Sexy As Hell (7 page)

“So my scandal will be a mere bagatelle next to your indiscretions.”

“Everyone will consider you a saint for marrying me. So now, Miss Perceval, will you do me the honor of accepting my ardent, heartfelt proposal or reject me and cast me into eternal gloom?”

His roguish smile offered delight. Unrivaled as she well knew. But while his audacious proposal would solve her immediate problems, she was more sober than he since he’d had a bottle close at hand all night. And, she suspected
,
she was incomparably more responsible drunk or sober. “You’re very sweet, but—”

“I’m not in the least sweet. Even knowing that, unlike you, none of the women I know would consider equivocating over my proposal.”

She smiled. “They would squeal with delight, shriek ‘Yes!’ and drag you to the jewelers.”

His gaze from under half-lowered lashes was sardonic. “Rich men are much coveted by unmarried females.”

“Rich,
handsome
men even more.”

“Then you understand the great honor I do you,” he said, softly teasing.

Shifting on his lap, she faced him more fully—indecisive, uncertain, yet not unaware of the benefits of his proposal. Including the extravagant sexual pleasures he offered. “What if I were to agree to your reckless offer?”

“Then I’d suggest we finally end this discussion, call in the minister, and embark on the blissful state of matrimony.” His lip curled lightly in mockery. “Naturally, I’d expect due compensation for my charitable impulses.”

“To that I would willingly comply,” she laughingly replied.

“And to the marriage? Come, darling, enough dithering. Think of it as sport.”

She gazed at the prodigal young man pinning her with his dark, high-strung gaze. “As everything is with you.”

“You can’t say you didn’t enjoy last night.”

“No,” she honestly answered. “But I don’t know you.”

In the only respect that mattered to him, she did. “Consider, darling, would you rather get to know Compton in my stead?” He glanced at the door to the adjoining room; the man of the cloth’s voice was raised in hectoring accents. “Darling, we’re keeping the minister waiting.”

“I’m trying to decide,” she muttered.

“Would it help if I reminded you of Compton’s paunch, foul breath, and of course, his grievous luck at cards? He owes a fortune to the moneylenders.”

“Oh God, don’t remind me.”

“Sorry, but he won’t give up. Not with the moneylenders snapping at his heels.”

Drawing in a small breath, she hesitated still. Then exhaling, she said, not without sufficient trepidation to cause a slight catch in her voice, “Very well. I accept your kind offer.”

“I’m deeply honored,” Oz said with polished grace.

“And drunk.”

“Perhaps a little,” he lied, and, turning his head, shouted for the minister.

CHAPTER 4

MR. PELHAM’S RESERVATIONS were overcome with a generous gift to his parish, Malmsey’s with a quickly scrawled note by Oz in which he relinquished any interest in Isolde’s property, and shortly after, in room thirteen of Blackwood’s Hotel, with Malmsey and Fremont as witnesses, Miss Perceval and Baron Lennox prepared to outmaneuver Frederick Compton.

“Make it short,” Oz instructed the minister. At Pelham’s frown, he thought him an ungrateful bastard considering the sizable sum he’d donated to his church, but rather than argue about the man’s lack of appreciation, Oz turned to Isolde and gently said, “Unless
you
prefer the entire ritual, darling. Although you really shouldn’t be standing that long.”

He was brazen and shameless out of bed as well, Isolde thought, as a blush pinked her cheeks at his insinuation. But she answered with cool equanimity. “A short ceremony would please me.”

How like her, Oz reflected, recalling that same mild tone from their first meeting. “As you see, Mr. Pelham. The lady wishes brevity.”

But as the minister grudgingly flipped through the pages of his prayer book to the essential passages, Isolde reflected on the stark difference between this humble ceremony and what she’d once envisioned for her wedding day. Like every young lady of wealth, her dreams had been romantic and starry-eyed. The family chapel would have been filled with fragrant summer flowers, she would have been radiant in a magnificent couturier design instead of her travel gown, scores of guests would have been in attendance, and of course, a different bridegroom would have stood at her side.

