charmed across three continents. “Have I been sleeping long?”
“A few minutes. Sleep, though; I can wait.”
“I can’t.” Rolling on his back, he held out his arms. “Come here and tell me about your farming.”
“In an hour I’ll tell you about my farming,” she quietly said, rising and slipping off her robe.
He grinned. “That’s what I meant.”
As it turned out, they didn’t speak at all unless whimsical, sporadically uttered love words could be characterized as speech. Or screams, sighs, and pleasurable growls.
And when, finally, both were sated and it was possible to consider that a world lay beyond the confines of the bed, Oz lifted his head from Isolde’s shoulder, smiled down at his wife, and content now beyond his wildest imagination, softly said, “I have come to rest now from my travels.”
With his black hair brushing her cheek and the pulse of her heart beating wildly with love, she met his affectionate gaze and smiled. “Welcome home.”
Keep reading for a preview of the next
historical romance by Susan Johnson
SWEET AS THE DEVIL
Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
CHAPTER 1
London, July, 1893
“JAMIE, DON’T YOU dare leave! I need you. Jamie!”
Already sliding from the bed, James Blackwood turned back, leaned over in a fluid ripple of honed muscle, and kissed the countess’s pouty mouth. “I would stay if I could, darling,” he said, sitting up and smiling at her. “But I’m already late. Drinks at eight. John’s new wife was quite emphatic.”
“Pshaw on little Vicky,” Countess Minton peevishly noted. “What about me? I haven’t seen you in almost a year. And it’s only drinks. You won’t miss dinner, I promise. You can’t say you’re not interested,” she murmured, her sultry gaze drifting to Jamie’s blatant erection, her smile sly and knowing.
“You keep a man interested, Bella—no doubt about that.” The voluptuously nude woman sprawled in the shambles of the bed was well aware of her sensual allure. And her charming capacity for innovation was also an accomplishment of no small merit. “Unfortunately,” he said with a truly regretful sigh, “duty calls.” There were degrees of lateness and politesse apropos his cousin’s wife and he was pressing the boundaries of both. He began to turn away.
Rolling up on one elbow with breathtaking speed, Bella seized Jamie’s upthrust penis in her pink nailed grip, swiftly bent her head, and seized the moment.
Christ! Jamie’s breath hissed through his teeth, his cock oversensitive after the hours they’d spent together, Bella’s assault a shock to his nerve endings. But a heartbeat later, his twitching nerves adjusted with indecent speed to licentious pleasure and he softly exhaled. Now what? With Bella performing fellatio in her usual masterful fashion, assessing the relative merits of duty and lust required a degree of rational observation that was fast eluding him. Yet, a modicum of reason still remained in the nether reaches of his brain; he glanced at the clock.
Bella suddenly nibbled a trifle overzealously, perhaps deliberately.
He gasped, the fine line between pleasure and pain not only taking his breath away, but effectively ending his debate. What the hell. Shutting his eyes, he gave himself up to prodigal sensation.
One good turn deserved another . . . and an hour later, lying face down on the bed, panting, Bella gasped, “No . . . more.”
Sprawled on his back beside her, laboring to drag air into his lungs, Jamie finally became aware of the censorious voice inside his head that had been trying to warn him for a considerable time that—Vicky’s going to be really pissed! Silently swearing, he lifted his head from the pillow, took a disgruntled breath, and sat up. Why had he made plans? He never made plans. Raking his fingers through his dark, ruffled hair, he wondered how much time had passed since he’d been so felicitously persuaded to tarry.
Oh Christ. The face of the small bedside clock jerked him back to reality. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he scanned the floor for his trousers.
“Don’t go.”
He glanced at the flushed woman who could keep his cock hard indefinitely. “You said no more.”
Her smile was Circe’s. “I take it back.”
His dark lashes lowered slightly. “Be reasonable. I’m already later than hell.”
“I don’t care. Stay—please, please.”
For a moment he actually debated staying; it was incredibly late. He still had to return to his apartment and change—which would make him even later. Dare he ignore Vicky’s invitation? And his cousin’s displeasure? Knowing the politic answer, he twisted back with the fluid grace of an athlete, whispered in Bella’s ear, and quickly quit the bed before his libido regained the upper hand.
He found his trousers where they’d been hastily discarded that morning after he’d stopped by to talk to Charlie about a prime cavalry mount he wished to buy and had found Bella in dishabille instead.
Charlie was out of town, she’d explained with a seductive smile. “But there’s no reason to hurry off, Jamie dear,” she’d purred. “We haven’t seen each other in ages. Do tell me all the gossip from Vienna.”
She hadn’t meant it of course.
She’d meant something else entirely.
