“Rule one on the road to excess.”
“We agree on everything,” she lightly said, looking forward to remapping that route with England’s most talented cocksman.
A knock on the door broke into the amorous banter and undeterred by his nudity, Oz called out, “Enter.” Pointing to a table, he waited while the footman deposited his burden, thanked him, then immediately set about pouring himself a drink. As the door closed, Oz drained his glass, refilled it, and smiled at Nell. “Your audience of one is ready to be beguiled.” Moving to the bed, he disposed himself in a comfortable sprawl, the glass balanced on his chest, and gave her a nod. “The stage lights are up, sweetheart.”
After executing a dramatic bow, Nell struck an elegant pose that showed her stunning form to advantage. “For your pleasure and divertissement, my Lord Lennox, I took dancing lessons in Cairo.”
He grinned. “Why did I know that?”
A frown marred the porcelain perfection of her forehead. “Don’t say this is the twentieth time you’ve seen such a performance,” she pettishly retorted.
“No.” A courtesy lie. “I just knew what would interest you in Cairo.”
“Sex-if you’d been there,” she playfully replied, her good humor restored.
“And since I wasn’t there?”
“I found something else to amuse me.”
“Something or someone?”
“Really, dear, need you ask?”
“I only wish to point out that we are both faithless”-his brows lifted-“and not likely to change.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a little sigh. “I shouldn’t be pettish.”
“Nor will I,” he said with pallid amusement. “Show me what you learned.”
After she unclasped the few hooks at her back, her gown slid to her waist and her large, flamboyant breasts were on full display.
“Did your teacher take a fancy to your lovely breasts?” he murmured, wondering if her minimum clothing tonight was planned for him or anyone.
“She did as a matter of fact,” Nell said, perjuring herself without a qualm. “And I took the lessons for you.”
If so, news of his abandoned marriage had traveled fast. “I’ll have to do something for you in return.”
“All night long and often,” she said in a sultry contralto.
He smiled. “Whatever you say.”
Sliding her glittering gown down her hips, clad only in white silk stockings and gold slippers, she posed for him, arms raised, her smile dazzling, knowing she was unabashedly desirable.
“Breathtaking as usual.” She was a sumptuous, showy female with pale skin and auburn hair, flaunting breasts and ripe, rounded hips-a perfect companion in his current frame of mind. A vixen to titillate his senses without stirring his emotions.
“I expect you’ll also be impressed with my new skills,” she murmured with a little swish of her hips.
“I’m impressed already,” he said. “As you can see.”
“And I’m getting wet just looking at your huge erection,” she said softly, her gaze trained on the object of her lust-the holy grail for her long journey home.
“How wet?” he quietly asked.
Slipping her hand between her legs, she drew in a skittish breath as she slid her finger palm-deep into her vagina.
“I can do better than that for you,” Oz silkily remarked.
Lost to feverish sensation, it took a moment before Oz’s voice registered and a moment more before she held up her index finger for his perusal. It was pearled with moisture.
“I suggest you start dancing or your recital will have to wait,” Oz drawled. “We’re both primed.”
“No, no… don’t you dare. I want to show off my new skills.”
“By all means then, do so.”
“Because you can always wait,” she grumbled.
He shrugged. “If I have to.”
A femme fatale by nature, she objected to Oz’s self-control in the face of what was to most men her irresistible allure. “I suppose we can’t all be raised in India,” she sulkily muttered.
He smiled. “I can’t help but think you’d have been a willing pupil of Vatsyayana. But please, entertain me-and then I’ll entertain you.”
“It’s up to me to say when, though.” A sop to her inner femme fatale.
“Naturally.” Or not. He wasn’t a eunuch.
Having mastered the intricate manipulation of stomach muscles so necessary to the dance-thanks to a very charming young male instructor-Nell swiveled and rolled her curvaceous hips in a splendidly appropriate rhythm perfectly in sync with the sinuous undulations of her upper body. Her large, full breasts quivered and bobbed in provocative counterpoint to her gyrating hips, and when she twirled, her heavy breasts swung out in a spherical eddy that raised Oz’s cock an appreciable distance more.
