prodigality; two of a kind,” she added with a grin. “Or rather I should say,
How to respond when her husband was still the prodigal rake?
“He’ll change with marriage,” Rosalind assured Isolde, as if reading her thoughts. “I had my reservations as well. Who wouldn’t with men like them?”
“You’re happy, I can tell,” Isolde said rather than deal with the brevity of her and Oz’s future.
“Over-the-moon happy. My life had been one of struggle, so I’m grateful beyond words for Fitz’s love.”
Such unalloyed happiness triggered a wretched and utterly useless ache of misery. No happy ending would befall her, Isolde reflected, although salvation from Compton certainly would be the sweetest of triumphs. And at the moment, Oz was everything she could possibly desire. “I’m equally grateful for Oz’s kindness. He’s incredibly benevolent.”
What an odd choice of words, Rosalind reflected. But rather than voice her thoughts, she said, “I’m so pleased for you both. Ah, here come our darling husbands. I miss Fitz dreadfully the minute he walks away. I expect you feel the same way about Oz.”
“Yes, very much.” Simple words, complicated emotions, and no fairy-tale ending in sight.
“So have you men settled the affairs of the world?” Rosalind inquired, having noticed their quiet conversation.
“More or less,” Fitz blandly replied.
“Provided we get through this evening unbloodied,” Oz said with a grin.
“Pshaw. As if anyone will dare speak out of turn to either of you. To be perfectly honest,” Rosalind declared, “
A single rap on the door interrupted the conversation.
Josef entered and bowed. “Nine o’clock, sir.”
The men exchanged glances as if before battle, drained their glasses, set them down, and offered their arms to their wives.
This evening was warfare of another kind but equally strategic. Tonight was meant to be a deterrent to a perceived enemy-Compton-as well as a chivalrous mobilization against the fashionable world that could be tiresomely vicious. Oz wished to protect Isolde from both. And as with any duel, he felt it easily within his power to prevail.
A few minutes later, Isolde and Oz stood at the top of the stairs waiting to greet the first guests ascending the flower-garlanded and footman-lined staircase. The Duke and Duchess of Groveland were seated within sight of their hosts but beyond the need for conversation with the visitors. Josef had placed a small table with a bottle at Fitz’s side, the duchess had an iced lemonade at hand, and both were intent on the coming performance.
“You needn’t get up, dear, if you don’t wish,” Fitz said. “If Oz leaves, I’ll take his place.”
“I’ll see how I feel,” the duchess answered with a small smile. “There might be one or two of your old paramours I might wish to send away with a flea in her ear.”
“Be my guest.”
“Lady Buckley for instance.”
Fitz laughed. “I warn you, she’s a bitch. Don’t expect me to save you.”
“I already know she’s a bitch, darling. We’ve met. And I won’t need saving.”
The most avidly curious were the first to arrive, and as Josef announced them by name, Isolde and Oz smiled the required smiles, uttered the prescribed courtesies and polite trivialities, countered the expected malice with suave malice of their own, and in general averted any overt belligerency with dulcet impudence or in Oz’s case, with the occasional warning glance.
Nell’s transit of the reception line passed without controversy since her husband was at her side and in consequence she was muzzled. Lord Howe had come specifically to meet the woman who’d lured Lennox away from his wife. While Nell was resentful of Oz’s new bride, her husband was intrigued. Well aware of his wife’s sexual expertise and agility, Lord Howe suspected that Lennox’s wife was highly imaginative in the bedchamber.
“A prodigious pleasure to meet you, Countess,” Lord Howe said, his voice silken as he gracefully bowed over Isolde’s hand.
“The pleasure is all mine.” Withdrawing her hand, Isolde spoke with counterfeit warmth. “Do enjoy yourself tonight.” She was surprised that Lord Howe was so good-looking. For some reason she’d naively thought Nell’s search for pleasure was predicated by an ugly husband.
“Thank you, I will.” Lord Howe turned to Oz with an urbane smile. “Congratulations, Lennox. You’ve found a beautiful diamond of the first water. Dashing and spirited I don’t doubt. Why else would you marry?”
The insinuation was plain, the word
“Thank you. I consider myself fortunate.” Oz cooly met Lord Howe’s amused gaze. “Did you enjoy Paris?”
“Not as much, apparently, as you did London in my absence.”
“Ah-no one new in the corps de ballet? I heard a young dancer from Hungary was all the rage.”
Lord Howe didn’t so much a blink an eyelash at the allusion to his latest adultery. “You must have better sources than I.”
“I do, of course. Mine are excellent. Enjoy our little soiree. My chef has outdone himself it seems, but then one must allow him his romantic fervor. I don’t get married every day.”
“Indeed. Brooks’s betting book was inclined to wager-never.”
“Then someone won a tidy sum.” Oz deliberately turned to the next person in line, dismissing Lord Howe and his wife. Not that the following couple was an improvement. Another of his lovers had come with her husband, and unlike Lord Howe, the Earl of Dugal took issue with his wife’s infidelity.
“Will married life rein in your debauchery, Lennox?” the Scottish earl demanded in his heavy brogue.
“Marriage has brought it to complete standstill, Dugal. What about you?”
The elderly man turned a mottled red and cleared his throat. “I don’t see how that concerns you,” he growled.
“Nor does it, no more than my life concerns you,” Oz said, an edge to his voice. “Now make your bows to my lady wife and go off and drink my liquor. Unless you have something more to say.”
Dugal’s pretty young wife smirked behind her husband’s back, dipped her head to Oz, and turning to smile at Isolde, said with sweet innocence, “I wish you well, my lady. Lord Lennox is exceedingly kind.”
“I know. Thank you.” She almost felt sorry for the young wife who gazed at Oz with such longing. If she were married to a frightfully old as well as unfaithful man, she’d be looking for love elsewhere, too.
And so it went, the men offering their good wishes with leers at Isolde, the many women who’d slept with Oz predictably offering him seductive smiles and winks and whispered asides. Then there was the general herd who’d come to gawk or scrutinize or hope to ferret out the freakish and unaccountable explanation for Lord Lennox’s marriage. And last but not least, Achille’s reputation was well-known due to Oz’s wild bachelor parties. A small percentage of guests with epicurean tastes had come for the haute cuisine alone.
Those who dared mention Oz’s bites and bruises were ignored if Oz was in a lenient mood or were warned off with a look even the most obtuse recognized if he wasn’t. Also as promised, he was ever gracious and adoring to his wife, so much so that those who didn’t actually believe in love were given pause. If cupid’s arrow could strike a reprobate heart like Lennox’s, surely the concept was more than a matter of poetic license.
Isolde had long ago given up any notion of publically exerting control over her husband. Oz was at his charming best in any event, and at base she found herself indifferent to all but the pressing need for escape.
An hour had passed, Josef had brought Oz several brandies, the number of arriving guests had dwindled, the drawing rooms were crowded-and still no Compton.
Oz was impatient. He needed Compton; he wanted this over.
Isolde was relieved. If she never saw her cousin again, she’d be content.
A footman jogged up the stairs, spoke to Josef, who in turn spoke to Oz. “I think we’ve done our duty long enough, dear,” Oz said. “Why don’t I have Fitz and Rosalind escort you into the supper room. Try some of Achille’s special dishes. He did it all for you. It seems that Sam has something he can’t deal with. I’ll be right back.”
A look of fear came into her eyes. “Is it Compton?”
“No, a matter to do with our departure tomorrow. It’s nothing serious.” Turning, he signaled to Fitz. “Would you