But then Will had been obliged to marry Anne Verney.

Frederick’s coercion had taken a dangerous turn.

And here she was—harsh reality dispatching romantic dreams.

Oz chose not to consider the bizarre occasion other than as a temporary solution to a lady’s dilemma that offered him at least a month of deeply satisfying sex. As for romantic dreams, his had been buried in India two years ago. When the minister paused at the point in the ceremony where a ring was required for the bride’s finger, Oz pulled off his gem-cut signet ring and slid it on Isolde’s finger. It was less suitable perhaps than the emerald on the fourth finger of his left hand, but that ring was too precious to relinquish.

Once the ceremony was over, Oz saw that Isolde took possession of the marriage certificate, then he thanked the various participants and politely ushered them from the room. Shutting the door, he leaned back against it and looked at his new wife, his lashes at half-mast, his gaze unreadable. “So,” Oz spoke softly. “How are you feeling?”

She was silent for a moment. “Filled with doubt,” she quietly said. Plucking up her spirit because she wouldn’t become some vaporish female now that the deed was done, she added in a more normal tone of voice, “What about you?”

He shrugged, more sober suddenly than he wished. “It’s over. Let’s get out of here. We’ll wait at my house for the more definitive documents from Malmsey. We’ll have some champagne to celebrate the happy occasion,” he offered, hoping to lift her spirits—although he could use a bottle or two himself right now. “I have an excellent library if you like to read, a china collection of my mother’s I’m told is good”—
women like china collections, don’t they?
—“I also have a damned fine chef who’ll cook you anything you want. From cakes and tea to bloody beef and anything in between. Are you hungry?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do I look so forlorn you must cajole me?”

“Like a lost puppy, darling.” His voice was idle as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “Come, we’ll discuss Compton’s blighted hopes over breakfast,” he said, the familiar amusement back in his tone. “That should please you.”

She smiled ever so faintly as he moved toward her. “How blighted are his hopes? Lie if necessary.”

“Blighted beyond redemption. No lie. And as your savior,” he said with a wicked wink, taking her hand in his, “I shall expect my reward in short order.”
Better sex than morbid reflection—
his mantra of recent years.

“Shameless libertine,” she accused, although her voice held a hint of levity. “Don’t you ever think of anything else?”

“Not with you around.” Taking the marriage parchment from her hand, he dropped it on a chair and pulled her close. “See?” His remedy of choice to moments of chagrin.

Lacing her arms around his waist, she moved her hips against his rising erection and, gazing up at him from under her lashes, saw the familiar smoldering flame in his dark eyes. “You’re always ready to oblige a lady, aren’t you?” she murmured, a familiar glow beginning to warm her senses.

Sliding his hands down her back, he pressed her into his rigid length. He couldn’t say sex had been his substitute for feeling the last two years. “Why don’t we pull down the carriage shades,” he said instead, “and entertain ourselves on the drive home.”

“You
do
know how to cheer me up.”

“What’s a husband for if not that?” he offered with a grin. “My God,” he exclaimed, “I’m going to engage in carnal relations with my
wife
.”

“Your
temporary
wife.”

His grin widened. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

But their plans were curtailed once they reached the lobby for Malmsey was waiting for them. “Forgive me,” he said with a rueful smile, “but I still have questions to put to you both before I can draw up the settlement papers.”

Oz glanced at Isolde, who stood at his side, her gloved hand resting on his arm. “Do we have time?” She was less inclined to forgo her pleasures than he.

She hesitated.

He was about to make some excuse to Malmsey when she leaned into him and looked up from under the hood of her blue velvet cloak. “It’s up to you.”

It made no difference to him one way or the other; he’d be fucking her soon enough. But Malmsey’s hopeful expression couldn’t be overlooked. “Ride with us and ask your questions,” he kindly offered. “You need paper and pencil, don’t you? Fremont!” He gestured as if writing. “Fetch a pencil and paper!”

