checkmated. I spoke to him this morning. Threatened him, as a matter of fact. You travel fast, darling,” he murmured, ignoring Grover and protocol, pulling her up out of the chair and into his arms. “I thought to overtake you.”
She blushed, but the feel of him was much to her liking. “My carriage is built for speed. You made good time as well.”
“I missed you,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on her nose. “So tell me,” he said in a normal tone of voice, releasing her and turning to Grover, “what sort of protection are you planning?”
“It’s just a matter of having the tenants and staff look out for him. They’re sure to recognize Frederick,” Isolde explained. “He might attempt some mischief, particularly if he’s in his cups.”
“In other words, force Miss Izzy to give him more money,” Grover explained. “That’s the only reason he ever travels this far.”
“I see. Are you expecting him?”
“It’s a very real possibility, my lord,” Grover asserted.
“Then I wasted my money.”
“You gave him money!” Isolde exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I thought it worth a try. He seemed to understand my position when we spoke,” Oz said.
“Only because you threatened him,” Isolde said with a smile. “Naturally, I’ll repay you.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It was the merest bagatelle.”
“Still, Oz, I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense. You’re my wife. Tell her not to give it another thought,” he said, swiveling toward Grover.
“His lordship is most kind, Miss Izzy.” Oz immediately found favor with Isolde’s steward, for his generosity in bribing Compton to stop harassing Miss Izzy, for his obvious concern and affection for his wife. After Lord Fowler’s grievous behavior in breaking off their long-standing engagement, Lennox’s solicitude was especially gratifying. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Izzy, I’ll see that the staff and tenants are alerted.”
As the office door closed on Isolde’s steward, Oz said with a grin, “Alone at last. Show me your bedroom.”
Isolde smiled. “I’d love to if only the entire staff wasn’t all atwitter to meet you, if the kitchen wasn’t busy making dinner for you,
“It’s our honeymoon, darling. Everyone expects us to lock ourselves away in the bedroom.” He moved toward her.
“Don’t you dare,” Isolde whispered, backing up at his approach.
His smile was cheerfully wicked. “I didn’t ride my horse into a lather in order to worry what your servants think. As for daring, sweetheart, you’re talking to the wrong man.”
“Oz, please,” she begged, holding out her hand in deterrence. “At least wait until after dinner.”
“And if I do,” he softly replied, forcing her back against the door and dipping his head so their eyes were level, “tell me what I get?”
“My eternal gratitude,” she said to the teasing light in his eyes.
“You’ll have to do better than that.” His gaze was amused.
“What do you want?”
He chuckled. “As if you don’t know by now.”
“After dinner, I promise.”
“An early dinner I hope.”
She nodded. “We keep country hours.”
He smiled and stepped away. “Then I shall restrain myself, but I warn you, I eat very quickly.”
“Thank you for your forbearance.”
Her relief was so apparent he said, “Your staff means a lot to you, don’t they?”
“They’re my only family now that my parents are gone.”
“So I mustn’t play the tyrant before the staff,” he remarked.
“Or at all if you know what’s good for you.”
“As I recall,” he said, soft as silk, “you like orders now and again.”
“God, Oz, don’t start. I’m trying to be sensible.”
He liked the heat rising on her cheeks, the slight tremor in her voice. He liked that she wanted him because he’d thought of little else on the ride north. “I’ll be virtuous, darling. But it won’t be easy. I’m in constant rut with you.” Drawing in a breath, he stepped away. “I need a drink.”
“Are you sure that’s wise?”
“I’m very sure,” he said, his voice rough with restraint. “But don’t sit too near me.”
CHAPTER 13
OZ WAS AT his most charming when introduced to Isolde’s staff, so much so that even her butler, Lewis, who prided himself on his dignity, was seen to smile. Mrs. Belmont, less starchy by far, was instantly captivated by Oz, his admiration for her mother’s cameo she always wore at her throat bringing forth blushing giggles that only subsided at a warning cough from Lewis. As for the young footmen and maids, their adulation was plain-a paragon of manliness had come into the family. The staff of the neighboring gentry would be green with envy.
The pleasantries concluded, the newlyweds retired to a small drawing room to await dinner. While still midafternoon, the winter light was beginning to fade, and the blazing logs in the fireplace lent a snug coziness to the chamber. As did the comfortable, well-used furniture from an era long past; it was Isolde’s favorite room.
Oz lounged on a needlepoint settee stitched by some early Wraxell lady of the manor. His jacket was unbuttoned, his booted feet, devoid of spurs now, were draped over one of the curved armrests. An open bottle of brandy, loosely grasped, rested on his chest.
Isolde sat well away from him, framed by an exquisite tracery window purloined from one of the monasteries sacked by Henry VIII. She was doing her best to carry on an essentially one-sided conversation.
“Are you even listening?” she asked after a particularly lengthy period of silence from her husband.
He turned to her and smiled. “You were telling me about your stables. Go on, Miss Izzy,” he added with a grin.
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not. I like the name. It suits you.”
As he lifted the bottle to his mouth once again, she marveled at his capacity for drink. He appeared perfectly sober, neither slurring his words, nor becoming disorderly. Her father had held his liquor like that. “You’re drinking my father’s favorite brandy. It apparently meets with your approval.”
“Indeed. He had good taste.” As though to underscore the point, he drank another long draught, after which he said in a ruminating tone, “My father drank claret even though it didn’t travel well. Habit, I suspect.”
“Perhaps it reminded him of home.”
“He was born in India.”
Her surprise must have showed because he added, “As was his father. Our family has deep roots in India.”
“And yet you’re here in England.”
“After everyone died there was no reason to stay.”
His words were almost inaudible. “I’m sorry. Your memories must be painful.”
“Not with this.” He lifted the bottle slightly. “My anesthesia.” He suddenly smiled. “As are you in a much more pleasurable way.”
She dipped her head, responding to his more lighthearted comment in kind. “Pleased to be of service, sir.”
He grinned. “Hold that thought until after dinner.”
“If you must know, I think of little else.”
“Not another word,” he gruffly said, stabbing her with his glance. “I’m barely holding on.”
“Should I leave?”
