Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

“Or most men,” Pamela said with a sniff. “I’m so sorry for you, dear. Especially now.”

Isolde glanced up from her tea.

“I don’t know if others know, but I’ve suspected for some time.” Pamela smiled. “It’s always the breasts that give it away.” She half lifted her hand. “Your gown’s getting tight. Are you happy?”

“I am. Very happy.”

“Then the rest doesn’t matter.”

“I agree. This is my baby.”

“Is he gone then?”

“I don’t know,” Isolde said, setting down her cup. “We quarreled and he left.” She couldn’t yet bring herself to disclose their divorce plans. It was foolish, of course. Pamela’s silence could be depended on. But matters of the heart didn’t yield to reason, nor was passion so easily repudiated.

“Have you tried writing to him?”

Isolde shook her head. “I don’t relish being rebuffed. He was quite determined to leave.”

“Are you heartbroken?”

“It wouldn’t do me any good if I were. I keep busy; the child I carry brings me enormous joy. I have too much goodness in my life to be despondent.”

“Do you want me to explain to our friends?”

Isolde softly exhaled. “Strangely, I don’t care. If you and Will heard the gossip, others did as well. As for my pregnancy, that too will be obvious before long. What I do wish you’d do is find some way to keep Will from coming to visit. He’s driving me mad.”

“Do you want me to tell Anne? That could put an end to it.”

Isolde frowned. “I don’t know if I want to stir up trouble.”

Pamela smiled. “At least you’re not pining over him anymore.”

Isolde laughed. “Indeed. I can thank Oz for that at least.”

“And for the baby.”

“Yes, very much for the baby.”

“Do you want a boy or girl?” Pamela had one of each.

“I don’t care in the least. Come,” Isolde said, quickly rising. “Let me show you the layette we’re assembling. The staff is over the moon at the prospect of a baby in the house.”

“Good God, they know and haven’t gossiped?”

“They know everything and haven’t breathed a word. They’re family.” Isolde smiled. “Apparently, I’m to be protected.”

“You must be the only one who ever was protected by their staff,” Pamela replied with a lift of her brows. “My household thrives on gossip.”

TWO DAYS LATER, Grover handed Isolde a flyer. “Tattersalls is finally having the Deveral dispersal sale.”

She scanned the single sheet. The old earl had died some time ago, but the family had been squabbling over the will. “The younger son lost out.” He was a celebrated aficionado of the track.

“So it appears. The new earl is selling the entire stud.”

“We must go, of course. I want that filly out of Persimmon.”

“Everyone does.”

“But I intend to acquire it.”

“Yes, Miss Izzy,” her steward said with an affectionate smile. “I thought you might.”

She briefly debated the possibility of meeting Oz at so distinguished a sale, but her keen desire for that fleet-footed filly outweighed any awkwardness she might encounter. Certainly the London set knew Oz had left her. Nor was discord in aristocratic marriages uncommon. She was perfectly capable of facing down the tittle-tattle. “We’ll go into London the night before. Have the house opened.”

“Will we be staying?”

“Just the night.” She smiled. “We’ll bring the filly home directly.”

A week later, Isolde and Grover entered the yard at Tattersalls where the sales were held, prepared to pay whatever was required to purchase the extraordinary filly.

The yard was crowded with every horse lover and breeder in England, Deveral’s stable celebrated. Very few women were in attendance, which may have accounted for the throng parting like the Red Sea as Isolde and Grover made their way to an advantageous position bordering the courtyard. Or the silent attention as she passed may have had to do with the scandal of her marriage.

But Isolde ignored the stares and the buzz of conversation that rose behind her, having expected nothing less. Oz was well-known in the fashionable set; naturally his estranged wife would draw eyes. In fact, she’d specially dressed for the occasion, her new gown designed to accommodate her expanding bosom, the violet silk walking costume attractive with her fair hair. She particularly liked her new hat embellished with flowers; it was fresh as spring.

In the first round of bidding, Deveral’s less illustrious thoroughbreds were sold off. The second round was just beginning when the main door into the yard opened, people turned to look, and a sudden hush fell over the crowd.

Oz had walked in with Nell on his arm.

Alerted by the tomblike silence, even the auctioneer having gone mute, Oz quickly scanned the crowd and saw Isolde. Without a word, he and his companion turned, reversed course, and shortly after he reappeared-alone.

