The drawing room door opened as she was about to answer and an agitated footman stood on the threshold. “Lord Fowler, my lady,” he nervously announced, only to be shoved aside by the man she’d once thought to marry.
“What the hell’s this about you marrying!” Striding into the room, tracking mud with each step, his gaze hot with temper, Will Fowler bore down on Isolde like a man possessed. “The news is all over the neighborhood!”
“This must be Will.”
A man’s voice, languid and softly mocking, brought Lord Fowler to a standstill, and Isolde thought, Oh dear.
Spinning around, Will saw a man undraping himself from the settee and lazily coming to his feet. “Who the hell are you?” A rhetorical question, fractious and cross as a bear.
“Will, allow me to introduce my husband,” Isolde quickly interposed before someone tossed down the gauntlet. “Osmond Lennox, Baron Lennox; Will Fowler, Baron Fowler.”
Will’s gaze swiveled to Isolde. “You never told me about him,” he snapped.
She bit back a similar comment about his wife, unwilling to enter a verbal skirmish of no practical use to anyone.
“Ours was a whirlwind love affaire,” Oz said sweetly, setting down the bottle he was holding. “The moment we met, we fell head over heels, didn’t we, darling?” A ghost of a smile on his face, Oz inclined his head slightly toward Isolde.
“Indeed, we did,” Isolde agreed, performing her role.
“Ah, the magic of love-easy as falling off a log and yet more baffling than the riddle of the universe. Would you care to stay for dinner?” Oz continued with exquisite grace, ignoring Isolde’s forbidding look. “I’m told we sit down to table soon.”
“I’m sure Will is expected home for dinner. Aren’t you?” The pleasure she derived from her innocent query was tawdry perhaps but wholly satisfying.
Oz watched his wife with a discerning gaze, and playing the indulgent husband, pressed Lord Fowler to stay. “Why not send Lady Fowler a note so she needn’t worry? Isolde was telling me I must get to know the neighbors.”
How wicked and sweet of Oz, Isolde decided, exchanging a whimsical glance with her husband. “One of the grooms can ride over with the note, Will. Do stay.”
“I can’t,” he retorted, his voice still brusque with temper, his gloved hands clenched in chafing rage. “We have guests coming for dinner.”
“A shame. Some other time perhaps,” Oz murmured, walking over to Isolde and curling his arm around her shoulder. “Although, we may be keeping to ourselves rather more than not,” Oz roguishly added, pulling Isolde close and holding her gaze. “You promised me a full month for our honeymoon, didn’t you, dear?”
“Hush, darling, you’re embarrassing me.” A demur glance for effect.
“Nonsense, my sweet. Lord Fowler understands a man’s needs are a man’s needs.” Oz surveyed Will with good humor. “Isn’t that so?”
“I’ll talk to you later, Isolde.” Taut and curt, Will choked out the words, then whirling around, stalked from the room.
“Dear Will reminds me of Nell’s tantrums,” Oz murmured, releasing her and moving back to the settee and his bottle. “Some lovers take issue with a fait accompli. Don’t they know possession is nine points of the law?”
“If your many lovers who came to call in London are any indication, I’d say no,” she drolly replied.
“Nor did Will appear ready to give up his ownership stake,” Oz gently observed.
“Too bad.” Dropping back into her chair, she contemplated her lounging husband with fondness. “Thank you, by the way. You were superb.”
“You’re more than welcome. Since Will seemed unwilling to relinquish his claims, I thought it only right that he be made aware of our deep and passionate regard for each other.”
“And so you did most excellently. Although I very much doubt Lady Howe or any of the other ladies who came to call are ready to give you up, passionate regard or not.”
“Ah, but he’s close and they’re not.”
“I doubt he’ll be back.”
“I guarantee you he will.”
Strangely, she didn’t care. For the first time since Will’s marriage, she no longer experienced a feeling of loss or having been forsaken. “It doesn’t matter. Don’t look at me like that. I mean it. Something was different today.” She smiled. “You were here as buffer, I suppose.”
His grin flashed. “You also took pleasure in his discomfort.”
“Yes. Is that so bad?”
“Not at all. In fact I wish him pleasure in his richer-than-you heiress. Gold is little satisfaction in the end. That I know.” At which point, he upended the bottle, drank the remaining dregs, and setting the bottle on the carpet, said with a touch of weariness in his voice, “Ring for someone. I want dinner now.”
CHAPTER 14
AN HOUR LATER, Oz was leaning back in his chair, his half-lidded gaze on Isolde seated at the distant end of a long table, the huge room quiet save for the sound of her spoon occasionally striking the side of her dish. “Do you always dine so formally?”
“In traveling clothes, you mean?” she answered with a smile.
“Should I have changed?” Quizzical and light as down.
“It didn’t sound as though you were inclined to wait.”
His brows lifted. “So you normally adhere to ceremony.”
She shook her head. “The staff is showing off for you. Or were.” Oz had dismissed the footmen once coffee and dessert had been served. “I usually dine in the breakfast room. It’s smaller, cozier, and my dozens of ancestors are not looking down their noses at me.”
“I’m relieved.”
“You don’t stand on ceremony?”
“A waste of time. Speaking of which-are you finished eating?”
“Are you?”
“Long ago. I’ve been observing the courtesies. That’s your third dessert.”
“I, on the other hand, haven’t been counting your brandies.”
“I applaud your restraint. So?”
She smiled. “Such impatience.”
“On the contrary, I’ve been exceedingly patient. You could take that blancmange with you if you like.”
“I might.”
“Excellent.” He pushed his chair back and stood.
Setting down her spoon, she watched him walk toward her, serenely smiling, relaxed, his tall form gilded by lamplight. “Would you think me absurd if I said I’m feeling different about”-she half lifted her hand-“this.”
“Sex?”
“Now that I’m home,” she rapidly finished as he stopped beside her.
He picked up her spoon and bowl of blancmange. “Let me change your mind,” he gently said.
The house was strangely empty of staff as they made their way to Isolde’s bedroom. “Did you say something to the footmen when you dismissed them?” she asked. “There’s not a soul in sight.”
“I said we’d be retiring soon. Did I put them to the blush?”
“How exactly did you say it?” A maid or footman could generally be seen in the midst of some task or errand.
“Politely. Unlike, I might add, your Will’s belligerence.”
“He’s not mine, but point taken.” She abandoned the subject. Oz was her husband, at least in her staff’s eyes; he could issue orders as well as she.
Oz had no intention of pursuing the discussion either, and as they made their way to Isolde’s bedchamber, he politely inquired about the various portraits they passed, about the date of a splendid solarium they walked through, why she’d chosen so small a bedroom for herself. The last query uttered as he stood on the threshold of her childhood room.