She’d learned her lessons well; the dance was meant to arouse, titillate, and excite. And it did.
The moment she came close enough, he intended to assuage his lust. After weeks of celibacy, self-control was a relative term, and Nell was the perfect antidote to his collective frustration. She offered him what he realized he needed: worldly sexual pleasure and nothing more. He was grateful.
Suddenly, putting his glass aside, he set about curtailing her performance. “If you don’t come here, I’ll come there. Literally.”
She giggled. “You who can always wait?”
“It must be your new dancing skills,” he smoothly replied. It wasn’t; an image of Isolde lying in his arms had abruptly pervaded his brain and he needed to extinguish it. Quickly.
Having thought of little else for days, pleased at Oz’s rare impatience, Nell was more than willing to oblige. And Oz was so thankful for the instant obliteration of his unwanted memories that he obliged her with three quick orgasms before he found release.
“You’re absolutely… worth my… dreadfully… long journey,” she breathed, lying beside him, softly panting. “God, Oz… you’re so much better than I remembered.”
“I find it equally pleasing that you came back to London.” He meant it; she was the distraction he needed from haunting memory. Arching his back, he lazily stretched, his demons put to flight. “When you’ve caught your breath,” he gently said, “you can do something for me.”
Turning her head on the pillow, she held his gaze. “I’d love to.”
He knew she would; that’s why he proposed what he did. After two more drinks and champagne for the lady, Nell was reclining against the pillows, her feet comfortably clasped behind her head, her acrobatic flexibility beautifully show-casing her pouty vulva.
Kneeling before her, Oz contemplated the sleek, pink, pulsing flesh, the piquant offering enchanting. There was something about a creamy cunt in all its full-blown glory, ripely expectant and primed, that racheted up the pleasure scale of lust. Inhaling softly, he leaned forward, guided the swollen head of his penis to Nell’s delectable slit and penetrated her marginally. Then, once joined, he eased his hands under her bottom, lifted her slightly to allow him better ingress, and slid in another small distance.
Embedded midway in her pulsing flesh, the fullness of his cock pressed against the highly sensitive erectile tissue on the top wall of her vagina, that vividly impressionable area having been described in detail since medieval times in various Urdu texts. Since his youth, Oz had understood the subtleties of female arousal apropos that tiny spot. And he also knew what Nell liked. Remaining fixed in place and utterly still, he served as willing instrument to her pleasure as she panted and twitched in escalating delirium, absorbed the increasingly fierce, seething rapture, and eventually climaxed. Over and over and over again.
She was infinitely easy to please. But then they were well matched when it came to selfish carnality.
Their reunion turned out to be an exercise in politesse and hedonism. Careful to stay within the prescribed perimeters of urbane friendship, the night passed in a mellow exploration of ravishment and ecstasy. And when
morning came, Nell decisively said, “I’m going to preempt your leisure time. Don’t argue. It’s not as though you have anything more pressing to do.”
He didn’t argue. “I’d be delighted,” he said.
They went to Blackwood’s often in the following days. Oz didn’t have to think with Nell.
He didn’t want to think. Or talk-other than suave pillow talk without substance or humanity.
And Nell didn’t care as long as Oz exerted himself to please her.
It was no exertion; it was automatic for him, and that in itself offered relief. He wasn’t obliged to face his discontent during the hours he spent at Blackwood’s. Nor was he apt to be grilled on his marital situation. It was the last subject Nell was likely to bring up.
CHAPTER 23
WHILE OZ WAS exorcizing his demons at Blackwood’s, Isolde was coping with Will’s unwanted visits. No matter what she said or did to discourage him, he refused to listen. He’d ride over with a message from his steward for Grover; their estates shared a border. Or he’d carry over an invitation from his wife for some social event when they both knew the invitation had been coerced. Will had even taken to meeting her on her morning rides, which thoroughly spoiled one of her favorite pastimes. His persistence was vexing to a very large degree.
