Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

She swung around slowly, her pregnancy advanced. “That didn’t take long,” she said with a warm smile for her husband. “Ian must have had the new drawings ready.”

“He did; I approved them. Demolition begins next week.” Stepping to one side, Fitz said, “Look, darling, Oz stopped by.”

“What a pleasure to see you again,” Rosalind pleasantly said, keeping her counsel about the earlier visit. “Would you like tea, coffee”-she lifted her brows-“something stronger perhaps?”

“We’ll both have a brandy,” Fitz said, having drunk his breakfast often enough in the past to keep Oz company. “Come, sit down, Oz. I’ll shut the door so customers don’t wander in.”

A few moments later, they were seated in a corner of the gallery in comfortable chairs and had been served tea and sweets for Rosalind and brandies for the men.

“How are you feeling?” Oz impetuously asked, his gaze concentrated on Rosalind. “You look lovely. Healthy”-he smiled-“I believe the word is glowing.”

Rosalind and Fitz exchanged an affectionate glance. “At this stage,” she said, turning to Oz and indicating her belly, conspicuous beneath the soft silk, “I mostly feel fat. But thank you for the compliment.”

“Isolde’s pregnant.” While softly uttered, Oz’s declaration was a precipitous rush of words.

“That’s what Fitz said,” Rosalind smoothly replied. “Congratulations.”

It remains to be seen whether congratulations are in order. But as capable of politesse as his companions, Oz graciously replied, “Thank you. Isolde’s extremely pleased.”

“Do you have any questions about”-Rosalind again gestured at her swollen stomach-“pregnancy in general or in particular?” He’d not taken his eyes off her since he’d walked in.

“A thousand.” He smiled. “I won’t bore you. Have you picked out a name?”

Rosalind glanced at her husband, then at Oz. “We’re arguing about names,” she lightly said.

“We’re discussing names.” Fitz grinned. “I expect I’ll lose in the end. Not that I mind, darling, considering you’re doing all the work.”

“Indeed. Although I’ve been feeling wonderful from the first. Since I never thought I could have a child,” she said on a small exhalation, “I’m not inclined to complain in the least. Oh my,” she murmured, placing her hand on her stomach, “the baby’s kicking again; the little dear’s getting stronger every day.”

The movement was obvious beneath the fine silk.

“May I feel it?” Oz’s voice was low, constrained, his dark gaze fixed on her belly. “Forgive me,” he added in a normal tone. “You must think me exceedingly rude.”

“Not at all. Fitz was just as fascinated, weren’t you, darling? Remember the first time the baby kicked?” She turned back to Oz. “We were all agog. Here, put your hand right here.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Oz reached out and delicately placed his fingertips on her belly.

“Put your palm down so you call really feel the movement. Don’t be shy.”

He did as instructed, the baby suddenly kicked, and Oz jerked his hand back. His heart was racing.

“When is Isolde due?” Rosalind asked, Oz’s expression one of wonder.

“I don’t know. She’s not far along yet.”

Fitz caught his wife’s eye and warned her off. “I don’t suppose you have any suggestions for names.” Fitz tactfully changed the subject.

Grateful for the civility, Oz collected himself, and when he spoke, no evidence of his emotions remained. “With my background, my repertoire of names is more Indian than English. I wouldn’t be much help.”

At that point, the conversation turned to India, a country Fitz had visited several times. Rosalind was fascinated, asking a multitude of questions. With India the crown jewel in Britain’s empire, the store’s stock of books on India was considerable. Later, the men compared hunting experiences, India fertile ground for exotic game.

But as they conversed, Oz’s glance would drift back to Rosalind, his fascination with her pregnancy profound. He was young, Rosalind thought, a novice in dealing with the event; she understood his interest. Fitz understood other factors were in play as well, questions of paternity perhaps, although no one had explicitly said so.

After a convivial hour of conversation, Oz took his leave with an open invitation from Fitz and Rosalind for dinner or tea or a visit of any kind.

Fitz escorted Oz out.

“I don’t pretend to know your situation,” he said as they stood on the pavement outside the store, “but if I were to give a single piece of advice, I’d say, don’t burn your bridges.” He smiled. “You never know until you know.”

Oz laughed. “Since I’m currently in limbo, I won’t find it difficult to follow your advice. Now, if only I experience some epiphany before I drink myself to death.”

“At least you’re not involved in a duel every other day.”

“True. Marriage has emasculated me in that respect.”

Ftiz grinned. “I’m sure the members of Brooks’s are relieved.”

“No doubt.” Oz put out his hand. “Thank you. You and Rosalind are an island of calm in a highly volatile world.”

Fitz gripped his hand. “Come visit anytime. I’m always ready for a brandy.”

Later that day, Fitz sent Marguerite a brief note:

Oz is beginning to question his resentments. He came to see Rosalind and was enthralled with her belly. If he doesn’t drink himself to death in the meantime, I feel that a suspension of hostilities is possible.

AT THE SAME time Oz was riveted by the spectacle of a heavily pregnant belly for the first time in his life, Isolde was riding hard after the hounds. Will and Anne had invited her for the neighborhood hunt they were hosting that week, and since Pamela and Charles had promised to serve as shield to Will’s unwanted attentions, Isolde had accepted the invitation. In a few weeks, she’d no longer be able to ride hell-bent for leather but would have to content herself with a more gentle pace.

True to their word, either Pamela or Charles were at her side throughout the day as well as at dinner that evening. Isolde enjoyed the exhilarating afternoon, the soaring jumps and wild gallops, the warm spring temperatures and lush green countryside, the agreeable company of her neighbors, other than the Fowlers. All in all, she had a most gratifying time.

