Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

Malmsey had known before he’d come that Lennox’s wealth would hinder negotiations. A few questions in the right quarters had brought to light the vast extent of his fortune. “Other than custody, however,” Malmsey said, methodical and deliberate, “you have no objection to the divorce?” A solicitor’s question, clarifying the boundaries.

“None.”

“Very well. I’ll relay the information to the countess.” Malmsey stood and picked up his leather portfolio.

“How is she?” Oz asked, his voice guarded.

“I couldn’t say, my lord. Her note was brief.”

Oz grinned. “And full of spleen, I warrant.”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“I commend your loyalty, Malmsey. She’s lucky to have you on her side.”

“If she wishes to compromise, I’ll come back.”

Oz lifted his brows. “Not likely that, eh, Malmsey?”

This time, the pink-faced solicitor betrayed a modicum of feeling in the calibrated neutrality of his face. “I was told she was unhappy,” he slowly said. Then, turning, he walked from the room, leaving Oz mute.

WHILE MALMSEY WAS presenting her case in London, Isolde was lying abed at Oak Knoll, weary and fatigued after a sleepless night, her stomach in questionable straits, her mood sulky. In an effort to overcome her joyless spirits, she reminded herself she’d only known Oz seven weeks. There was no point in falling into some vaporish or resentful gloom over the departure of a wild, charming, irresponsible man who never intended to stay. Before long, she’d look back on his sojourn at Oak Knoll as no more than a tiny blip in the full and vital continuum of her life. Except for the child in your belly, a little voice pointed out.

Which observation triggered a wave of nausea she fought down because she was too tired to get out of bed and she wasn’t about to vomit where she lay. Drawing air into her lungs, she breathed shallowly and slowly until the queasiness receded, and as if gaining control over her stomach somehow translated into fresh authority over her life, she felt refreshed. Sliding into a seated position against her pillows, she decided, rationalizing furiously, that the delicacy of her condition was no doubt the cause of her sleeplessness and melancholy. There was a very good possibility that neither circumstance had anything to do with Oz. It was purely physical.

Good; that was settled.

She’d always had a disgust for females prone to megrims.

Now that her recuperation was in hand-as if on cue-a soft knock on the door indicated her breakfast had arrived. She bid her maid enter.

Ah, the comforting familiarity of a daily routine.

She smiled. Nothing had changed.

She was alone at Oak Knoll as she’d been for many years. She was healthy and young; Grover was no doubt waiting to discuss his plans for the day. He’d be pleased she was ready to assume the estate duties she’d abandoned while Oz had been in residence.

With regard to the routines of local society, she was also pleased that she wouldn’t have to deal with Anne Verney’s triumphant looks. She wouldn’t have to concede victory to her on pregnancy at least. Bitchy and trite though it might be, irrational as well, Isolde’s feelings of satisfaction and redress were gratifying. As for her being pregnant, she was relatively certain of her condition with her morning nausea so pronounced.

While her feelings for Oz might be muddled and moot, or more to the point, useless, she had no such doubts about this child. She was excited, elated, filled with delight. She had been from the first.

Taking the tray from the maid, she arranged it on her lap, wished Libby a cheerful good morning, and tucked into her breakfast.

After all, she was eating for two.

LATER THAT MORNING, she went to see Betsy and Jess before they left. Betsy, who had the same bright hair as her son, was finishing her packing and she turned when Isolde entered her room. “The baron has a temper, my lady. But he always gets over it, Sam says.”

“Izzy, Izzy!” Jess dropped the wagon he was playing with, jumped up, and ran to Isolde, his arms wide open.

Isolde scooped him up and hugged him hard. They’d become good friends in the weeks he’d been at Oak Knoll.

“We going London!” Jess squealed, his smile wide. “You go, too!”

“Maybe I’ll come later. Grover needs me to help with the farming right now.”

“Me stay help.” He glanced at his mother. “Me stay, Mummy?” Jess had attached himself to Grover and spent hours every day accompanying Isolde’s steward on his rounds of the estate.

“We can’t stay now, darling, but we’ll come back,” Betsy said, knowing how to pacify an insistent toddler. “Miss Izzy’ll tell you so.”

“Of course, sweetie. If I don’t see you in London, you make sure you have your mummy bring you back for a visit.”

“When, Mummy?” A wide blue gaze swerved to his mother.

