Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“Nor I. No man could have asked for a better bridal night.” His smile was as graceful as his turn of phrase. “However,” he said, drawing his hand away, “events of the day must be addressed.”

A small trepidation flitted through her senses at his painstakingly deliberate tone.

“Achille is pacing in the breakfast room, awaiting your arrival. Something about strawberry crepes that are no longer at optimum temperature. I told him I’m sure you wouldn’t care. I’ve already entertained Jess, who couldn’t wait. By the way, you must try Achille’s mango custard or he’ll pout. So, the first question is-would you like your bath first or food?”

“You first would be nice.”

“I agree. If only I didn’t have people waiting to see me in my office.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Already abandoned on my honeymoon.”

“Not for long. We’ll become reacquainted this afternoon.” Leaning forward, he gently kissed her. “In the meantime,” he said, sitting up, a note of restraint evident now in his voice, “I have another question to put to you. Would you mind being introduced to the ton in a more formal way than yesterday? Let me explain,” he added at her instant frown. “It seems that Compton is spreading rumors that our marriage is a farce.” Oz had a well-paid spy network here and abroad; a necessity in the world of banking where competitors often overlooked ethics. “I thought it might be best to have you make your bows at an official reception so the entire ton can see we are not only married but in love. You’ll look adoringly at me, I’ll return the favor, and we’ll foil these mischievous rumors while Compton stews in the corner.”

“You’d invite him?”

“Of course. Our most skeptical doubter must have a front-row seat.”

“Along with Lady Howe, I presume.”

“That I leave up to you. If you don’t wish to see her, I understand. On the other hand-”

“She’s your most skeptical doubter.”

“Yes.”

She pulled a face. “Must we?”

“Since you won’t let me put a bullet through Compton, yes we must. The man’s a scoundrel to the bone,” he said with a touch of impatience.

“I’d just prefer a less public way of dealing with him.” She frowned. “I’d have to be polite to him in front of everyone. I was hoping never to see him again.”

“You’ve led too sheltered a life, darling. Between marriage to me and your denouement in the broadsheets you’ve stepped into the glare of notoriety. There is no less public way,” he said with composure. “Especially since Compton’s spent considerable effort denouncing our marriage as a fabrication. Let me take care of this for you. Agree to this reception.”

“You’re sure there’s no other way?” Reluctance in every syllable.

“Nothing so conclusive as the public spotlight. You were excellent in your role at tea yesterday. You can do it again. I’ll be beside you to give you your cues.”

“You make it all sound so reasonable.”

He gave her one of his lavish smiles. “It is. A few hours and it’s over.”

She softly sighed. “I suppose if we must.”

“Excellent.” Oz smiled. The invitations had already been sent out.

“When exactly are you planning this reception? I want to return home soon.”

“Tonight.”

Her eyes flared wide. “Tonight! Surely no one will come on such short notice.”

His lips twitched. “Of course they will. I have a reputation for being unmanageable. They’ll want to see if you can manage me.”

“I can’t, of course.”

“Tonight you can.”

“In that case,” she said with a sudden smile, “I must plan my strategy. The thought of you as a tractable husband quite boggles the mind.”

“Be gentle.” His gaze was angelic.

Pushing up into a sitting position, she playfully said, “Mock me if you dare. I’ll be holding the whip hand over you in public.”

The covers had fallen away as she sat up, exposing her sumptuous breasts, their soft ripeness and rosy warmth close enough to touch. Oz’s libido reacted instantly. Fully capable of controlling his impulses, however, his voice was well ordered when he spoke. “Consider, my pet, once everyone is gone, I might be interested in whips as well.”

“I’m not sure that’s all bad,” she said with wink.

He laughed. “I should have met you before and saved myself from a good deal of boredom.”

“And I as well,” she airily replied when short days ago she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of sexual familiarity with a man she barely knew. “Do you really have people waiting in your office?”

He almost said no, the plaintiveness in her voice clear. If Sam wasn’t waiting for instructions, if Davey wasn’t impatient to have him reply to the morning’s telegrams, if he wasn’t routinely engaged in banking business at this time of day, he might have. “I do, I’m sorry,” he gently said. “But you have an appointment as well after breakfast. A modiste is coming to fit you for a new gown.”

She frowned. “What if I’d said no to your reception?”

“Then you simply would have had a new gown. If I’ve offended you, I apologize.”

“You’d better. I suppose my entire day’s scheduled?” she fretfully said, irritated with his apparently inexhaustible authority.

He put up a calming hand. “Feel free to do as you please.” “Except for the modiste.”

He smiled. “If you don’t mind. She’ll be here at eleven. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” There was no point in useless argument when his plans were fully en train. He came to his feet. “Davey’s waiting.”

MRS. AUBIGNY, THE most sought-after modiste in London, a woman fully aware of her consequence, was brought into what Josef referred to as the sewing room, precisely at eleven. Introductions were made, the door closed on Josef, and the fair, stylishly dressed Frenchwoman surveyed Isolde with a keen, assessing gaze.

Then she smiled warmly.

“Allow me to offer you my congratulations on bringing Lennox to heel,” she pleasantly said, an undercurrent of French in her pronunciation.

“Do I say thank you to such frankness?”

“But of course, my dear. It’s a compliment. When Lennox’s man came to me I didn’t quite know what to expect, but I see now”-the modiste’s gaze narrowed in a considering way-“you’re quite out of the ordinary. Your pale, blushing beauty bespeaks a sans peur et sans reproche-what do the English say-purity, virtue? A change for his lordship.”

“You know his lordship personally?” Isolde inquired with her own candor. Was she dealing with another of Oz’s paramours?

“Non, non, my lady. You misunderstand. His lordship merely patronizes my shop.”

