“I won’t,” she whispered, furious at his cool insolence, her astonishing willingness, at all the women in his life.

“How can it matter if you do?”

“Because I dislike what you are.”

“That doesn’t have to affect the pleasure or play.”

“No, Oz. No!”

She was holding her hands tightly in her lap, as if white-knuckled restraint would serve as a deterrent to desire. As if saying no actually meant no. Setting his glass aside, he slowly came to his feet to play gallant to her desperate passions. Workmanlike and competent, he knew the signs of arousal, could recognize them blind in the dark.

A moment later he was lifting the small table away, and a moment after that, he leaned over, took her clenched hands in his, and drew her to her feet. “Feel my heart race,” he said, placing her closed fists on his chest. “This is like the first time for me.”

“No. I’m the thousandth, not the first.”

He shook his head, the movement small and faint. “You’re wrong. I’ve been waiting for you.”

He shouldn’t have said that, she thought, because she’d been waiting for him, for this, for the feel of his body next to hers, with utter, unequivocal longing since he’d left. The realization was so undeniable, tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed and hiccupped, struggling to discipline her emotions.

“Don’t cry,” Oz whispered, gently wiping away the wetness trickling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for whatever I did, for all I did, for what I didn’t do-for everything.”

“It’s not… your fault… you walked into my room… that night.”

“But I stayed.” He smiled. “And then stayed some more.” Abruptly picking her up, he said, “You may chastise me upstairs in more comfort.” Carrying her effortlessly, he strode to the door, shoved it open with his foot, and walked toward the stairway.

How smooth he was, how pliant his conscience, how gracefully he offered pleasure. And if her heart wasn’t involved she might argue, reject, and refuse. But she loved him, she understood now if she’d not known before, if by some spurious logic she’d discounted the truth in the past days and weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, like some foolish, naive, overly sentimental female being carried off by her Prince Charming.

She felt him tense for a moment in his swift passage up the stairs.

“I love you, too,” he said a fraction of a second later, telling himself words were only words, there was no point in being rude. He had what he wanted, and if in some small corner of his soul he acknowledged more than his sham nuptial tie, he was quick to dismiss that incomprehensible thought.

The door to his bedroom had been opened by some invisible hand, she noted when they arrived, although no servants had been evident as they traversed the quiet corridors. And a fresh bottle of brandy shared space on a small table near the bed with a tray of sweets and a carafe of scented tisane.

“They anticipate your every move,” she said with a wave of her hand at the display. “Or are arrangements like this commonplace?” Did Nell like tisane?

He came to rest just inside the room, glanced at the delicate pastries, the mild aperitif. “On the contrary, this little offering is unprecedented. Achille wishes to please you. As do I,” he added softly. “You have but to tell me what you want.”

She knew better than to tell him the truth-that she wanted him beyond the perimeters of their agreement. “Would you think me terribly selfish if I asked for ten orgasms?”

Any other woman offered carte blanche would have been less modest in her demands; in his experience expensive jewelry generally led the roster. “No, of course not,” he agreeably said. “Is that all?”

Her expression brightened. “Perhaps more then if you don’t mind.”

He smiled. “How much time do I have?”

“I’ll let you know.”

He liked that her timetable was vague; he liked more that she was in one of her insatiable moods.

Carrying her across the broad bedchamber, he reached the high four-poster bed and seated her facing him on the stark white coverlet embroidered with colorful tropical birds.

“This is different,” she murmured, running her fingertip over a bit of scarlet silk embroidery replicating exotic plumage. The last time she’d been here, the coverlet had been pale blue.

“My mother’s large collection of embroidered linens. The house is relatively unchanged.” He shrugged. “I’m not home much.”

He was too polite to say he didn’t often sleep at home, she thought. “Your mother’s decorative sense is lovely.”

“Lovely like you,” he said, abstractly exercising his charm, his focus on consummation. “You look very stylish today.” He reached for the gold filigree button at the collar of her bodice.

“I found a new dressmaker.”

Aware of his comment about her previous modiste, he ignored her pointed remark. “She’s very good,” he mildly said, his gaze flicking downward to her breasts before returning to her face. “It takes superb tailoring to contain such voluptuousness. You turned heads at Tattersalls. In fact,” he added with a fleeting smile, “I expect every man there would like to be doing what I’m doing right now.”