“Next week.”

“Fer sure?”

“For sure, Jessie,” Isolde lied, kissing his plump cheek and swallowing hard to stanch her tears.

Seeing the wetness in Isolde’s eyes, Betsy distracted her son. “Come, darling, show Miss Izzy your new wagon,” she said with a smile, taking Jess from Isolde.

“Grover found that toy wagon in the village,” Isolde said, as Betsy set Jess down by his new toy. “It’s rather sweet, isn’t it?”

“It go faaasssst!” Jess exclaimed, launching the wagon across the floor like a projectile, quickly scrambling after it. Like any two-year-old, he was easily diverted.

“How are you feeling, miss?” Betsy quietly asked as Jess was once again engrossed in his toy. “Better than yesterday?”

Everyone knew; not that she’d thought otherwise. “I felt a little unwell when I first woke, but once I ate”-Isolde smiled-“I’m quite myself again.”

Betsy smiled back. “I know what you mean. Those first months can be a trial. Me and Sam wish you all the best, miss. Men can be a right handful, and I should know,” she said with a grimace. “My Richie left me God knows why. But things are bound to work out-for you and Lord Lennox. Sam says he’s never seen his lordship so over the moon for a woman; I thought you should know.”

“Thank you. His lordship is very loveable in turn, but life takes strange directions at times.” And I don’t believe for a minute that Oz would ever be over the moon for a woman. “I’m very pleased with the child, though; I’m grateful to my husband for that.” She took a small breath to steady her nerves, talk of Oz and the baby adversely affecting her composure. “Now please, come and visit anytime. You and Sam and Jess.”

“Sam’s buying me a wee house, so you must visit us as well.”

“I’d love to. Send me your direction when you know it.”

A short time later, as she stood on the drive and waved good-by, Isolde felt less forlorn knowing she could visit Betsy and Jess again-without having to see Oz. In the past few weeks she’d become attached to the adorable, affectionate little toddler and she’d miss him.

She’d become attached to an adorable big boy, too.

A shame he was no longer on her visitor list.

BOTH ISOLDE AND Oz set about restoring their lives to a cultivated and intentional normalcy, working very hard to rebuff or rout any memories of the weeks they’d spent together.

There was no point in dwelling on the past, Isolde decided, especially after having heard from Malmsey. Oz was going to be difficult about the divorce-no surprise from a man who conducted his affairs very much as he pleased. Not that she wasn’t grateful for all he’d done to save her from Frederick. But the original agreement had established a clear-cut time frame to the marriage. And so it would remain. Furthermore, it suited her purposes that he wished to wait until after the birth of the child to divorce. She’d avoid unwanted gossip, and since few noblemen played nursemaid to their pregnant wives, an absent husband wasn’t unusual.

Naturally, news of Oz’s departure spread quickly through the neighborhood, as all gossip did in a small, insulated community. Isolde’s staff protected her by bruiting abroad that Lord Lennox had business in London.

Isolde said as much when Pamela called on her the day after Oz left, knowing full well the time would come when such bland pronouncements would no longer serve. In the meantime, however, she smiled at her dearest friend and said with a sigh, “Men and their business. He wouldn’t be deterred.”

“Isn’t that always the way with them,” Pamela commiserated over tea. “Although, if you ask me, it’s hard to keep any husband in the country for long.”

“I’ll admit I don’t exactly mind,” Isolde replied, half-truthfully. “I’m much more familiar with my own company.”

“You always were a bit odd.” But Pamela was smiling kindly. “We never could induce you to spend much time over cards and gossip.”

Isolde returned her smile. “I have my acres to care for and my stables. And as you well know, I detest cards.”

“Still, you must miss your darling husband now and again. He’s a proper handsome devil with a smile that can charm the birds out of the trees.”

“If I miss him too much, I’ll hie myself to London,” Isolde dissembled. “Tell me about Annabelle’s new baby,” she said, deliberately changing the subject, Pamela’s sister having recently given birth. “She must be pleased to finally have a daughter.”

“She’s in raptures and writes of nothing else. The child is a paragon of every earthly virtue according to Annabelle, although I fail to see how even a mother can tell at three weeks of age.”

“How are her boys dealing with their new sister?”

“I doubt they noticed, roughnecks that they are. They spend every minute out-of-doors. Not that their father is much of a homebody.” She raised her brows in reproach.