She’d even pleaded a headache once, the ache in her temples instant and real the moment he’d been announced. She’d sent a message down by her maid only to have him come back an hour later with a cordial recommended by the village doctor. And she’d not been able to eject him for hours.
She was beginning to consider threatening to inform his wife of his frequent visits if he didn’t stop. She’d finally said as much one morning when he’d met her on the downs, swung his mount alongside hers, and matched her pace. “You’re being much too attentive, Will,” Isolde fretfully muttered. “I’m tempted to talk to Anne. I doubt she’d approve of your constant calls.”
“Your husband’s taken up with his former lover. Did you know that?” he said as if she hadn’t spoken.
With considerable effort, her reply was cooly composed although the color had left her face. “Like you, you mean.”
His smile was bright with good cheer. “On the contrary, darling, I’m still only hopeful.”
“Allow me to dash those hopes. I’m not interested in renewing our friendship, not now, not ever. I hope I make myself clear.”
“Allow me to disagree, Izzy, darling,” he pleasantly countered, immune to her rebuff. “You’re a passionate woman who’ll eventually require sexual satisfaction. And from all appearances, you won’t be getting that from your wandering husband.”
“Perhaps one of the stable boys is servicing me.” The blood had returned to her face, her smile was flawless.
“Lucky fellow.”
“For God’s sake, Will. Stop. I have no interest in discussing this.”
“When you do become interested, darling,” he softly said, “I’d like to be first in line.”
She shot him a sharp look. “You certainly have tenacity. But, pray, take me off your list of hopeful conquests and don’t speak to me of this again!” Whipping her mount, she raced away from Will’s unwanted company and more from his unwanted news. She’d expected it, of course, but all the same, on hearing of Oz’s infidelity her stomach had risen to her throat. How unfortunate to have fallen in love with a wild young man who bewitched without even trying, who masterfully practiced the art of pleasing in bed untrammeled by feeling or regret. Who’d walked away without a backward glance even knowing she might be carrying his child.
Even more unfortunate, that same wild young man had spoiled her for all others. No matter she’d been trying mightily during the past fortnight to disabuse herself of the notion-there it was plain as day.
The sight of Will left her cold. Annoyed her, in fact.
While Oz’s beguiling image was a permanent fixture in her brain.
Damn. Life wasn’t fair.
As if to emphasize that point, Pamela came to call that afternoon, looking so uncomfortable that after five minutes of prosy, pointless conversation, Isolde said, “I already heard about Oz.” With pride she controlled her anger and distress. “You needn’t feel awkward.”
Pamela didn’t quite meet her gaze for a moment, then said with a sigh, “I thought you should know if you didn’t.”
“Will was pleased to inform me of the news when he disturbed me on my morning ride again,” Isolde replied, even as she braced herself to hear another version of the gossip.
“You know then that Oz has taken up with Nell Blessing-ton again.”
She nodded. Even braced, even knowing, it hurt to hear the words. So much for logic. She was consumed with jealousy and sorrow, the thought of her husband lying with the splendid Nell, disheartening. “She’s very beautiful,” Isolde said as calmly as she was able. “And I hardly expected faithfulness from a man like Oz.”
“Or most men,” Pamela said with a sniff. “I’m so sorry for you, dear. Especially now.”
Isolde glanced up from her tea.
“I don’t know if others know, but I’ve suspected for some time.” Pamela smiled. “It’s always the breasts that give it away.” She half lifted her hand. “Your gown’s getting tight. Are you happy?”
“I am. Very happy.”
“Then the rest doesn’t matter.”
“I agree. This is my baby.”
“Is he gone then?”
“I don’t know,” Isolde said, setting down her cup. “We quarreled and he left.” She couldn’t yet bring herself to disclose their divorce plans. It was foolish, of course. Pamela’s silence could be depended on. But matters of the heart didn’t yield to reason, nor was passion so easily repudiated.
