Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“I want Compton alive,” Oz quietly said. “Because Isolde would wish it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir. Although it goes against my better judgment.”

“Alive, Sam,” Oz gruffly said. “No excuses. Swear on whatever god you honor.”

Sam met his gaze and nodded. “I swear.”

Oz’s smile was instant. “As for yourself,” he said with a friendly slap on Sam’s shoulder, “what would you like for seeing this mess through for me? A house? One of my race-horses? A new commission in the Queen’s army? I am as you can see, extremely grateful that Compton will be going on holiday. Any possible stress on my wife will disappear and-”

“She won’t be distracted-”

“From my hot-blooded pursuits,” Oz softly finished.

Sam met Oz’s sardonic gaze; this was not a man in love. “A house for Betsy, then. Nothing grand.”

“Buy whatever you wish. Let Simms know.” Oz reached out and gripped Sam’s hand. “I’m indebted to you as usual. Might we be hearing wedding bells for you soon as well?”

Sam shrugged. “Who knows.”

“At the moment I highly recommend it.”

“Talk to me in a month,” Sam said, humorless and knowing. “As I recall you quickly grow weary of sameness.”

“True. Perhaps it’s the fresh country air,” Oz replied, his voice mild.

“Until the weather turns,” Sam remarked, his gaze mildly ironic. “You’ve spent days with various lady loves, testing the limits of your cock more times than I can remember, and never had any problem leaving.”

Oz grinned. “Go. You’re ruining my mood.”

EXPLAINING COMPTON’S DISAPPEARANCE turned out to be a simple matter.

Simultaneously with news of Frederick’s absence from London, a rumor surfaced that he’d been seen boarding a ship bound for Australia with Beresford and Huxley. Since both men had talked of little else in the clubs the last many weeks, Compton’s addition to the party was entirely plausible. Shortly after, Lady Compton received a note from her son in which he explained that the increasing pressure from his creditors had prompted his spur-of-the-moment flight. Lady Compton, of course, put forward that her son was off on an Australian adventure-the dear boy so loved to travel.

Davey had arranged the rumor and note.

Both had adequately served their purpose even while there were some who chose not to believe Lady Compton’s story. But for those of a more cynical bent, gamblers escaping abroad to elude their creditors was so common as to raise little comment.

Three days later, Isolde leaned back in her chair at the breakfast table, wide-eyed and smiling. “Is he really gone from England? Are you sure?”

Oz handed her the message from Davey. “Read for yourself. Davey checked out the rumor and found it authentic. Apparently your troublesome cousin accompanied two friends to Australia.” Oz lifted his shoulder in a faint shrug. “I expect his creditors may have had something to do with his sudden decision.”

“He’s truly gone?” A note of cheer rang in her voice.

“Without a doubt,” Oz said, reaching for his coffee cup. Indeed, Sam’s men had carried him aboard the Sea Mist. “His gambling losses were considerable if you recall.”

“But you paid them,” she murmured, quickly scanning the brief note.

“Knowing him, he ran up more losses.” A polite lie.

She looked up. “So we may thank Frederick’s incompetence at the gaming tables for this peaceful interlude.”

He swallowed and set down his cup. “It appears so.”

Her eyes lit with delight, Isolde grinned. “Tell me, how long does it takes to sail to Australia and back?”

“A long time, darling,” he said, his answering smile tender. “There’s always numerous ports of call along the way.” More than ever this time, nor was the voyage routed through the Suez Canal. “I could have Davey find out the particulars from the shipping line if you like.”

“No, no, don’t bother. However long he’s gone will be divine.”

“Speaking of divine…”

“Oz! We just came downstairs!”

Laughter stirred in his eyes and something splendidly provocative as well. “Can I help it if your dressing gown is revealing an enticing amount of cleavage? Although, I’m more than willing to wait until you’ve finished eating.”

“How very kind,” she sardonically murmured.

His smile was lazy and assured. “I’ll be even kinder upstairs. Or would you like to test the softness of the window seat over there?”

“You’re impossible.” But she was smiling, too.

“And you’re a darling to put up with me.” Leaning back in his chair, he pushed his coffee cup aside and reached for his perennial brandy bottle. “Take your time.”