Everyone in the breathless throng would have given anything to have heard the conversation between Oz and Nell. Lady Howe was a force unto herself; she did very much as she pleased and to have so readily deferred to Oz’s wishes suggested a threat of huge proportions or a very expensive pound of flesh on Lennox’s part.

The latter had been the case.

Making his way through the crowd, Oz emerged on the verge of the courtyard opposite his wife, braced his back against one of the marble columns supporting the loggia, and proceeded to bid on several of Deveral’s prime racers. He’d bought six thoroughbreds when the filly, Pretty Polly, was finally led into the courtyard.

Pushing away from the column, he moved closer to the yard and was first to bid on the filly.

“Three thousand.”

The sound of breaths sucked in wafted in the air.

He was starting high.

Grover glanced at Isolde, she nodded, and he said, “Four thousand.”

Two other men came in at four thousand two, and four thousand four.

“Six,” Oz said quietly, the sound clearly heard in the hushed courtyard.

“Seven.” Isolde spoke up herself that time, her cheeks flushed, her sumptuous bosom gently rising and falling in her seething agitation.

“Nine.”

“Ten.” Crisp and taut, challenge in her lifted chin.

“Twelve.”

No one else was bidding, the price outrageous; an entire, tolerable stud could be purchased for twelve thousand.

“Fifteen,” she carefully said, her nostrils flaring, the fingers of her gloved hands tightly twined before her.

“Thirty.”

A communal gasp swept through the crowd.

Abruptly spinning around, Isolde made her way through the throng, everyone leaping aside to let her pass-Grover in her wake. The moment the main door closed on her, conversation erupted in the Tattersalls yard.

Ignoring the busybodies and voyeurs, the curious and overcurious, the tittle-tattle and speculation, Oz walked up to the accounting clerk, spoke a few words to him, and swiftly followed his wife.

He didn’t know why he was chasing after her, no more than he knew why he’d not let her have the filly. Sour discontent, exasperation, defiance, the fact that she looked like some voluptuous fertility goddess with her flamboyant breasts on display for all to see. That most of all.

Damn her!

Isolde was so bitter, rankled, and out of humor that on reaching the carriage she was literally quivering with rage. “I’m going to walk off my tantrum, Grover,” she said through her teeth. “You take the carriage back.”

“Are you sure, Miss Izzy?” He’d never seen her in such a pet.

Drawing in a deep breath meant to calm-ineffective as it turned out-she said tightly, “I’m sure. Please, Grover,” she added more softly, “I wish to be alone.”

“Yes, Miss Izzy,” he replied, dutiful and loyal. But he stood by the carriage as she stalked off toward Hyde Park and watched her, concerned she was without an escort in the city. He glanced up at Dimitri. “We’ll follow behind to see that’s she’s safe. Lennox bought the filly for thirty thousand.”

Dimitri softly whistled. “Deliberately?”

“So it appeared.”

“Maybe he cares after all.”

“If he does, he has a queer way of showing it,” Grover muttered. “Oh Christ!”

Dimitri turned his attention back from Isolde and saw Oz approaching.

“She’s not here,” Grover said, surveying Oz grimly as he stopped at the carriage.

Oz glanced into the carriage just to make sure, Grover’s expression unfriendly as hell.

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

There, a speck of purple in the distance. Turning back to Grover, Oz gently said, “Why don’t I ask her?”

“Don’t make trouble,” Grover growled.

“I thought I’d give her the filly.” A sudden impulse, unrelated to logic or reason or Grover’s growl.

“Then you should have let her buy it.”

“I should have.”

He started running.

SHE HEARD THE racing footsteps as they neared, turned, came to a shocked standstill, and thought, Why didn’t I take the carriage?

“I’m sorry,” he said as he came up. “You can have the filly.”

“I don’t want her.”

“You can have her anyway.” God, she looks good.

“Why the sudden change of heart?”

He smiled; she rarely screamed when she was angry. She usually spoke in that cool voice of disdain. “Seeing you at close range makes me feel in charity with the world, darling.”

“I’m not your darling. I believe Lady Howe is at the moment.”

“I sent her home.”

“Am I supposed to be appeased?”

He felt like saying, You should be because it practically cost me an arm and a leg to get her to leave, but he didn’t because he was the transgressor. “Could we go somewhere and talk? Seeing you-”

“Reminds you of your impending fatherhood?”