“Have you tried writing to him?”
Isolde shook her head. “I don’t relish being rebuffed. He was quite determined to leave.”
“Are you heartbroken?”
“It wouldn’t do me any good if I were. I keep busy; the child I carry brings me enormous joy. I have too much goodness in my life to be despondent.”
“Do you want me to explain to our friends?”
Isolde softly exhaled. “Strangely, I don’t care. If you and Will heard the gossip, others did as well. As for my pregnancy, that too will be obvious before long. What I do wish you’d do is find some way to keep Will from coming to visit. He’s driving me mad.”
“Do you want me to tell Anne? That could put an end to it.”
Isolde frowned. “I don’t know if I want to stir up trouble.”
Pamela smiled. “At least you’re not pining over him anymore.”
Isolde laughed. “Indeed. I can thank Oz for that at least.”
“And for the baby.”
“Yes, very much for the baby.”
“Do you want a boy or girl?” Pamela had one of each.
“I don’t care in the least. Come,” Isolde said, quickly rising. “Let me show you the layette we’re assembling. The staff is over the moon at the prospect of a baby in the house.”
“Good God, they know and haven’t gossiped?”
“They know everything and haven’t breathed a word. They’re family.” Isolde smiled. “Apparently, I’m to be protected.”
“You must be the only one who ever was protected by their staff,” Pamela replied with a lift of her brows. “My household thrives on gossip.”
CHAPTER 24
TWO DAYS LATER, Grover handed Isolde a flyer. “Tattersalls is finally having the Deveral dispersal sale.”
She scanned the single sheet. The old earl had died some time ago, but the family had been squabbling over the will. “The younger son lost out.” He was a celebrated aficionado of the track.
“So it appears. The new earl is selling the entire stud.”
“We must go, of course. I want that filly out of Persimmon.”
“Everyone does.”
“But I intend to acquire it.”
“Yes, Miss Izzy,” her steward said
with an affectionate smile. “I thought you might.”
She briefly debated the possibility of meeting Oz at so distinguished a sale, but her keen desire for that fleet-footed filly outweighed any awkwardness she might encounter. Certainly the London set knew Oz had left her. Nor was discord in aristocratic marriages uncommon. She was perfectly capable of facing down the tittle-tattle. “We’ll go into London the night before. Have the house opened.”
“Will we be staying?”
“Just the night.” She smiled. “We’ll bring the filly home directly.”
A week later, Isolde and Grover entered the yard at Tattersalls where the sales were held, prepared to pay whatever was required to purchase the extraordinary filly.
The yard was crowded with every horse lover and breeder in England, Deveral’s stable celebrated. Very few women were in attendance, which may have accounted for the throng parting like the Red Sea as Isolde and Grover made their way to an advantageous position bordering the courtyard. Or the silent attention as she passed may have had to do with the scandal of her marriage.
But Isolde ignored the stares and the buzz of conversation that rose behind her, having expected nothing less. Oz was well-known in the fashionable set; naturally his estranged wife would draw eyes. In fact, she’d specially dressed for the occasion, her new gown designed to accommodate her expanding bosom, the violet silk walking costume attractive with her fair hair. She particularly liked her new hat embellished with flowers; it was fresh as spring.
In the first round of bidding, Deveral’s less illustrious thoroughbreds were sold off. The second round was just beginning when the main door into the yard opened, people turned to look, and a sudden hush fell over the crowd.
Oz had walked in with Nell on his arm.
Alerted by the tomblike silence, even the auctioneer having gone mute, Oz quickly scanned the crowd and saw Isolde. Without a word, he and his companion turned, reversed course, and shortly after he reappeared-alone.
Everyone in the breathless throng would have given anything to have heard the conversation between Oz and Nell. Lady Howe was a force unto herself; she did very much as she pleased and to have so readily deferred to Oz’s wishes suggested a threat of huge proportions or a very expensive pound of flesh on Lennox’s part.
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