THE MONTH THAT followed was as close to paradise as an earthly existence allowed. Oz and Isolde spent their days in a free and easy companionship unique to two people who’d lived alone for so long. When Isolde asked Oz once whether he was bored with their lack of entertainments in the country, he’d said, “You’re my entertainment.” His long lashes had lifted then and their dark seductive gaze surveyed her serenely. “You may exhaust me at times, sweet Izzy, but no one could accuse me of being bored.”

They rode every morning regardless of the weather because it was Isolde’s custom and Oz willingly indulged her. The rare Urdu book had been sent for, and Oz continued his translation while Isolde often curled up on the sofa and read as he worked. He sat in on her daily meetings with Grover, occasionally offering a suggestion on farming that no longer surprised her; his interests were cosmopolitan, his expertise varied. In addition to his banking and shipping interests, she discovered that he administered several plantations in India via telegraph and surrogates.

Davey sent messengers from the city, coming himself at times with the most pressing of Oz’s business affairs. One time when Davey had delicately inquired whether Oz knew when he’d be returning to the city, Oz had glanced at Isolde, smiled, and said, “Not just yet.”

Achille took great pleasure in offering the newlyweds superb delicacies that Isolde’s chef was beginning to master-no grievous competition there. And of course, inspired and beguiled by gluttony of another kind, the young couple made love with unfettered license. Here and there and everywhere.

The servants learned to knock loudly before entering a room when formerly, Isolde’s casually run household had required no such prudence.

The first time the pair had been surprised in the library, Isolde had turned ten shades of red and Oz’s impatient gaze had driven the servant out without a word. Later that day, Oz had spoken to Lewis; no further unannounced entrances ensued.

In time, Oz even consented to call on the neighbors with Isolde. His agreement to so public a display of their connection pleased her and didn’t displease him so far as he’d admit. As to the rest-why he did it at all-he chose to ignore. Like so much during this idyll in the country, he was operating on instinct alone.

The first time he accompanied Isolde to a hunt breakfast, he’d been admiring a Stubbs painting of a stallion from racing history when he was distracted by a thin, plain woman who came up beside him. She was staring at him with such narrow-eyed attention he was tempted to say, I’m not for sale.

“We haven’t met. I’m Lady Fowler,” she crisply declared as he turned to her.

Ah, the heiress; poor Will, he thought, with a connoisseur’s eye for beauty. “A pleasure, ma’am,” he answered with an exquisite bow. “I’m Oz Lennox.”

“I know who you are.”

He found himself being scrutinized again-with a cool arrogance this time as though he were being measured against some lofty standard and found lacking.

“You’re in shipping, I hear. How interesting.” It was meant to belittle, her words, the sneer in her voice marking him as inferior. To be involved in trade was considered a failing by some in the peerage.

“I understand your father made his fortune in coal. An equally interesting business,” Oz blandly replied.

“The coal is on our lands.”

“I have ruby mines on my estates,” he pleasantly remarked, ignoring her direct stare. “A hazardous occupation, mining. How do you manage your workers’ safety? We’ve instituted various safeguards and haven’t had an accident in years.”

“I have no idea,” she said with a sniff. “Miners’ safety doesn’t concern me.”

“A shame,” he answered, polite and unperturbed. “Production and profits are directly related to working conditions.”

“I’m sure my father has menials to see to such things,” she said in haughty rejoinder.

It always amazed him when certain peers found it necessary to impress him with their superiority because of his Indian background. As if the Lennox bloodlines weren’t centuries old. Or it amazed him as much as his careless indifference allowed. “Did you have some question you wished to ask me?” he softly inquired. “Instead of this very ambiguous conversation.”

“Of course not,” she cooly countered.

He surveyed her with a misleadingly innocent gaze. “Allow me to clarify a few points, ma’am-in the event you have some future questions. People often wish to know if I’m as wealthy as rumor has it.” He smiled. “I’m even wealthier. People are curious as well about the shade of my skin; my grandmother was a native of Hyderabad, India. If you were wondering about your husband, he’s come to call. Apparently he was upset with Isolde’s marriage. Is there more?”

“They said you were shameless!” she said with a peevish snort.

“More than you’ll ever know. But then I like my women with a bit of meat on their bones.” As her color rose and she worked herself into a withering reply, he gently added, “If you’d like a little advice, I’d put a curb on that husband of yours. From what I’ve seen, he’s likely to wander.”