And now he was damnably late for Vicky’s dinner.
HE MADE HIS excuses to Vicky and his cousin, John, Baron Reid, and to all the guests who’d looked up from their desserts as he’d entered the dining room, and they greeted him with sly smiles and curious gazes. No one believed for a minute that he’d been detained because of an accident on the Windsor road because Vicky had chanced to mention over drinks that Jamie had gone to see Charlie Bonner o
n the matter of a horse, to which Freddy Stockton had pointed out that Charlie was in the country. Everyone also knew that Bella had a penchant for handsome men and Jamie Blackwood in particular.
But since the fashionable world viewed fidelity in marriage much as they viewed children—as something to be ignored—amorous peccadilloes were not only commonplace but generally viewed with amusement.
So after the initial raised brows and roguish scrutiny, conversation reverted to the usual tittle-tattle and gossip that passed for social intercourse in the frivolous world of the beau monde. Several earlier courses were brought up from the kitchen for Jamie while the other guests indulged in a sumptuous variety of sweets. John’s chef was superb, the wine free-flowing, and Jamie, famished after having exerted himself as stud all day, tucked into his meal with gusto.
“Worked up an appetite I see,” Viscount Graham sportively noted.
Jamie turned a bland gaze on the man to his left. “There’s no opportunity to eat when your carriage’s stalled in traffic.”
“The road to Windsor you said?” the viscount pronounced with unsullied cheer.
“Yes, Windsor.” Jamie set down his knife and fork, his dark brows lifted faintly. “Would you care to tell me why you are asking?”
Graham smiled widely. “Hell no.” While Jamie served officially as attache to Prince Ernst of Dalmia, he was, in effect, bodyguard to the prince, and in that capacity had gained a reputation for efficiency or more pertinently, violence.
“I didn’t think so.” Jamie signaled to have his wineglass filled and returned to his meal.
MUCH LATER, WHEN all the guests had departed and Vicky had gone off to bed, Jamie and his cousin retired to John’s study to share a decanter of whiskey.
“Allow me to apologize again for arriving so late,” Jamie immediately said. “It was—”
“Bella’s engaging charm?” his cousin interposed with a grin. “Along with her inexhaustible desires?”
“Indeed.” Jamie dipped his head. “Not that I’m complaining. You no doubt speak from experience.”
“Previous experience. I’m a happily married man now.”
Jamie raised his glass in salute. “To your brilliant marriage. You love Vicky and she obviously loves you. A nice change from the beau monde’s penchant for marriages based on balance sheets and quarterings.” With a smile for his cousin, he drank down his whiskey.
“Thank you. I consider myself very fortunate. You should consider marriage. I heartily recommend it. Women are always in hot pursuit of you,” John said with a lift of his brows. “Why not let yourself be caught?”
“No thanks.” Swift and certain. “The Isabelles of the world suit me just fine.”
“So it seems. My personal bet was you wouldn’t make dinner.”
“I almost didn’t. It was a matter of not wanting to disappoint your lovely new bride.”
“And you’d had enough of Bella’s charms,” his cousin perceptively remarked.
Jamie smiled. “That too.”
“Someday the right woman is going to change your mind about marriage.”
Jamie gently shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath. Unlike you, I’ve never been enthralled with the concept of love. Several of your youthful infatuations come to mind,” Jamie added with a grin, “if you’d like me to refresh your memory.”
“God, no. In any case, Vicky’s different.”
“Which is why you married her. I’m not questioning your sincerity. I just lack the necessary sense of devotion.” Leaning over, Jamie picked up the decanter and refilled his glass.
“I used to think as much.”
Jamie shot his cousin a jaundiced glance, but rather than argue his cousin’s past history with women, Jamie set down the crystal container and politely said, “Even if I were inclined to endorse the notion of love and marriage, at the moment , I’m up to my ears in risky ventures. As you well know, the Hapsburg Empire’s in decline; every petty despot with an army at his back is jockeying for position.”
“Including Prince Ernst.”
“Including him.” Leaning back in his chair, Jamie met his cousin’s gaze with his usual immutable calm. “He’s as ambitious as the rest. And why shouldn’t he be? Twenty generations of Battenburgs have ruled that piece of prime real estate, offered up their resources and sons to the emperor when needed, and played a significant role in the Hapsburg prosperity.”
“As your family has for the Battenburgs.” Jamie’s forebears had fled Scotland after the ’45 defeat and sold the services of their fighting clan to the Duchy of Dalmia.
“With due compensation,” Jamie serenely said, John’s red hair gleaming in the lamplight reminding him of his mother’s. Their mothers had been cousins. Shaking off the melancholy that always overcame him on recall of his mother’s unnecessary death, he pushed up from his lounging pose and said,
“You heard, of course, that Uncle Douglas came back from India with a fortune.”
