She blushed prettily.

The room always went quiet for a second at such blatant affection from a man who’d seduced women far and wide but never loved them.

“She’s shy,” he’d say, smiling fondly at his bride. “An admirable quality in a wife.”

Another moment of shocked silence would ensue.

Oz had always preferred audacious women.

And so the at-home visit went, Isolde smiling through it all, accepting society’s spurious good wishes and pointed glances at her belly with grace, Oz discharging his role of doting husband with careless panache. All the while the servants keeping the cake plates and teacups replenished.

It was a long, albeit productive day.

Until finally, an old roue made the mistake of saying, “If I was twenty years younger, Lennox, I’d vie for the lady’s favors myself.”

“If you were twenty years younger, Wilkins, I’d call you out,” Oz said, his expression uniquely unpleasant. “Consider yourself lucky.” As if suddenly reaching some indefinable breaking point, Oz rose to his feet, surveyed the social herd he despised, and said with cool precision, “My wife is fatigued. I trust you know your way out.”

No one debated staying with the grim set of Lennox’s mouth.

The room emptied in minutes.

“No one else gets in, Josef,” Oz ordered, nodding at his majordomo, who’d held the drawing room door open for the departing guests. “Not God himself.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like a brandy?”

“Another bottle if you please.” He’d moderated his drinking while they had guests, fearful of losing his temper before all the breathless voyeurs. But he’d finally run them off, and dropping onto the settee beside Isolde, he unbuttoned his coat and waistcoat and loosened his cravat.

“Champagne for the mistress?”

Oz glanced at Isolde.

“Cognac, please.”

Oz grinned. “We deserve it.”

“Indeed. You were everything a loving wife could wish for. Thank you.”

“You may thank me later in a more personal way.”

She laughed. “My pleasure.”

He grinned. “I know.”

But when the fresh bottle arrived, she watched him drink with a kind of reckless speed that was disconcerting. Noticing the apprehension in her eyes, he lifted his glass to her and offered her a glittering smile. “After hours of posturing and guile, darling, I need to wash the bad taste from my mouth. Don’t be alarmed. I’m never difficult until my third bottle.”

“Perhaps you should eat something.”

“Very wifely,” he murmured, pouring himself another brandy. “But I’m not hungry.”

A timid knock on the door was shouted away.

Josef was brave enough to open the door and announce, “A Mr. Malmsey, sir.”

“I’ll see him,” Isolde said, jumping to her feet.

Oz lunged and caught her wrist. “Stay. Send him up, Josef. Sorry, did I hurt you?”

Rubbing her wrist, Isolde shook her head.

He gave her credit for courage; he’d have to be more careful. “Why don’t you order us some food,” he suggested in atonement. “I probably should eat. Anything,” he added to the query in her gaze. “You decide.”

He consciously set out to be civil, greeting Malmsey with good cheer, thanking him for his quick service, signing each document without looking at it, his bold scrawl dwarfing Isolde’s fine copperplate script. “Would you like a drink?” he asked when the last paper was back in Malmsey’s leather portfolio.

He caught Isolde shaking her head behind his back and grinned. “My wife is alarmed at my drinking, so I won’t insist you join me. Is there anything else?”

It was dismissal no matter the softness of his voice.

But Malmsey glanced at Isolde, wondering if she required his help.

“I’m perfectly fine, Malmsey,” Isolde said. “My Lord Lennox assures me he’s not difficult until his third bottle.”

Oz lifted the brandy bottle from the table. “Two, Malmsey. Your client is quite safe.”

But he didn’t eat when the food arrived, and when he broached his third bottle, Isolde said, “I think I’ll see about finding a book to read in your library.”

As she made to rise, he put out his arm, forcing her back. “Talk to me instead. Tell me the world is good”-he smiled tightly-“discounting the fashionable world, of course. Parasites all,” he muttered.

“You’ve been too long in the ton. Country society is not so brittle.”

“But is it good? Convince me of that with your betrothed-what was his name?-leaving you at the altar.”

“He didn’t precisely leave me at the altar.”

Oz looked at her and snorted.

“Well, I suppose he did in a way.”

“His name is?”

“I’m not grossly wounded, Oz. His name is Will, Baron Fowler, and you needn’t snarl.”

“I wasn’t snarling. I was grumbling. Achille brought you cake I see. Was it to your liking?”

“Everything he makes is to my liking.”

“Good, because he’s coming with us.”

“When?” The papers were signed.

“Tomorrow morning. The roads at night can be treacherous. Traveling by day is safer for you.”

“You’re not coming?”

He smiled at the hint of wistfulness in her voice. “Of course I’m coming. Would I miss meeting Will?”

“Don’t be difficult now. I’m quite reconciled to the situation.”

“I’m never difficult.”

“You’re always difficult.”

“How soon a wife turns shrewish,” he drawled. “I might have to teach you some manners.”

“You’d have to first know what manners are.”

He laughed. “Then I’ll have to teach you something else.”

“There at least you have competence.”

He dipped his head. “So I’ve been told.”

“By all your lovers who glared at me over tea. How did you manage to service them all?” She’d counted at least a score in the course of the day.

“A robust constitution and a fondness for women.”

“For sex, you mean.”

“Yes, for that.”

“Will they come calling again?”

“Josef won’t let them in.”

“But they’ll try.”

He shrugged. “It won’t do them any good.” He flashed a wicked grin. “I’m a happily married man.”

She couldn’t help but smile back. “You were wonderful this afternoon. I mean it.” She kissed her fingertips. “It was a beautiful sight.”