“Quite often I suspect,” Isolde said. Oh dear, how childish. She instantly regretted her comment.

This little bride was clearly jealous of her husband’s past-poor dear. “His lordship favors our establishment on occasion,” Mrs. Aubigny equivocated rather than reveal that Lennox was her best customer.

“I appreciate your tact.”

Ah, a woman of intuition. “One learns in this business, my lady.”

“One learns that men and women approach marriage differently,” Isolde returned with equal honesty.

“Not necessarily. In your case, you and his lordship were obviously in accord.”

It was impossible to reply truthfully. “My husband is quite convincing when he wants to be.”

“You must have been convincing as well, my lady. While his lordship’s fondness for women is well-known, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, he’s never been inclined to marry them. Everyone will view you with legitimate wonder.”

“A position I do not relish.”

Lennox’s bride spoke with distaste. Any society belle so clever as to have captured Lennox would have vaunted her conquest. “It’s only natural you’d find the full glare of society disquieting after having lived in the country so long,” Mrs. Aubigny kindly said, au courant on gossip. “But then that’s why I’ve been commissioned by his lordship. I’m to see that you’re not only dressed to perfection for your debut but also properly showcased. I assure you, you’ll dazzle the ton.”

“Did my husband so decree?” An instant, knife-sharp query, Isolde’s antipathy plain.

Is there a struggle for supremacy in the marriage? Who would have thought the little miss had such courage with a man like Lennox? “His lordship simply wishes to acknowledge you as his wife before the world,” the modiste smoothly replied. “Any and all decisions apropos your toilette are naturally yours to make,” she diplomatically added. “His lordship was quite specific. I’m here merely to assist you.”

Isolde softly sighed; there was no point in airing her grievances before a stranger. “Forgive me,” she said, silently taking herself to task for her ill-advised outburst. “I do appreciate your help, of course.”

And so you should, my dear, dressed as you are in that demode country gown. “You’ll be magnificent tonight, my lady,” Mrs. Aubigny bracingly pronounced, knowing she had her work cut out for her with the time allowed. “And you and his lordship will make an absolutely stunning couple.” The modiste kissed her fingertips with a flourish, envisioning the handsome pair with an artist’s eye. “The delicious contrasts-wildness and innocence, dark and fair, Lennox’s powerful virility-la, my sweet, taming him will be exciting. There now, I’ve made you blush,” she murmured. “Come now, enough of my flights of fancy. We must bestir ourselves,” she briskly added, indicating several fashion books on a nearby table, “You decide which design most appeals to you, my dear.”

Grateful for an end to the modiste’s embarrassing observations, Isolde put to rest her lingering resentment over Oz’s dictates and followed the dressmaker. Taking a seat beside her a moment later, Isolde set about perusing the beautiful illustrations, while the Frenchwoman kept up a running commentary, offering pithy judgments with her usual vigor.

Amused at the fiction that the decision was hers to make, Isolde waited to see which design Mrs. Aubigny would deem appropriate.

“Certes, pink is too youthful for a wife,” the modiste firmly declared, wrinkling her nose at a pink confection of a gown. “As is this pastel shade of blue, non, non, completely unsuitable”-another page flipped over-“this daffodil yellow as well-not with your fair skin. Umm-this rose and the sea green-I think not. They’re both too precious by half. A woman of mettle such as yourself who’s taken on a brute like Lennox requires je ne sais quoi-a bit more drama.” Three more pages discarded. “What I’d really like to see you in, my sweet, would be a diaphanous white, wholly feminine creation, but it’s hardly appropriate on such a cold night,” she went on, turning over several more pages. “Black, too, would be wonderful with your coloring, but not quite right I think for a lady of your, shall we say, grace. Nor do I think his lordship would like you in something so seductive.” To Isolde’s quick look, she added, “He’d find the sensual implications unsuitable.”

“I doubt he’s so pious.”

“He isn’t, but he’d prefer his wife not attract lustful glances.” Or so his note had asserted-although less directly. He’d used the word lurid.

“You no doubt know him better than I, but still I’d disagree. His lordship is degage about women.”

But not about a wife apparently. There was no point, however, in continuing the argument, so Mrs. Aubigny crisply said, “I’m sure you’re right. Tell me now, what do you think of this cobalt blue velvet?” She tapped the illustration with her manicured nail. “In the midst of winter, with the chill and rain, the soft fabric and diamant ornament offers a cozy sense of luxury and warmth.”

More than willing to defer to Mrs. Aubigny’s expertise, Isolde yielded without argument. She’d never been a martinet to fashion in any event. Country ways were considerably less modish. “If you think it suitable, then I agree.”

“It’s perfection.” Mrs. Aubigny made a circle with her thumb and forefinger and briefly held it aloft to underscore her point. “We have a bit of dashing spectacle, but not too much. The sumptuous fabric draws the eyes, the shade of blue is perfect against your pale skin, the dйcolletage, if I might say so, is everything that’s proper, yet revealing enough to discretely display your lovely breasts.”

Her attention called to the low neckline of the gown, Isolde murmured, “You don’t think it too shocking?”

“Non, non-it’s the perfect compromise. Wifely, yet alluring.”

“Very well.” Isolde wasn’t overly concerned with gowns in general. Had they been perusing photos of new breeds of cattle, her attention would have been more engaged.

The necessary approval granted, Mrs. Aubigny immediately rose from her chair, clapped her hands, and called out, “Vite, vite, my little helpers!” The door to an adjoining room opened and the room was soon awash with pretty young assistants. Isolde was quickly stripped to her chemise and petticoats and placed on a small dais that had been carried in with all the paraphernalia required for a fitting. Mrs. Aubigny commenced cutting then draping blue velvet on Isolde while a dozen chattering young women expertly pinned and basted the fabric in place.