“Speaking of Tattersalls and sex, how did you dispatch Nell?” A blunt question perhaps, but she knew he wasn’t about to throw her out in his current state of arousal-his erection impressive as usual.

His smile faded and he paused, his fingers motionless on the third ornate button. “She responds to money,” he mildly replied, resuming his unbuttoning. “Unlike you.”

“I have enough money.”

He glanced up. “Apparently.” He didn’t say, I know because you tried to buy my child.

“I’m jealous of her when I shouldn’t be, when your life is your own.” Isolde envied his cool restraint, her own feelings in tumult.

“She means nothing to me, nor I to her.”

How was it that he could cooly dismiss a woman linked with him by gossip and she didn’t see him as heartless. She only saw the man she loved. Although, she’d be sensible to remember that this occasion was about sex, not love, and to that purpose, she said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Nell. It was tactless of me.”

“Say anything you like.” His smile was indulgent, his voice untouched by umbrage. “I’m just happy you’re here.” The buttons freed, he slipped the violet silk jacket over her shoulders, down her arms, and over her hands. Tossing the garment aside, he stood for a moment surveying her, a forceful sense of droit du seigneur suborning his better judgment. “Your breasts are-”

“Larger.”

My property by law. “Stunning,” he said instead, her splendid breasts straining the delicate silk of her chemise, his libido in a decidedly proprietary frame of mind. Locked rooms suddenly inviting his interest.

“Pamela tells me it’s the first visible sign of pregnancy.”

He took a small breath to steady his brutish impulses. “You’re sure then, about the pregnancy.”

She smiled. “Very sure.”

An unmistakable concern entered his gaze. “Is it all right-that is… would there be any reason to-”

“Sex is permitted if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He exhaled. “Good. Thank you,” he simply said. “I’m very much a novice when it comes to this.”

“We both are.”

“Indeed,” he softly agreed, the full impact of Isolde’s pregnancy suddenly undeniable. His gaze examined her with naked interest. “If I should touch you in any way you find uncomfortable,” he said, precise and delicate, “please let-”

“Oz, stop,” she said with exasperation. “I’m just the same. Other than perhaps being slightly more demanding sexually,” she added with a lift of her brows.

The term sexually demanding gave him pause when in the past he would have greeted it with delight. “Perhaps we should think about this. How can you be sure it’s safe?”

“Good God! Don’t tell me you’ve brought me this far to begin to equivocate! I won’t allow it! Do you hear?”

He looked at her for a considering moment. “So I must perform no matter what,” he said with a sliver of a smile.

“Surely it’s no hardship.”

“And if I don’t?” he lightly inquired.

“Then perhaps I’ll go somewhere else and-”

“Don’t say it,” Oz said in sudden anger, Will, too convenient, too available, as unmarried as he.

“I was joking. Unlike you,” she said, her blue gaze direct and open, “I’ve not been entertaining at night.”

He felt a fleeting surprise, followed by an elation he chose not to decipher. “I apologize. I spoke out of turn. Allow me,” he blandly replied, “to render whatever services you require.”

“I should reject such a cooly dispassionate offer. And if I wasn’t so famished for sex,” she said, leaning back on her hands and shrugging faintly, “I might. But you’re here and I’m here and-”

“You’re famished,” he finished with a practiced smile. “I remember your charming impatience.” Her uncorseted breasts were raised high in her languid pose, the taut nipples and plump contours conspicuous through the sheer white silk of her chemise. “And I’m not in the least indifferent to you. In fact, I’m deeply moved by your presence in my home and bed.”

“While I look forward to being deeply moved by your presence in me,” Isolde sweetly replied, amusement in her clear-eyed gaze.

“We always did agree on that,” he drily said. “Even when all else was at odds.”

He was standing quite still, his gaze unreadable. “I feel as though I’m negotiating something of grave consequence instead of an afternoon of sex,” she said just a trifle shortly. “Is my pregnancy prompting your reluctance?”

“No-yes… no,” he gruffly concluded. “I beg your pardon again.” He smiled faintly. “I’d be very much obliged it you’d make love to me.”

“Finally,” she said. “I thought I might have to attack you.” He grinned. “An irresistible concept. If only I didn’t prefer my own rules of war.”