“I’ll surpass what you saw today when Will comes to call.”

“I shouldn’t be so shallow, but-”

“You are,” he sardonically finished. “As would anyone be, darling, in the same situation. I know what country society is like-incestuous, exclusive, everyone knowing everything. Did you go to the wedding?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t.”

“There’s your mistake. Never show your feelings. That’s when the claws come out. You must have been bloodied.”

“I have good friends. In some ways, incestuous as country society may be, it’s not so vicious as the ton.”

“Yes, it is. You must be well liked.”

“I like to think I am.”

“I’m curious. Did this Will marry an heiress richer than you?”

“Yes, but that’s not why he married her.”

“If you say so.”

“Don’t look at me like that. He didn’t marry her for her money.”

“Does Will have money?”

“Some.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t look so smug. He has sufficient wealth.”

She was becoming distrait. “I need a nap,” Oz said, coming to his feet and holding out his hand to Isolde. “Come keep me company. We didn’t sleep much last night.”

“You shouldn’t have said that about Will,” she murmured.

“I’m sorry. Truly.” Reaching down, he grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “I’ll make it up to you. Tell me what you want.”

“Because you’re so rich you can give me whatever I want.”

He grinned. “As long as we understand each other.”

She punched him.

He dragged her close, wrapped his arms around her, and held her tightly. “We’re two lost souls, darling. Let me entertain you. At least for now.”

Resting her chin on his chest, she gazed up at him, debating whether to take issue with his characterization. Not in the mood for argument, however, she softly sighed. “You are entertaining…”

“Damn right I am.” He’d honed his skills to a fine art in recent years, dissipation his remedy for painful memory. “And I have what-a fortnight at least to play congenial husband. Maybe more if Compton proves obtuse. You must tell me what you like best in the way of amusement.”

“Surely you know better than I if all the lustful ladies who came to call today are any indication of your competence.”

In his experience, discussing other women with a lover was never beneficial. While disclosing other females’ sexual preferences was not only ill-bred but suicidal. “As I recall, you like to come a few times before you settle into a rhythm,” he offered.

She grinned. “Are you avoiding my question?”

“I certainly am.”

“What if I want specifics? Say about Lady Livingston who never stopped staring at you. Or the Honorable Miss Childers who looked near tears.”

“Why don’t I show you what they like,” he said in order to put an end to her catechism.

“With names attached?”

“I don’t know why, but if it appeals to you, certainly.”

“You’re lying.”

He had a discerning little wife. “And you’re much too persistent. Should I ask you to tell me how you and Will made love? Ah, it’s not quite so amusing now.”

She had the grace to look nonplussed.

“I apologize,” she said. “Although you must admit,” she said with the tenacity he’d found common to women on this subject, “that many distressed lovers begs the question.”

“Look, darling, every one of the ladies who came to tea today is bored. I alleviate the boredom, that’s all.” He allowed himself more honesty with her. But then, having done her the notable service of marrying her, he expected her to be more accommodating to him.

She understood all the ladies wanted Oz for more than that, but she also knew when to call it quits. “So you’d be willing to exert your imagination and finesse for me as well,” she lightly said.

“With pleasure.” Although, there had been a time in his life when making love had been about love and not about lust. “Now, would you like me to bring your cake upstairs?” He appreciated his wife’s good sense. Some women lacked such self-restraint. “I’m taking that,” he said, nodding at the brandy bottle.

“Then, yes. I’ll indulge my gluttonous desires in addition to relieving my boredom.”

“We both will,” he said with a roguish wink.

After showing her into his bedroom, he set down their provisions and waved her toward a chair. “Would you like the services of a maid?”

“Not unless you’re leaving,” she drolly replied.

He turned, the brandy bottle in his hand. “Not likely.”

As he went back to pouring his drink, she surveyed Oz’s bedroom. It was more austere than the room she’d bathed in that morning, the draperies and carpet cool tones of blue, the walls adorned with muted, bucolic murals reminiscent of Claude Lorrain. The furniture was large in scale, the chairs sized to a man, the four-poster bed a Chippendale piece from the previous century.

“Crиme anglaise on your cake?” Oz asked without turning around.

“Yes please.” He might have been her husband of many years so casual his query and tone-like his easy manner at breakfast, or more to the point, like his suave affability with all his fawning lovers who’d come to call today. He was comfortable with women.

He swung around, his drink and her cake in hand. “I suggest we dine in bed. If your sensibilities aren’t averse to such casualness.”

“As you may recall, my sensibilities are rather unencumbered.”

He smiled. “Maybe that’s why I proposed. I found your, shall we say, eagerness charming.”

“While I found your, shall we say, stamina charming,” she returned in teasing mimicry.

“Allow me to put that to good purpose once again.” He nodded toward the bed. “After you eat your cake-or before. Or during,” he said over his shoulder.

She watched him walk away with a degree more infatuation than was advisable considering the practical nature of their marriage. But he was sinfully handsome and devilishly good in bed-the answer to any woman’s dream, which was reason enough if indeed reason even entered the equation in their bizarre arrangement.

And if the sheer beauty of his person wasn’t enough of a lure, she mused, his tailor further enhanced his many charms, the width of his shoulders displayed to advantage beneath his hand-woven tweed jacket, his long, muscular legs impeccably showcased in slim-fitting trousers, his linen dazzling white in contrast to his bronzed skin. In deference to Isolde’s limited wardrobe, he’d not changed from morning dress to meet their guests. He was a considerate husband-particularly while making love.