As reports of their marriage were touching off shock and wonderment in boudoirs and breakfast rooms around town, Oz and Isolde shared a companionable meal, finding that they could converse easily like friends of long-standing rather than recent acquaintances. Jess had been diverted with his toy chest, which was conveniently at hand under the sideboard, and was oblivious to the adults as only a toddler fully engaged in play could be.
Oz, having eaten well, was at ease, his wife’s presence across the table surprisingly soothing-a revelation for a man who’d always carefully avoided morning-after occasions. It occurred to him that she was very restful. She didn’t disrupt his normal routine or look askance at Jess, who hadn’t yet warmed to a new acquaintance at breakfast; nor did she introduce a jarring note into what had always been for him a tranquil time. She quietly read the paper, commenting from time to time on some topic that actually interested him, intelligently answering his infrequent remarks with a degree of acuteness that made him conclude that he might have been amusing himself with very shallow females prior to Miss Perceval.
Isolde was equally surprised she was so comfortable with a man she barely knew. Furthermore, a man of such notable seductive skills hardly seemed the type who would entertain a child at breakfast and manage to exude tranquility across the breakfast table as well. And yet he did. Like an old shoe, she incredulously thought.
CHAPTER 5
WHILE THE NEWLYWEDS were breakfasting а trois, two people in London were particularly hard hit by the news of Oz and Isolde’s nuptials.
Compton was somewhat the worse for drink despite the hour, but then he’d been roughly handled earlier that morning and had just cause for imbibing. On being given the inauspicious tidings by his valet, he swore roundly, poured himself another drink, drank it down, then sent for a shady fellow and a shadier solicitor he knew.
At her maid’s mention of Oz’s new wife, Nell’s shriek echoed all the way down to the kitchen, the servants throughout the sprawling house flinching at the sound. Lady Howe’s temper was fearsome. Her next scream-freezing the blood in all within range of her voice-was for her carriage to be brought round. Then, hurling her breakfast tray on the floor, she leaped out of bed, bellowing for her abigail.
In the course of her toilette, she took out her fury on the poor woman, unmercifully threatening and upbraiding her at every turn, finding fault with all her words and actions, using the young maid servant as a convenient target for every item of clothing, bit of jewelry, comb, brush, or hairpin that offended her. By the time Nell finally stalked from her boudoir, the floor was littered, but London’s reigning beauty was modishly, even dashingly attired. Her fox cape and black velvet gown served as stunning foil to her pale skin and red hair; pearls the size of pigeon eggs glistened at her throat and ears, and a small beaded bonnet was picturesquely perched on her upswept curls. With her pert chin high, her cherry red lips pursed, she sallied forth to ferret out the truth.
The instant the bedroom door closed on her mistress, the abigail, ashen and shaking, collapsed in tears. As she loudly sniffled and sobbed, she vowed to seek out another position even if it meant taking a post at some lesser establishment. Even if she was reduced to working for some arriviste mushrooms.
For her part, Nell was vowing to get to the bottom of the ridiculous, outrageous rumor making the rounds of London. She had no intention of giving up a virile, captivating, obscenely handsome lover like Oz! None at all!
IT WAS NO surprise to at least one of the occupants enjoying coffee in the baron’s morning room sometime later, when a distrait servant burst in stammering an apology, followed closely by a beautiful, glowering woman in red fox and black velvet who swept into the room like a whirlwind.
“Sorry, sir,” the servant quavered, sweating. “She weren’t-”
“Never mind, Jack. You did your best.” A master at awkward situations, Oz rose from the sofa to face his irrate lover.
“To what do we owe this early-morning visit, Nell?” he blandly inquired.
“Tell me you didn’t actually do it!” Nell retorted, ill-humored and sulky, swiftly advancing on Oz, her porcelain brow marred by a scowl.
“News travels fast below stairs it seems.”
“As you well know! Is it true? It can’t be!” Halting before him, she raked him with a glance. “You did, didn’t you! How could you?” she cried, stamping her foot and swatting him with her beaded purse.
“Allow me to make my wife known to you, Nell,” Oz remarked, not about to respond to her outburst. Taking a step back, he glanced at Isolde seated on the sofa. “Countess Wraxell in her own right, meet Lady Howe. Nell and I are old friends.”
If looks could kill, Isolde thought with amusement as the stylish redhead raked her with a murderous glance, her husband would have been widowed on the spot. As for old friends, it was obvious they were rather more than that. “Good morning, Lady Howe. Would you like coffee or do you prefer tea?”
Oz smiled at his wife, charmed by her poise.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Nell snapped. “I didn’t come here for tea.” Flushed with anger, she turned to Oz. “I came to speak with you.”
“Say what you like,” he answered.
“I doubt your wife would care to hear what I have to say.” Snobbish and snide, she dismissed the young woman in the unfashionable gown.
“I’m sure Isolde won’t care; we deal well together.” Shock and chagrin registered for a flashing moment on Nell’s face, his fondness plain when he mentioned his wife. Impossible; not Oz. It must have been a lapse of some kind. “Very well, suit yourself,” Nell said sweetly, shifting her tactics, although the quick look she cast Isolde’s way was anything but sweet. “The truth now, darling,” she murmured, brushing Oz’s arm with her gloved finger in a proprietary gesture. “Surely, this must be some jest.”
“Not in the least.”
She tried to interpret his tempered tone. “Is it some absurd wager?”
“No.”
His placid reply and faint shrug left little doubt he spoke the truth. “I can’t believe you actually married this, this-little nobody from nowhere,” she petulantly accused, volatile and sullen once again. “You were supposed to meet me at Blackwood’s last night!”
“Believe it, Nell,” he gruffly said, suddenly impatient. Oz was never in the mood to deal with Nell’s sulks, and this morning was no exception.
Nell met his chill gaze, recognized the restive look in his eyes, and understood there were men at her beck and call and others like Oz who never would be. Sensibly dismissing his marriage as irrelevant, she shrugged her fur-draped shoulders, ceased pouting, and smiled. “Whether you’re married or not doesn’t really signify, does it, dear? Everyone knows a leopard doesn’t change his spots,” she added with a little laugh. “I wish you good fortune in your marriage, Countess.” She threw Isolde a pitying glance, for who better than she knew of Oz’s plans the previous night. Gently touching Oz’s hand, she softly said, “Do call on me, darling, whenever you have time. We always have such fun together. You amuse me in so many-”
Oz caught her arm in a vicious grip. “I’ll see you to your carriage,” he growled, forcing her toward the door before she said more.
Isolde heard him swear as he exited the room, and while she had no business feeling smug, she couldn’t help but experience the veriest bit of satisfaction at her husband’s gallantry. True, he might only be acting the part to convince Lady Howe the marriage was real. But he seemed genuinely irritated by his tantrumish lover.