Susan Johnson - Sexy As Hell

The second book in the Gorgeous as Sin series, 2010

London, January 1892

OSMOND, BARON LENNOX, was known for his luck at cards. Oz would call it skill, but regardless of the reason, there was no doubt he was on a winning streak tonight. A crowd had slowly gathered round the table as the stakes rose, and Brooks’s members, gamesters to the core, were hazarding wagers on how long Elphinstone would last. Viscount Elphinstone had been losing heavily. While his pиre could afford it, Elphinstone was clearly rankled. He was slumped in his chair, coatless, disheveled, red faced, and looking pugnacious-although that may have been due to the family’s propensity to breed true on their bulldog features.

Elphinstone’s major opponent at the table was lounging back in his chair, his dark eyes amused, a half smile on his handsome face, nonchalance in every lithe contour of his tall, lean frame. Or rather, indifference some might say; Lennox never seemed to care whether he won or lost.

“It ain’t fair, Oz. You always get the good cards,” the young Marquis of Telford groused, staring at his cards with obvious disgust.

Lennox glanced up. “Lady Luck’s been good to me tonight,” he murmured, taking a card from his hand and dropping it on the green baize.

“As usual,” Elphinstone growled.

A servant approached and bent to whisper in Lennox’s ear. The baron nodded without looking up from his cards. “Your turn, Harry. This is my last hand.”

“Nell getting tired of waiting?” Harry Ogilvie waggishly queried.

Oz’s heavy-lidded gaze met his friend’s droll glance for a telling moment. “Are you talking to me, Harry?”

The Earl of Airlie’s youngest son grinned. “Hell no. Slip of the tongue.”

“Someday an irate husband is going to have you horse-whipped, Lennox,” Elphinstone muttered.

“Only if he’s not man enough to call me out,” Oz drawled. The viscount’s wife was a pretty little hussy; could he help it if she was in hot pursuit?

A sudden hush greeted Oz’s soft-spoken challenge.

The eyes of the crowd locked on Elphinstone, wondering if he’d respond, or more to the point, how he’d respond. Lennox was young and wild, his temper as easily provoked as his lust, and while he’d been screwing his way through the ranks of London’s fair beauties the last two years, he’d also had more than his share of duels.

With not so much as a bruise for his exertions.

Elphinstone finally growled something under his breath, his nostrils flaring, his narrowed gaze two pinpricks of anger. Then not inclined to end his life or be maimed, he scanned the breathless crowd. “You won’t see blood tonight on my account,” he spat. Turning back to Oz, he snarled, “I’ll raise you a thousand,” recklessly wagering his father’s money rather than stake his life.

Held breaths were released, a collective sigh of relief wafted round the table; Elphinstone wouldn’t have stood a chance at ten paces. Or even a hundred. Ask Buckley, who’d barely survived his recent ill-advised challenge.

Oz almost felt sorry for Elphinstone, who’d no more meet him on the dueling field than he’d satisfy his wife in bed or even know enough to be decent to her. Almost felt sorry. “I’ll raise you another thousand,” he gently said, the cards he was holding as near perfect as the law of averages allowed. What the hell; the ass doesn’t deserve my pity. “Make that two.”

Five minutes later, much richer and in a hurry, Oz was in the entrance hall and a flunkey was holding out his coat for him. “It’s still raining hard out there, sir.”

“That’s England,” Oz said with a smile, sliding his arms into the sleeves and shrugging into his grey overcoat. “More rain than sun.” Handing the man a sovereign, he turned and strode toward the door. Standing outside under the portico a moment later, he watched the rain pouring down as though the heavens had opened up, felt the wind tugging at his coat skirts, surveyed the distant treetops tossing in the gusts, and was suddenly reminded of Hyderabad during the monsoon season. Christ, he must have drunk more than usual tonight-too many of those old memories were surfacing. Shaking off the unwanted images, he dashed down the stairs and entered his waiting carriage. “Drive like hell, Sam,” he said, dropping into a seat with a smile for his driver who had been taking refuge from the storm inside the conveyance. “I’m late as usual.”

“I’ll get you there right quick.” Sam slipped out the opposite door.

As the well-sprung carriage careened through the streets of London at a flying pace, Oz half dozed, his life of late slightly deficient in sleep. With Nell’s husband in Paris, she’d been consuming a good deal of his time. In addition, he had a shipping business to run, he’d been working at translating a recently purchased rare Urdu manuscript, and of course, Brooks’s was a constant lure to a man who loved to gamble.

Once Lord Howe returned from Paris next week, Nell would be less persistent in her demands. He smiled faintly. Not that he was complaining. She had a real talent for acrobatics.

As the carriage drew to a halt before a small hotel, newly opened by a gentleman’s gentleman who had recently retired with a tidy sum, Lennox came fully awake, shoved open the carriage door, and stepped out into the downpour. “Don’t wait, Sam,” he shouted and ran for the entrance.

A doorman threw open the door at his approach. Swiftly crossing the threshold, Oz came to a stop in a small foyer. He smiled at the proprietor behind the counter. “Evening, Fremont. Damn wet out there.” He shook the raindrops from his ruffled hair.

“Seasonal weather I’m afraid, sir. Would you like a servant to run you a hot bath or bring up a hot toddy?”

“Perhaps later. Which room?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

Nell had chosen Blackwood’s Hotel in Soho Square for its seclusion, and they’d been coming here with great frequency the past fortnight. Taking the stairs at a run, he considered his apology. He couldn’t say the game was too exciting to leave; he’d have to think of another excuse.

He strode down the hallway, glancing at the passing brass number plates until he arrived at the requisite room. He opened the door and walked in.

“You’re late.”

A soft, breathy tone, with a touch of impatience. Knowing well what stoked Nell’s impatience-the randy tart liked it morning, noon, and night-he answered in a suitably apologetic tone. “Forgive me, darling, but one of my ship captains arrived just as I was leaving the house.” Christ, it was dark. Why was just a single wall sconce in the far corner lit? Was Nell in a romantic frame of mind? But then he saw her toss back the covers and pat the bed beside her, and rather than question the degree of darkness, he quickly shed his wet coat, his two rings, and stripped off his clothes.

“I like your new perfume,” he murmured as he climbed into bed. Dropping back against the pillows, he pulled her close. “Are you cold, darling?” She was wearing a nightgown.

“No.”

“In that case, we can dispense with this.” Pushing the silk fabric up over her hips with a sweep of his hand, he rolled over her, settled smoothly between her legs, and set out to apologize to Nell in the way she liked best.

A door to the left of the bed suddenly burst open, a gaggle of people trooped in, the bedchamber was suddenly flooded with light, and a portly man in the lead pointed at the bed. “There!” he cried. “You are all witnesses to the countess’s base and lewd moral turpitude!”