The distance to his home wasn’t sufficient for Malmsey to interrogate them fully, so Oz invited him in.

As the trio ascended the shallow bank of stairs, the front door of Oz’s mansion opened before them with smooth efficiency, and Oz ushered Isolde over the threshold into an entrance hall of palatial proportions, considerable colored marble, and an impressive display of gold gilt.

A majordomo of indeterminate age and considerable consequence stood at attention before them in a simple black livery.

“Good morning, my lord.” Neither his expression nor manner indicated the singular occasion. Oz did not bring his lady loves home. “Would you be needing refreshments?”

“Yes, please.” Relieving Isolde of her cape, Oz handed it to a footman. “I have a small announcement,” he remarked with the tranquility of a man long accustomed to indisputable power. “Allow me to introduce my lady wife and your new mistress, Lady Wraxell.” His gaze moved from his retainer to Isolde. “Josef will cater to your every whim, darling, as he has to mine for as long as I can remember. You may wish us happy, Josef,” he finished with a smile.

“May we offer you our most hearty congratulations, sir,” the tall majordomo said without so much as a glimmer of surprise in his cool, grey gaze, nor a glance at the disheveled state of the newlyweds’ clothing. “What a great pleasure it is to meet you, my lady,” he added, turning to Isolde with a look as bland as that he’d offered Oz. “I know I speak for the entire household when I wish you both much joy.”

Oz dipped his head. “Thank you, Josef, and thank the staff as well. I’m afraid we’re both tired and hungry. It’s been a busy, energetic many hours. If someone could show Mr. Malmsey to my study,” he added with a glance at the barrister, “we’ll join him there.”

As Malmsey was led away, Oz looked at Isolde. “Now, is there anything you’d like, darling?”

She blushed.

He smiled, mouthed the word
soon
, then shifting his gaze, addressed his majordomo with imperturbability. “See that my lady’s valise is brought in and put in the ivory chamber. We both need a bath drawn. Have coffee and some small nourishment brought to the study. Brandy for me.” He took Isolde’s hand. “This shouldn’t take long, darling. We’ll send Malmsey on his way in short order.”

As they walked away, Josef turned to the several footmen on duty who displayed varying levels of shock. “I suggest you stop gaping and see to your duties. Have the lady’s valise brought in, see that she has a servant waiting in her chamber, and inform Achille that our master is home, hungry, and newly married.”

“A prodigious surprise,” the elderly hall porter said, his long-standing employment in the household allowing him such frankness.

“But a pleasant surprise,” Josef murmured. “The boy has long needed a companion.”

“As if he ain’t had enough of those,” a footman said under his breath.

“That’s quite enough, Ted. Mind your tongue.” Josef clapped his hands. “I believe you all have duties to perform. We wouldn’t want our new mistress to find the household deficient in any way.”

But once everyone had dispersed, Josef allowed himself a pensive moment. He’d been with the young master since birth, having served his father before him. He hoped the boy hadn’t made too hasty a decision. He hoped above all that the new Lady Lennox would bring their headstrong master joy. Two years ago, young Oz had lost the woman he loved as well as his parents in the space of six months. He deserved some happiness.

 

 

 

COMING TO A stop outside the door of his study, Oz pulled Isolde close and stole a kiss. “Mmm—you feel good. Don’t go far.”

She smiled up at him. “Since I seem to be addicted, you needn’t worry.”

He drew in a quick breath, let his hands drop away, and reached for the door latch. “Let’s get this over with. I don’t want anything of yours. Correction, anything material.
You
I want. Ready?” At her nod, he shoved open the door, waved Malmsey back into his chair, and escorted Isolde into his book-lined study. The room smelled of leather bindings and hashish, of masculine cologne heavy with musk. Of brandy most of all. He spent his evenings here reading and smoking before his nightly excursions into London’s clubs, society, or stews.