Sexy As Hell

small table near the fire as he walked into the room. “You must be feeling restored.”

Isolde had eaten supper in the cozy chamber as was her habit prior to Oz’s arrival. “I do feel better, thank you. And you?” She was capable of sarcasm as well. “You look wet.”

His hair and clothes were damp from the evening mist. “It’s always wet in England.” He stripped off his gloves as he approached and tossed them on a chair.

“Should I apologize?”

“Not unless you control the weather as well as my passions.”

Her brows rose at the caustic edge to his voice. “Allow me to set your mind at rest concerning the weather at least.”

“As to the other, I’ll contrive to master that myself.” He stood before her now, his large form silhouetted against the firelight, his face half in shadow, a restiveness to his stance. “I’m not staying.”

“Fine.”

“What do you mean, fine?” His surprise showed for a fleeting moment before, more clear-eyed, he saw his advantage.

“Did you think I’d beg and plead for you to stay?” She held his gaze for a moment. “On the contrary, should I be pregnant, it’s my problem, not yours.” She’d had plenty of time in his absence to deal with the practicalities. You could no more hold Oz in bondage than you could shackle the wind.

“You might not be pregnant at all.” He stood there splendid, half-tamed, unencumbered.

“I agree.”

“Naturally, if you are, I’ll assume any financial responsibility,” he said, cool and businesslike.

“There’s no need. My fortune is considerable.” She smiled faintly. “And thanks to you, secure. Sincerely, Oz, I’m most grateful.” Her smile widened, and her eyes sparkled in the firelight. “For all your many services rendered.”

He forced himself not to move, even as powerful lust urged him to pick her up, carry her over to the sofa, and fuck her until hell froze over. “I think I’ll leave tonight.” Sheer self-preservation. What had appeared sensible and reasonable on his ride back no longer seemed so astute, logic and lust seriously at odds.

“I’ll have Lewis help with your departure.” She picked up a small bell. “Although Betsy and Jess should wait until morning before they set out for London.”

For a flashing second he debated plucking the bell from her fingers and changing his plans.

They’d been together long enough that she read that small hesitation.

And out of hope, she waited a second more.

“I’ll have Sam tell Betsy,” Oz said in a neutral voice. “And if you need anything at anytime, don’t hesitate to let me know. My resources are at your disposal.”

A shame you aren’t, she thought, although he’d been clear about his role from the start. “If I should prove to be with child, would you mind if the divorce waited until after the birth? As a matter of clarity.”

How often he and Khair had spoken of having a family. And now he might become a father by a woman he’d known a few weeks. A sudden disquieting thought raced through his brain. “As a matter of clarity since Will’s already married and your child needs a father, you mean?” His voice was suddenly soft with malice. “I don’t recall you having your menses since we wed.”

A blush of disbelief washed up her face, replaced an instant later by a look of burning outrage. “How dare you suggest such a thing!”

“Then tell me,” he said, unsympathetic and hard as nails, “how do I know this child is mine?”

“There might not be a child,” she cooly replied.

“One can but hope,” he drawled.

She went utterly still, her eyes held his for a stark moment, and with an equal measure of sarcasm, she softly said, “I’ll thank you to shut the door behind you when you leave.”

He was as motionless as she, his gaze knife sharp. “Coloring like mine runs true.” He flicked a finger toward his face. “We’ll find out the identity of the father soon enough.”

“All I need from you is a divorce.” Clipped and curt.

Anger flickered through his eyes. “Except not just now.”

“Anytime,” she said grimly. “I’ll send Malmsey directions.” She took a small breath, and her eyes were dark with rage once again. “Do you think I care what people say? If I did, I’d never have spread my name in all the scandal sheets. So you’re free to go back to London and your women-”

His dark eyes, full on her face, narrowed. “And you to Will.”

“No. Unlike you, I don’t break up marriages.”

“Nor do I,” he said suavely. “I just make life bearable for the wives.”

“How commendable,” she said, ten generations of ice in her voice. “I wish you well in your benevolence. Now, if you won’t go, I will.” She came to her feet.

“Relax, darling,” he said without inflection, a faint smile on his lips. “I’m leaving.”

CHAPTER 20

OZ WAS BACK in London by ten, and by half past he was slipping into a chair at one of Brooks’s gaming tables, in command of his feelings once again.

“You win, Harry,” young Telford said with a grin. “You bet seven weeks. Evenin’, Oz,” he cheerfully said. “Marriage worn thin?”

“Don’t they all.”

“Could have told you.” The young marquis had been married four months.

Oz flashed the table a grin. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“You were probably three parts drunk.”

“No probably about it. What are the stakes? I’m in the mood to gamble.”

And as was normally the case with the wealthy and privileged young noblemen who amused themselves at Brooks’s, talk of wives and marriage was quickly exhausted. Play was high that night, thanks to Oz’s reckless mood, and liquor flowed like water-that, too, due to Oz’s largesse. He was drinking heavily in an effort to dislodge the images saturating his brain and raising havoc with his peace of mind: Isolde in bed, in the bath, in his arms, her voluptuous body warm against his, her honeyed sweetness his paradise on earth-his irresistible temptation.

The irresistible part unnerved him; it pissed him off.

Reaching for his remedy for aggravation, he found his glass empty. He shot a gimlet-eyed glare at a footman, the servant quickly filled his glass, and so it remained-never less than brim full-the rest of the night.

He consistently won, of course.

Didn’t he always?

But he was drunker than usual, or more accurately, drunk when he stood on the pavement outside the club and squinted against the morning sun.

“Ready for some cunt?” Harry inquired in slurred accents.

Oz turned and surveyed him for a speculative moment. “I’m not sure,” he said regretfully, “I’ve the stomach for it just yet.”

“Marriage can sour you, that’s a fact,” Harry commiserated, five years’ married and a father three times. “Just don’t think about it. That’s my advice.”

It was advice Harry’s wife pursued as well. Rumor had it her last child was Paxton’s. Oz’s brow knit in a black scowl; like the child of questionable paternity his wife might be carrying. “I’m off to bed,” he muttered. “I’ve a helluva headache.”

“Hair of the dog, Oz. It’s the only way. Let’s go to Marguerite’s; her brandy’s fine, and if you change your mind, the ladies are finer.”

“Some other time. You go. Give Marguerite my regards.”

“She’s been asking for you, you know.”

Oz shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow.” The gilded brothel, and its equally resplendent owner, had been a habitual