“And a native wife.”
“A very beautiful wife. He’s looking to invest his money. I told him to talk to you. You’ve guarded my investments well,” Jamie said with a grin.
“Anyone could. Other than upkeep on your Dalmian estate, you don’t spend any money.”
“I don’t have time. Guarding Ernst is a round-the-clock commission.”
“Speaking of guarding, who’s protecting Ernst in your absence?”
“He’s on holiday with his newest paramour, who rules a duchy of her own with a small army and a top-notch palace guard.” Lifting his glass to his mouth, Jamie arched his brows. “Adequate deterrent to any assassin,” he murmured and drank down half the whiskey.
“Which explains your holiday in Scotland.”
“A much needed holiday,” Jamie softly replied, lowering his glass to the chair arm.
John looked surprised. “Do I detect a modicum of frustration? Is Ernst spending too much time in libertine pursuits—silly question.”
“Let’s just say he doesn’t have his father’s sense of responsibility.”
“Or any responsibility at all.”
“He was perhaps too indulged.” Jamie shrugged. “A problem at a time when Dalmia could use a ruler of insight and diligence.”
“Haven’t the Balkans always been a tinderbox?”
“It’s worse now. The wolves are beginning to circle with the emperor’s grip on power weakening. They smell blood. And rightly so. It’s just a matter of time until Franz Joseph dies and all hell breaks loose.” Jamie grimaced. “But screw it. I’m not there, I’m here. Tell me about your thoroughbreds instead. Rumor has it your chestnut brute’s going to take all the major races next year.” The last thing Jamie wished to dwell on was the crumbling Hapsburg Empire and the approaching deluge.
“You should plan on being here for the Derby next year,” John pleasantly said, urbanely shifting topics. “Shalizar’s going to win by ten lengths. You can bet on it.”
“In that case,” Jamie drawled, “I shall—heavily.”
“As will I. A pity you don’t have time to see my stud at Bellingham.”
“Next time. I promised Davy I’d meet him day after tomorrow. He’s coming down from the hills to meet me.”
The two men, long friends—their family resemblance clear despite their disparate coloring—went on to discuss the merits of various horses and trainers, bloodlines and jockeys. The quiet study was peaceful, a temporary hermitage in a quarrelsome, perilous world and the fine highland whiskey served its purpose as well—lessening Jamie’s disquiet. Neither touched on the serious or personal, both careful to keep the conversation companionable and toward dawn, cheerfully drunk, the two men parted ways.
John went upstairs to his wife.
Jamie strolled to Grosvenor Square, entered a large house through a back door, conveniently unlocked, took the servants’ stairs to the second floor and entered a shadowed bedchamber.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Bella drowsily murmured, gazing at Jam
ie from under her lashes.
“I said I would.” Quietly closing the door, he slipped off his swallowtail coat, dropped it on the floor, and, pulling his shirt studs free, moved toward the bed.
“How nice.” Pushing up on her elbows, Bella smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met an honest man.”
Jamie grinned. “I have an excuse. I live outside the fashionable world.”
“Too far outside at the moment,” she purred, tossing the covers aside. “Do come in . . .”
CHAPTER 2
THE NEXT MORNING, the sultry air heavy with the promise of rain, Sofia Eastleigh was cooling her heels in a small waiting room off the entrance hall of Minton House and becoming increasingly agitated. She didn’t as a rule agree to paint society portraits, finding those in the fashionable world too spoiled or difficult to sit the necessary hours required to complete a painting. But Bella, Countess of Minton, was one of the reigning beauties of the day—not to be discounted when it came to publicity—and she was generous as well in terms of a fee.
She’d give her five minutes more, Sofia resentfully decided, and then the countess and her money could go to hell. With her artwork much sought after, Sofia didn’t need the money. Nor did she appreciate being kept waiting like a servant for—she glanced at the splendid Boulle clock on the mantel—dammit . . . thirty-five minutes!
Rising to her feet, she was slipping on her gloves when the waiting room door was thrown open by a liveried flunky, Bella was announced, and a moment later, a radiant, blushing countess, obviously just risen from bed, swept into the room, trailing lavender mousseline and a cloud of scent.
“Good, you’re still here. A matter of some importance delayed me.”
The countess’s partner in that important matter strolled into the room behind her and offered Sofia an engaging smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Please, accept my apology. Bella tells me you’re an artist of great renown.”
“The baron will keep me company while you paint,” the countess briskly interposed, ignoring Jamie’s apology. “We’re quite ready if you are.”
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