“It’s possible.” But even as he spoke, he knew he was lying, his imagination racing unchecked toward disaster. He’d practiced coitus interruptus-normally effective-but the risk increased with constant repetition and he’d been on permanent stud duty for weeks.
“You’re right. We
“Fuck no.”
She bristled at his blunt repudiation, at the sullenness of his tone. “Are you blaming me?”
“I don’t suppose,” he said, gently, “it would do much good at this point.”
“You do have some responsibility,” she said, pithy and acerbic, annoyed at his insolence. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Yes, I know. Could we talk about this later?”
“When later?” she said, affronted by his soft and savorless voice.
“When I don’t feel like strangling someone.”
“Me, you mean.”
“No, I don’t mean you. I mean the whole bloody world,” he said sharply.
“It might turn out to be nothing.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Blunt and brusque.
“We’re going to have to talk about it sometime.”
“But. Not. Now.”
Her temper was rising. “You’re acting like a child.”
He shot her a gelid look. “And you’re acting like a shrew.”
“How dare you call me a shrew,” she hissed.
A muscle twitched over his stark cheekbone, and silent, he fixed a cool eye on her.
“Just like a man,” she said, flushed and petulant. “Mute and muzzled when there’s the devil to pay.”
He rolled his eyes but gave no answer, and from that point on, no matter what she said or how she prodded him, he refused to respond. Even when she lost her temper, lunged forward, and slapped his face, he just grimaced, grabbed her, and tossed her back on her seat. Then, bracing his foot against her seat cushion as if to ward her off, he slid down on his spine, shut his eyes, and promptly went to sleep.
Openmouthed, she sat transfixed, reminded of their first night together when he’d said to her, “Observe,” and proceeded to shock her with his instant erection. In the same astounding fashion, he’d fallen asleep, his mastery over his senses extraordinary.
She swore under her breath, debating an outright attack. Not that she was likely to prevail. Nor would such behavior solve her dilemma.
This particular problem required a cool head and thoughtful reflection.
Not that it wouldn’t be satisfying to punch him a few times as well.
If it would only help, she brooded.
Although, if nothing else, the turmoil and fury had served as remedy to whatever had been ailing her. She felt quite herself again.
Except for being mad as a hornet.
CHAPTER 19
WHEN THEY REACHED Oak Knoll, Oz helped Isolde alight. In the presence of grooms and footmen, with Dimitri looking on, he said with cultivated grace, “Would you like me to call your maid?”
“I’m perfectly capable of calling my maid,” she said, bristling at his cool detachment.
He smiled tightly. “If you’ll excuse me then, I’m going for a ride. Don’t hold dinner for me.” He found himself addressing the air. Isolde had turned and was walking away.
He wasn’t obtuse; he understood her anger. But he needed time to sort out the turmoil in his brain, come to terms with the burden of his past. Reconcile what was to have been a temporary marriage with this
As the door closed on Isolde, he swiftly made for the stables. Too restless to wait while a groom saddled his horse, Oz rigged and harnessed Sukha himself. A chestnut stallion from the mountains beyond the Hindu Kush, Sukha had been bred for speed and endurance, and once horse and rider cleared the stable block, Oz let the leathers slip through his fingers. With extended rein and curbless mouth, Sukha was soon racing flat out over the downs.
Literally escaping entanglement, Oz rode fast and hard over the green hills and dales, eyes narrowed against the wind, his hair disheveled by the breeze, his ears deaf to the thunder of calamity riding his coattails. He didn’t want to reason or debate, referee or adjudicate; he just wanted to bolt.
Evade and avoid.
Until he no longer could.
The banner of defeat hoisted itself at the signpost for the village of Upper Framton, where his exhausted mount stumbled and nearly went down. Leaping from the saddle, Oz apologized to Sukha, who’d carried him across most of India as well as along London’s fashionable gallops, and turning back, he walked his lathered horse until the huge chestnut was rested enough to take his weight again.
His return to Oak Knoll proceeded at a gentle pace, the March light slowly fading, a light mist rising in the low ground as evening approached. No matter how often he tried to flee-whether from formidable memory or disquieting emotion-Khair’s memory remained fixed in his mind: beautiful and full of grace, her skin like alabaster against her dark hair, her eyes smiling, her soft voice teasing and playful. They’d grown up together at the court in Hyderabad, had always assumed they’d marry. But his suit had been rejected, her family committed to a union that would ally them to a powerful northern prince. Not that her family had had a hand in her death, but they’d been the reason she’d taken her own life rather than marry a man she didn’t love.
A part of him had died with her that day, and in the years since, he’d not found the means to salvage his life. Immediately after Khair’s funeral, he’d fled to England, where he’d dealt with his anguish in his own dissolute way. He was there when his father and mother had died, both prey to a summer fever that decimated the Anglo community. And ironically, while his English ancestry had cost him the woman he loved, the fact that his grandmother had been a native of Hyderabad permitted him to inherit the largest bank in India. Not adequate compensation for so heavy a loss of those he loved, but at least his road to destruction was paved with limitless gold.
Long accustomed to his particular method of escape, he was case-hardened to withdrawal, untaxed by the sensibilities that touched other men, thick-skinned with practice, and wholly selfish. Devoted to no living soul, when he finally came to a decision apropos Isolde, it was unequivocal. His certainty would have come as no surprise to those who knew him.
The moon was pale on the horizon when he rode into the stable yard, all turmoil and doubt resolved.
Isolde, unable to evade the behemoth in the room, had spent the ensuing hours fretting and stewing and in general working herself into a pet. It wasn’t that she was blaming Oz completely; naturally, she shared responsibility. Nor was she irrational when it came to the necessary decision making
It was her mistake, she ruefully thought, to have become so enamored and infatuated that she’d surrendered completely to passion and neglected the most fundamental prudence. Resting her head against the chair back, she softly groaned.
She should have known better.
The door to the small drawing room opened so softly, she wasn’t sure for a moment whether the sound was real or imagined. But the familiar voice, drawling and languid with impudence, brought her head around.
“I see you’ve eaten with your usual appetite.” His dark gaze surveyed the remnants of several dishes on the
