Sexy As Hell

The servants learned to knock loudly before entering a room when formerly, Isolde’s casually run household had required no such prudence.

The first time the pair had been surprised in the library, Isolde had turned ten shades of red and Oz’s impatient gaze had driven the servant out without a word. Later that day, Oz had spoken to Lewis; no further unannounced entrances ensued.

In time, Oz even consented to call on the neighbors with Isolde. His agreement to so public a display of their connection pleased her and didn’t displease him so far as he’d admit. As to the rest-why he did it at all-he chose to ignore. Like so much during this idyll in the country, he was operating on instinct alone.

The first time he accompanied Isolde to a hunt breakfast, he’d been admiring a Stubbs painting of a stallion from racing history when he was distracted by a thin, plain woman who came up beside him. She was staring at him with such narrow-eyed attention he was tempted to say, I’m not for sale.

“We haven’t met. I’m Lady Fowler,” she crisply declared as he turned to her.

Ah, the heiress; poor Will, he thought, with a connoisseur’s eye for beauty. “A pleasure, ma’am,” he answered with an exquisite bow. “I’m Oz Lennox.”

“I know who you are.”

He found himself being scrutinized again-with a cool arrogance this time as though he were being measured against some lofty standard and found lacking.

“You’re in shipping, I hear. How interesting.” It was meant to belittle, her words, the sneer in her voice marking him as inferior. To be involved in trade was considered a failing by some in the peerage.

“I understand your father made his fortune in coal. An equally interesting business,” Oz blandly replied.

“The coal is on our lands.”

“I have ruby mines on my estates,” he pleasantly remarked, ignoring her direct stare. “A hazardous occupation, mining. How do you manage your workers’ safety? We’ve instituted various safeguards and haven’t had an accident in years.”

“I have no idea,” she said with a sniff. “Miners’ safety doesn’t concern me.”

“A shame,” he answered, polite and unperturbed. “Production and profits are directly related to working conditions.”

“I’m sure my father has menials to see to such things,” she said in haughty rejoinder.

It always amazed him when certain peers found it necessary to impress him with their superiority because of his Indian background. As if the Lennox bloodlines weren’t centuries old. Or it amazed him as much as his careless indifference allowed. “Did you have some question you wished to ask me?” he softly inquired. “Instead of this very ambiguous conversation.”

“Of course not,” she cooly countered.

He surveyed her with a misleadingly innocent gaze. “Allow me to clarify a few points, ma’am-in the event you have some future questions. People often wish to know if I’m as wealthy as rumor has it.” He smiled. “I’m even wealthier. People are curious as well about the shade of my skin; my grandmother was a native of Hyderabad, India. If you were wondering about your husband, he’s come to call. Apparently he was upset with Isolde’s marriage. Is there more?”

“They said you were shameless!” she said with a peevish snort.

“More than you’ll ever know. But then I like my women with a bit of meat on their bones.” As her color rose and she worked herself into a withering reply, he gently added, “If you’d like a little advice, I’d put a curb on that husband of yours. From what I’ve seen, he’s likely to wander.”

“How dare you!” she hissed, her sharp nose twitching with indignation. “What right has someone like you-”

“Ah, there you are, darling,” Oz said fondly as Isolde came up to save her husband from Anne Verney’s obvious wrath. “Lady Fowler and I were comparing our mines.”

“We were doing no such thing!” Anne furiously exclaimed.

“Mines?” Isolde cast a questioning glance at her husband.

“I have ruby mines. Didn’t I mention that?” he said, lazy and cool.

“No, you didn’t. How very nice. If you’d excuse us, Anne, Pamela hasn’t met Oz yet. Come, dear, you’ll like her.” She needn’t have been rude, but she couldn’t resist. Anne always glared at her as though she were the Antichrist; there was no question either that she was being uncivil to Oz. Her scowl had been visible from across the room.

“Will’s wife’s an arrogant cow,” Oz lazily said as they walked away. “I can see why he’s hell-bent on renewing your friendship. She’s not only pompous, she’s ugly, poor thing. Christ, you’d have to shut your eyes to fuck her.”

“Hush, Oz,” Isolde reprimanded, suppressing a smile.

“She can’t help it. The entire family is pompous as the pope.”

“With no good reason from all appearances,” he said, smiling a little.

“They’re very wealthy.”

“Many people are, darling. But I see I’m going to have to keep an eye on you. Will must be desperate to bed you again.”

“You needn’t keep an eye on me. I’m quite content with your-”

“Cock?” he murmured with a sparkle in his eyes.

“Yes, now hush, don’t embarrass me; here’s my very best friend.” Taking Oz’s hand, she smiled at a pretty, slender young woman dressed in russet velvet to match her hair. “Pamela, I’d like you to meet Oz.”

Pamela was immediately charmed, but then Oz put himself out to be charming, a talent honed to a fine pitch long ago. And once all the pleasantries were exchanged, conversation turned to mutually satisfying subjects having to do with horses and racing-a topic much on the mind of everyone in the environs of Newmarket.

“Isolde tells me you have some splendid bloodstock from the Hindu Kush.”

“You’re welcome to ride them anytime,” Oz offered with unimpeachable courtesy. “They’re sweet and well mannered.”

“And they run like the wind,” Isolde interjected with a smile for her husband. “My morning rides have quite improved since Oz brought them up.”

“With the spring meets about to begin, we’ll have to see how they perform.” Pamela followed the race meets with the avid interest of someone who owned a prime stable. “I warn you, my husband, Elliot, prides himself on his racing wins.”

Oz smiled. “We’ll have to exchange a friendly wager.”

“What wager?” The Earl of Petworth joined his wife.

“Elliot, have you met Isolde’s husband? Oz, Elliot. We were talking about the new race season. Oz has some bloodstock from India.”

Several others joined the conversation at talk of racing, and before the hounds were brought up and breakfast over, Oz had met a great many of Isolde’s neighbors.

But after his encounter with Lady Fowler, Oz monitored Isolde that day with more than ordinary vigilance. Will Fowler’s interest in Isolde had nothing to do with friendship-his angry response to news of her marriage a case in point. And after having seen Fowler’s wife, it was clear that the man had coldly and calculatingly married for money. Nor had he the decency to treat his wife civilly; Will hadn’t come near her at breakfast.

Nor had she mounted up with the others. She’d stayed behind.

Hours later, after an exhilarating hunt over miles of green, rolling countryside, Oz and Isolde were riding home slowly, the sun low on the horizon.

“You needn’t have played duenna all day,” Isolde lightly teased. “As you very well know, you’ve spoiled me for other men. I have no interest in Will.”

There was a small silence. “That may be, for which I thank you,” he said with a faint smile. “But I don’t trust Will. I may have to call out the dog if he doesn’t stop sniffing around you.”

“Don’t you dare,” she quickly said.

“Warn him off, not me. I’m just protecting my own.” There was a faint hint of anger beneath the flat tone.

“You’re mistaken,” she said in a deprecating voice. “Really, Oz, I don’t need your protection.”

“Believe me,” he cooly said, “with Will, you do.”