Sexy As Hell

“She’s a vain, self-indulgent baggage. But we won’t be bothered again. I promise.” Dropping beside Isolde on the sofa, he stretched out his legs, slid into a comfortable sprawl, rested his head against the cushions, and softly exhaled. Nell was a handful. She always had been.

“You’re quite free to pursue your personal amusements,” Isolde quietly remarked. “You know that.”

He turned his head enough to smile at her. “I know. However, we should appear the newlyweds for the moment at least-to put Compton off the scent. As for Nell, it won’t happen again.”

He spoke with a rough brusqueness at the end, and Isolde recalled him offering to shoot Frederick for her. Her husband had a callous streak she’d do well to remember. “Once we’re in the country, we’ll be under less scrutiny- from Frederick or your friends.”

He nodded, only half listening. Nell would spread the news of his marriage far and wide, including his savaging of her-which would only increase the tittle-tattle. “If you’re up to it, I think it might be wise if we’re at home today. Our marriage is the current overnight wonder; the most avid of the curiosity seekers are bound to call. It would serve your purposes to let the multitudes come and see”-he smiled-“the woman who so swept me off my feet, I was induced to renounce bachelorhood and allow myself to be caught.”

“Please, a stalking female is such a clichй. Would you be averse to the proposition that I was pursued and caught.”

“Clichй it may be, but it’s true,” he grumbled, having evaded every form of female pursuit since arriving in London, including being surprised in his bed. “I understand, though. Our marriage will be the result of love at first sight on my part. How’s that?”

“Very gracious of you.” Isolde softly sighed. “I have a confession.”

“Good God. Don’t say you’re my sister.”

She laughed. “Rest easy. But your love-at-first-sight fiction is useful to me for another reason.” She took a small breath, glanced away, clearly discomfited.

“Go on, darling,” Oz prompted. “I’m unshockable.”

“It’s not actually shocking.” Her voice was subdued. “In fact, it’s quite common I suspect-a betrothal gone awry.”

His brows lifted. “Yours, I presume.”

She nodded. “It turns out”-she grimaced-“the man I planned to marry had been promised by his family to another. He felt honor bound to marry her.”

“In this day and age?”

“Country ways are more traditional.”

“Ah.”

“It’s true,” she insisted.

He put up a hand. “I didn’t mean to disagree.” He smiled. “As I understand it then, you’d like your husband-me-to be head over heels for you as compensation for all the local gossip you had to endure with this, er, foiled betrothal.”

She looked down briefly before she met his gaze. “Do I seem silly and foolish?”

“Not at all.” He knew about wanting things that could never be, about the cruelty of gossip. Do you love him still? he thought, knowing how much he missed Khair. Not that any of it mattered. “In truth, posing as your lovesick husband will actually serve as explanation for my extraordinary behavior. I was a confirmed bachelor; everyone knew it.”

She smiled, relieved for inchoate, possibly stupid reasons. “Thank you. It shouldn’t be for long in any event.”

“No.” Especially after I scare the hell out of Compton.

“Now then,” she said, cheered by Oz’s casual chivalry, “do you think we’ll have many visitors?”

Shoving himself upward, Oz reached for a bottle Achille had conveniently left for him. “I know we will,” he said, uncorking the bottle.

And he set about fortifying himself for the ordeal.

CHAPTER 6

BEFORE LONG, THE busybodies, scandalmongers, and a great many of Oz’s inamoratas came to call, all morbidly curious to see the clever, artful woman who had managed to lure Lennox into the marriage trap. They smiled and bowed and offered their felicitations; they took tea and made idle conversation-all the while frantic to know the reason for Lennox’s marriage.

“She’s but a child,” the matrons whispered, Isolde’s girlish gown offering up an image of innocence. “And clearly unworldly, wearing a simple gown like that without a speck of jewelry. Where did she come from? Where’s her family?” And then their eyes would narrow, as if the answer to this odd marriage would be revealed with closer scrutiny.

The men discounted innocence, their focus instead, male-like, on sex. “Lennox lusted after that buxom, young maid,” the men murmured, surveying Isolde’s curvaceous body with heated gazes, envying Oz his voluptuous, new bride.

“The bitch. The clever bitch,” Oz’s resentful lovers hissed under their breaths, their veiled glances sullen. How had she brought him to the altar when so many had failed? Although, she’d have competition soon enough they didn’t doubt. Which thought consoled and heartened them.

“Have you known each other long?” the visitors invariably asked, each arrival-thanks to Nell’s on dits-sensible of the startling suddenness of the marriage. It must have been a necessitous marriage, they all thought. Why else would a cheeky young profligate like Lennox marry?

The first time the question of their acquaintance was posed, Isolde turned to her husband. “Oz likes to tell the story,” she said with a smile. “It’s quite romantic.”

“We’ve known each other since we were children,” he blandly lied-repeating the fiction often in the course of the day. “A family connection-distant, of course. Isolde always wrote to me over the years, didn’t you, darling,” he fondly murmured, lifting her hand to his lips at that point for a gentle kiss. “And then suddenly, I found my little Isolde all grown up and I fell head over heels in love.”

She blushed prettily.

The room always went quiet for a second at such blatant affection from a man who’d seduced women far and wide but never loved them.

“She’s shy,” he’d say, smiling fondly at his bride. “An admirable quality in a wife.”

Another moment of shocked silence would ensue.

Oz had always preferred audacious women.

And so the at-home visit went, Isolde smiling through it all, accepting society’s spurious good wishes and pointed glances at her belly with grace, Oz discharging his role of doting husband with careless panache. All the while the servants keeping the cake plates and teacups replenished.

It was a long, albeit productive day.

Until finally, an old roue made the mistake of saying, “If I was twenty years younger, Lennox, I’d vie for the lady’s favors myself.”

“If you were twenty years younger, Wilkins, I’d call you out,” Oz said, his expression uniquely unpleasant. “Consider yourself lucky.” As if suddenly reaching some indefinable breaking point, Oz rose to his feet, surveyed the social herd he despised, and said with cool precision, “My wife is fatigued. I trust you know your way out.”

No one debated staying with the grim set of Lennox’s mouth.

The room emptied in minutes.

“No one else gets in, Josef,” Oz ordered, nodding at his majordomo, who’d held the drawing room door open for the departing guests. “Not God himself.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like a brandy?”

“Another bottle if you please.” He’d moderated his drinking while they had guests, fearful of losing his temper before all the breathless voyeurs. But he’d finally run them off, and dropping onto the settee beside Isolde, he