Even dinner was pleasant, with Charles and Pamela on either side of her at the table, the conversation animated, farming and horses favored topics, the food excellent. And when it came time to retire-the company staying over as was usual-Pamela saw her to her bedroom.

“I’ll wait to hear you lock your door,” she said as they reached Isolde’s door.

“Thank you, and thank Charles. I had a wonderful, peaceful day with no harassment from Will.”

“He was exceedingly grumpy by the end of the day, but you made Anne happy, if you care.”

Isolde shrugged. “Why not. As long as I escaped his attentions, I can afford to be magnanimous. Although,” she said with a smile as she opened her door, “the reviling looks sent my way by our hostess were not in the least charitable.”

“The poor girl doesn’t have a charitable bone in her body,” Pamela returned. “Although knowing her parents, it’s no wonder.”

“None of which is my problem,” Isolde airily noted, and with a wave, she entered her bedroom and locked her door.

But she didn’t immediately sleep that night, as was the case since Oz had left. It was most difficult to distract her thoughts once she was alone, when the activities with which she kept herself occupied during the day were at an end. She’d learned to run through the litany of all that was good in her life to remind herself there was recompense for her loss. But she missed him nevertheless.

She expected she always would.

TWO DAYS LATER, Oz was deep in a high-stakes game at Brooks’s, debating which of several good cards to discard, when a player newly come to town said, “I saw your wife at Fowler’s the other day.” Ignoring the frantic shaking of heads from those standing behind Oz’s chair, the young Earl of Quarles continued walking into the lion’s den. “She’s not only dazzling, but she rides like an Amazon. She outrode everyone in the hunting field.”

Oz had stopped breathing.

The silence was so profound, the hiss and crackle of the fire could be heard from across the room.

Smoothly recovering himself, Oz’s gaze, judiciously blank, rested on the earl’s face. “At Fowler’s you say?”

Quarles, suddenly aware of the hush, more aware of the sleek chill in Oz’s voice, began to sweat. “I may… have… been mistaken,” he stammered.

Feeling not only cold but also bloodless, Oz set down his cards and pushed himself upright in his chair. “I doubt it. She rides well. Not that I’m sure she should be riding in her condition,” he murmured, his dark gaze so punitive no one dared respond to the startling admission. “Was she there long?”

“I-that is… you see-”

The buffeting, obsessive sensations so long held in check broke free, and abandoning reason and the role of complaisant husband, Oz said in a voice held steady only with effort, “Tell me or I’ll cut out your liver.”

“She was still there when I left after dinner,” the young man choked out in a rush of words, ashen and cringing under the lethal gaze.

“And what time would that have been?” Whisper soft, knife sharp, murderous.

No one dared interfere, the men at the table silent, the entire room hushed and expectant. Oz in his cups was a child of danger; drunk for weeks, he was the prince of darkness.

“Eleven,” Quarles answered, white-eyed and barely breathing.

“You’ve been most helpful,” Oz said. Picking up his cards again, he swept the table with a glance. “Are we playing or not?”

Disaster averted, the buzz of conversation resumed, although Quarles took the first opportunity given him to escape. Oz didn’t even look up as he left the game, his thoughts divided between his cards and his morning’s schedule.

The conversation between Oz and Quarles was repeated like a drumbeat throughout the club rooms, the tantalizing news soon carried farther afield by noble young sprigs leaving the club for other social pursuits. By morning, the story in all its explosive detail had raced through the beau monde, spurred and energized by the stunning news of Oz’s impending fatherhood.

Not only had the perennial bachelor been snared.

But a child was also on the horizon… and so quickly.

People immediately began counting on their fingers.

What lovely tittle-tattle! Would he discard his lovers? Or more to the point, how often would he visit his breeding wife in the country? No one seriously expected him to relinquish his lovers. Although, with poor Quarles having only narrowly escaped serious harm, it was deliciously apparent that Lennox was jealous of his wife.

Astonishing!

It quite staggered the imagination!

THE MORNING FOLLOWING Quarles’s disclosure at Brooks’s, Isolde had finally reached the limits of her patience. Will had arrived as she was having her breakfast for heaven’s sake! Jumping up, she advanced on him in a rage,

“This is too much, damn you! I’m telling Anne! I swear I will!”

“Calm down. She’ll only blame you for it.”

“For heaven’s sake, Will. How can-”

Suddenly the door to the breakfast room swung open, crashed into the wall like a mallet, toppling a small curio cabinet and catapulting a collection of Meissen figurines to the floor.

His mud-spattered riding coat swinging against his filthy boots, Oz stormed in, his heels crushing the shattered porcelain, his hard, haggard gaze leveled on Will. “Get the hell out of my house!”

“My house,” Isolde snapped, instantly provoked by her husband’s misplaced authority.

Oz shot her a look as though noticing her for the first time. With a shrug, he said, “Her house. Now get the hell out!”

As Will hesitated, Oz pulled out a pistol with dizzying speed, cocked the hammer, and in a voice cold with outrage, snarled, “Stay away from my wife.”

“Maybe we should ask Isolde what she wants,” Will hurled back. “She and I were friends long before you came along!”

Isolde had never seen the blood drain from a man’s face. Frightened, she went still, the pale, stark planes of Oz’s face conspicuous in the morning light, the blank look in his eyes terrifying, the pistol aimed at Will’s chest held, white-knuckled.

“Don’t be a fucking hero,” Oz murmured, slurred, softly goading.

And completely drunk, Isolde suddenly realized.

“Go, Will, for God’s sake!” she gasped, unable to breathe, understanding now why Oz had looked right through her.