Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

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 if-there was still the remote possibility she was jumping to conclusions-if she should be pregnant. However, she didn’t think herself unduly difficult in expecting Oz to discuss the situation. Although that might be too demanding for a man who’d apparently avoided permanence in his relationships. More to the point, a man who’d offered her his name with the clear understanding that there existed an express time limit to the offer.

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 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.”

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 home away from home for Oz in recent years. “I’m bone tired, brain weary, and out of sorts with the world; you’ll have to fuck ’em without me,” he said over his shoulder as he moved away.

When Oz entered his house a short time later, Josef greeted him with studied civility.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Oz said, shrugging out of his coat, his voice entirely prosaic, not a hint of drink in his tempered syllables. “She told me to go, and if someone told you something different, they shouldn’t have had their ear to the door.”

“Yes, sir,” Josef said with scrupulous restraint, having heard it all from Achille. Taking Oz’s coat from him, he nodded to his right. “You have a visitor in your study, sir. Mr. Malmsey.”

“That was quick,” Oz said drily.

Josef didn’t have to ask what he meant; everyone at Oak Knoll knew what had transpired. Nor would he have asked in any event with Oz’s mood unchancy. “Would you like coffee brought in?”

“Why not, although I doubt this is a cordial call. You’d better bring me some brandy, too.”

Entering his study a moment later, Oz greeted Malmsey with a natural grace uninhibited by drink. “This needn’t be awkward, Malmsey.” He waved him into a chair. “You’ll find me completely amenable.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve been most agreeable; my client is grateful.”

“Pray be candid,” Oz said, dropping into a chair opposite the solicitor, “or we’ll be talking circles around each other. I know why you’re here.” Leaning back, he crossed his legs and lazily smiled. “Let’s deal with the ledger pages of our mutual responsibilities impartially. You’ll find me willing to sign most anything.”

“Very well, sir.” Given leave to dispense with the preliminaries, Malmsey went directly to the primary consideration. “If there’s a child, the countess would like full custody.”

Oz’s brows rose. “That’ll take more than a conventional divorce, won’t it? I’m no solicitor, but women’s rights are limited in practice if not theory.”

“Naturally, it would have to be a private agreement.”

Whether impelled by some primal patriarchal impulse or whether he felt Isolde was asking too much, Oz hesitated when faced with the finality of giving up his child. Should a child even exist, he reminded himself. Not a certainty at this point. “Is that common? A private agreement?”