Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

Once the child was born, her marriage would cease to be in any event.

And with it, the useless debate.

IN THE FOLLOWING days, Oz recuperated, worked long hours with Davey and Sam, shocked everyone by no longer drinking, and irritated one and all at Brooks’s by continuing to win every game he played. By the end of the week he was considerably richer, not that it mattered.

Not that anything seemed to matter.

He even took no joy in his enemies’ discomfort. Sometimes he thought he should have killed them and been done with it for all the satisfaction the role of warder afforded him.

Jess alone gave him pleasure. Oz had taken to coming down to the kitchen during the day with some new toy to entertain the young boy. He’d sprawl on the floor and talk softly to Jess as he entertained him with the new trinket. Or sometimes he’d just silently watch the toddler absorbed in play.

The little fair-haired boy was Oz’s restorative in a hindered world, indulging the toddler affording him uncomplicated pleasure, buoying his spirits. In more brooding moments, though, he recognized that Isolde’s child might be neither brown haired like Will, nor dark like him, but bright haired like its mother. What then of the father’s identity?

And how much did he care?

The first time the treacherous question entered his consciousness, he dismissed it out of hand. But the troublesome thought returned, restive and refractory, perfidious.

Demanding an answer.

Which he didn’t have.

ONE NIGHT OVER cards at Marguerite’s, with all the players drunk but Oz, the Earl of Barton, too inebriated to know better, unwisely said, “Sober again, Lennox? Can’t call yourself a man if you don’t drink.”

The silence was thick enough to touch.

Oz set down his cards, leaned back in his chair, and gave all his attention to the earl, who’d belatedly noticed the sudden quiet. Then Oz unexpectedly smiled, glanced back at Marguerite who stood behind him, and gently said, “Bring me a bottle, darling. I do believe Barton’s right. Sober, the world’s exceedingly grim.”

Marguerite closed her doors to the earl after that gross stupidity.

Whether a moment of truth had transpired or the strain of sobriety had reached crisis point, Barton’s drunken remark served as impetus for Oz to revert to his former regimen; brandy at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and the hours between.

Several nights later, understanding personal issues were taboo but increasingly uneasy about Oz’s liquor consumption, Marguerite said, “You’ve not yet fully regained your strength after your brush with death, darling. Perhaps it would be wise to moderate your drinking.”

“I’m grateful for your concern,” he replied gracefully and without temperament, “but I’m quite recovered.” And he poured himself another drink.

He hadn’t completely recovered, of course, nor might he ever after the mistreatment his body had undergone.

“Come now, sweetheart, don’t pout,” he softly cajoled a moment later, reaching out his free hand and drawing her close as he rested against the bolsters of her bed. “Consider, I’ve tempered my violent streak. I haven’t called out anyone in weeks. And I’m more than happy to give you my undivided attention at night.” Dipping his head, he kissed her lightly on her temple. “Surely, I’m allowed one vice.”

She looked up and held his gaze. “Everyone worries about you, that’s all.”

“Tell everyone not to worry.” The thinnest edge shaded his voice.

She was tempted to say, Should I tell your wife, too? But she didn’t because it wasn’t her place to inform him that he uttered Isolde’s name in his sleep. Nor would anyone who ran a business requiring discretion. On the other hand, should she do nothing while he continued to drink himself into his grave? Surely that was misspent discretion. “Do you ever think of your child?” she asked, thinking to prod his charitable impulses. He’d not mentioned Isolde’s pregnancy, but her intelligence network was the envy of the government.

He didn’t answer for a very long time. “No,” he finally said. “And if you insist on taking the pleasure out of my evening, have another bottle sent up first.”

Understanding she’d been imprudent, she offered a conciliatory olive branch in apology. “Would you like me to play Liszt for you instead?”

His smile was instant and equally cordial; they were, after all, two people who knew how to play the game. “Please do.”

She was an accomplished pianist, trained at the Sorbonne in her youth, and she favored him with all his favorite pieces while he lay, eyes closed, drinking. Later, he took over from her and played with technical flair and fury, the wild, explosive music a means-however temporary-of escaping his hellish obsession with his wife.

Since the Tattersalls auction, Oz had given up Nell, his parting gift of the race box at Ascot she’d been coveting so lavish she’d not taken issue with her dismissal. Perhaps she thought he’d come back in time as he’d done before. Or perhaps she’d recognized a restless volatility in him distinct from his previous capriciousness. He hadn’t been the same since his marriage, so much so that she’d actually considered the shocking notion that he might be in love with his wife. That, more than anything, prompted her to accept her congй with good grace and then take up with young Sullivan, who wasn’t quite so beautiful as Oz, nor as talented in bed, but his eagerness was charming. Furthermore, his father owned several railroads, a fact that more than made up for young Sullivan’s occasional clumsiness.

In the absence of Nell, Oz spent a good deal of time at Marguerite’s, although he was no longer interested in prodigal pleasures. Rather, he wished other entertainments from her: companionship, conversation, a level of peace, and only occasionally sex. But even his lovemaking had changed. He was detached, polite, careful to please her-intuitively proficient, and preoccupied.

On more than one occasion, he’d unconsciously said aloud, “Isolde . ”

After his second bottle one night, when he inadvertently called her Isolde again, Marguerite decided perhaps it was time to lose a customer and instead help a friend. Rising well before him the next morning, she wrote a note calling in a favor, had it delivered by a flunkey, and saw that the breakfast table was set for three.

When Oz woke, he glanced at the clock and quickly rose; his carriage would be waiting to bring him home for breakfast with Jess. As he stepped into his trousers, he heard a man’s voice in the adjoining room and curious, went to investigate. Opening the bedroom door, he came to a sudden stop. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he growled.

“You two know each other,” Marguerite pleasantly said, as if Oz wasn’t standing half-nude in her doorway, hot tempered and scowling. She indicated Fitz, sitting across from her, with a graceful wave of her hand. “I invited Fitz for coffee.”

The duke shrugged faintly. “Rosalind made me come. Women are romantic.”

“I don’t appreciate this, Margo,” Oz curtly said, quickly closing his trouser placket with deft fingers.

“Fitz was kind enough to come. Talk to him at least.” Marguerite came to her feet, more familiar than most at dealing with difficult men in difficult situations. “Why don’t I leave you alone.”

As the door closed on her, Oz shot an irritated glance at Fitz. “I’m not doing this,” he muttered and turned to leave.

“Marguerite tells me Isolde’s expecting. I imagine she’s looking forward to the new baby.”

Whether it was the unexpected disclosure, or the temperate tone, Oz slowly turned back and said, cool and precise, “How did she know?”