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.

She found herself suddenly comparing Oz to Will-to the former’s detriment-and immediately chastised herself for fickleness. How could a single night of lovemaking nullify what she’d previously perceived as an enduring attachment. How could she be so shallow?

“If you’re going to daydream, darling, come do so in bed.” Oz had set down the brandy and cake plate and was shrugging out of his jacket. “We can interpret your dreams according to that fellow Freud-society’s newest conceit.”

“Or we could interpret yours,” she lightly returned, reminding herself this was nothing more than amorous sport for her husband.

“Uh-uh. My dreams aren’t for the faint of heart.”

“Pshaw-you don’t frighten me.”

“Nor do I intend to,” he suavely remarked. “I promised to entertain you, I believe.”

“As if I’ve forgotten. I’m afraid I’m no different than all the ladies lusting after you over tea,” she said, untying the ribbon in her hair as she approached him. “Just add me to your list.”

“You forget, I’m a happily married man without a list,” he sportively noted, holding out his hand.

“Your many lovers wouldn’t agree. I believe they’re ever hopeful.” She dropped the twirl of pink ribbon into his open palm and shook out her pale tresses.

“Let them be. I don’t care. I like your hair loose,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. “You remind me of a fresh-faced country lass. My country lass,” he murmured, dropping the ribbon on a table. Reaching out, he slid his fingers through the soft silk of her hair and held her gently captive.

She smiled up at him. “And you’re my irrepressible temptation.”

“A mutual dependency in that regard,” he said a trifle gruffly, surprised at the urgency of his desire. He let his hands drop.

“You don’t like the feeling.”

“No. On the other hand,” he more sensibly acknowledged, turning her and beginning to unhook her gown, “my libido has a narrow focus when it comes to feelings.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “And those feelings are-” “Likely to keep you up all night.”

“How nice. I never have to wait with you.”

“I can pretty much guarantee that.”

But he undressed her without haste, unhooking, unbuttoning, untying with a smooth, deft competence, taking his time. He wasn’t a novice, nor in the mood for slam-bang sex; as for his languid pace-it was a matter of self-discipline.

Less seasoned in the lists of love, Isolde was acutely aware of his touch-the casual drift of his fingers over her skin, the warmth of his palm sliding her dress sleeve down her arm, the occasional brushing contact with his erection as he moved behind her. Each time his hard, solid length grazed her bottom or hip, little anticipatory tremors quivered deep inside her, warming her blood, stirring her skittish senses, making her fully conscious of the heady phrase insatiable longing.

Prior to their meeting at Blackwood’s, she’d always considered sex a pleasure and delight, but never a craving. And now Oz had but to mildly bestir himself and she was instantly in rut. If it didn’t feel so gloriously divine, she might consider being mortified by her shameless response. Maybe later, she decided, wallowing in a voluptuary warmth.

“I should make you wait,” Oz said, well versed in female arousal. Dropping her chemise on the carpet, he turned her around and calmly surveyed her lush nudity. “You’ll thank me for it when you climax.”

She flushed. “So cool and collected. Am I boring you?” He flicked a glance downward. “Does it look like I’m bored?” he said, laughter stirring in his eyes.

His cool equanimity was infuriating but provocative as well, and whether prompted by lust or vexation, determined to ruffle Oz’s unruffled calm, she threw herself at him.

He grunted softly at the sudden impact but otherwise appeared unmoved, save for his libido, which reacted predictably to a nude female in close proximity.

“Umm, he noticed me…” Wrapping her arms around Oz’s neck, Isolde melted into his hard, lean body and rising on tiptoe, kissed him with wild, wanton spontaneity.

“There,” she whispered long moments later, dropping back on her heels and leaning back against his light embrace. “Even you’re not completely impervious.”

“Hardly. For your information, I’m not in the habit of asking women to marry me.”

She smiled faintly. “So you’re a little enamored of me.”

“Of course,” he said as if he meant it, knowing what was expected in amorous play. “Now, do I gather we’re in race mode again?” Her eagerness was charming. “No foreplay, no waiting, no cake or brandy?”

“If you don’t think me too rude.” Isolde fluttered her lashes in sham demure.

Oz chuckled. “You’re going to wear me out.”

“He seems in fine form.” She slipped her hand downward and ran her fingers up the length of his erection, patently obvious under the soft wool of his trousers.

“It’s the last thing to go,” he said with a grin.

“If you’re tired, I could just use him. You needn’t do anything.”

He spread his arms wide. “Who could refuse?”

“So I’m in charge?” she airily remarked, taking a step back.

“You’re in charge.” The truth was always flexible in situations like this.

“Didn’t you say that to Lady Mortimer at the Dorchester hunt?”

“I don’t recall.” Damn Lizabeth. He hadn’t thought Isolde had heard her whispered comments at tea.

“You were probably too occupied at the time to notice-what with Lady Mortimer’s very devoted attentions and the possibility of discovery imminent. What was that stable boy’s name?”

Silently cursing Lizabeth’s brazen impertinence, he said, “She was trying to embarrass me. Ignore her.”

“I must say, the image she provoked was intriguing. Do you do things like that often?”

“Christ, can we not talk about Lizabeth?”

“Lizabeth? Is that her name?”

His gaze narrowed. “Where are we going with this?”

Dropping to her knees, Isolde glanced up at Oz. “I thought we might go to an imaginary stable where no stable boy’s likely to walk in and interrupt us.”

“Need I brace myself?” A guarded note echoed in his voice.

“Heavens no. Why would I harm the instrument of all my pleasure?” Isolde brightly said, beginning to untie one of Oz’s shoes. “Our relationship is completely laissez-faire anyway, so what you did with Lady Mortimer is strictly your business. Lift your foot.”

For an inexplicable moment he wasn’t sure he liked the sound of the phrase completely laissez-faire when it came to his wife. But as quickly as the thought surfaced, he dispelled so outrй a notion. Isolde was perfectly right about their personal freedoms, and what was even more perfect-she was about to perform fellatio on him. How very wifely.

What was also perfect-as in beautiful to behold-was his wife’s provocative pose. She was kneeling at his feet, all lush, pink flesh and shapely charms, her pale, frothy hair loose and tumbled, the nape of her neck exposed-in a primal vision of submission.

An utterly captivating image.

Deferential and compliant.

He was hard-pressed not to rip open his trousers, tumble her back onto the carpet, and mount her like some randy animal.

Sucking in a breath, he restrained himself. He could wait.

Or maybe he could wait. Having disposed of his shoes and socks, Isolde had suddenly risen to her knees and her upturned face was inches from his crotch.

“You don’t mind being used, do you?” She smiled. “Not that it matters whether you do or not since I’m in charge.” She gently squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Umm… do you think he’s getting bigger?”

A rhetorical question, he supposed as his erection surged higher and he wondered where she’d acquired her coquettish flair-the combination of breathy innocence and voluptuous splendor highly erotic.

“You’re not asleep, are you?” she playfully asked when he didn’t reply.

He smiled and shook his head.

“Then let me know,” she said, intent on disturbing her husband’s damnable composure, “if I’m too rough.” Having witnessed the full extent of Oz’s impressive harem over tea, she was feeling a stab of jealousy-useless but real. “Although if I interpreted Lady Mortimer’s comment correctly you don’t mind a little roughness.” She began opening the buttons on his trouser fly. “Or did she say roughhouse,” she sardonically queried, “which is something else altogether?”