“Damn right I am.” He’d honed his skills to a fine art in recent years, dissipation his remedy for painful memory. “And I have what-a fortnight at least to play congenial husband. Maybe more if Compton proves obtuse. You must tell me what you like best in the way of amusement.”
“Surely you know better than I if all the lustful ladies who came to call today are any indication of your competence.”
In his experience, discussing other women with a lover was never beneficial. While disclosing other females’ sexual preferences was not only ill-bred but suicidal. “As I recall, you like to come a few times before you settle into a rhythm,” he offered.
She grinned. “Are you avoiding my question?”
“I certainly am.”
“What if I want specifics? Say about Lady Livingston who never stopped staring at you. Or the Honorable Miss Childers who looked near tears.”
“Why don’t I show you what they like,” he said in order to put an end to her catechism.
“With names attached?”
“I don’t know why, but if it appeals to you, certainly.”
“You’re lying.”
He had a discerning little wife. “And you’re much too persistent. Should I ask you to tell me how you and Will made love? Ah, it’s not quite so amusing now.”
She had the grace to look nonplussed.
“I apologize,” she said. “Although you must admit,” she said with the tenacity he’d found common to women on this subject, “that many distressed lovers begs the question.”
“Look, darling, every one of the ladies who came to tea today is bored. I alleviate the boredom, that’s all.” He allowed himself more honesty with her. But then, having done her the notable service of marrying her, he expected her to be more accommodating to him.
She understood all the ladies wanted Oz for more than that, but she also knew when to call it quits. “So you’d be willing to exert your imagination and finesse for me as well,” she lightly said.
“With pleasure.” Although, there had been a time in his life when making love had been about love and not about lust. “Now, would you like me to bring your cake upstairs?” He appreciated his wife’s good sense. Some women lacked such self-restraint. “I’m taking that,” he said, nodding at the brandy bottle.
“Then, yes. I’ll indulge my gluttonous desires in addition to relieving my boredom.”
“We both will,” he said with a roguish wink.
After showing her into his bedroom, he set down their provisions and waved her toward a chair. “Would you like the services of a maid?”
“Not unless you’re leaving,” she drolly replied.
He turned, the brandy bottle in his hand. “Not likely.”
As he went back to pouring his drink, she surveyed Oz’s bedroom. It was more austere than the room she’d bathed in that morning, the draperies and carpet cool tones of blue, the walls adorned with muted, bucolic murals reminiscent of Claude Lorrain. The furniture was large in scale, the chairs sized to a man, the four-poster bed a Chippendale piece from the previous century.
“Crиme anglaise on your cake?” Oz asked without turning around.
“Yes please.” He might have been her husband of many years so casual his query and tone-like his easy manner at breakfast, or more to the point, like his suave affability with all his fawning lovers who’d come to call today. He was comfortable with women.
He swung around, his drink and her cake in hand. “I suggest we dine in bed. If your sensibilities aren’t averse to such casualness.”
“As you may recall, my sensibilities are rather unencumbered.”
He smiled. “Maybe that’s why I proposed. I found your, shall we say, eagerness charming.”
“While I found your, shall we say, stamina charming,” she returned in teasing mimicry.
“Allow me to put that to good purpose once again.” He nodded toward the bed. “After you eat your cake-or before. Or during,” he said over his shoulder.
She watched him walk away with a degree more infatuation than was advisable considering the practical nature of their marriage. But he was sinfully handsome and devilishly good in bed-the answer to any woman’s dream, which was reason enough if indeed reason even entered the equation in their bizarre arrangement.
And if the sheer beauty of his person wasn’t enough of a lure, she mused, his tailor further enhanced his many charms, the width of his shoulders displayed to advantage beneath his hand-woven tweed jacket, his long, muscular legs impeccably showcased in slim-fitting trousers, his linen dazzling white in contrast to his bronzed skin. In deference to Isolde’s limited wardrobe, he’d not changed from morning dress to meet their guests. He was a considerate husband-particularly while making love.
She found herself suddenly comparing Oz to Will-to the former’s detriment-and immediately chastised herself for fickleness. How could a single night of lovemaking nullify what she’d previously perceived as an enduring attachment. How could she be so shallow?
“If you’re going to daydream, darling, come do so in bed.” Oz had set down the brandy and cake plate and was shrugging out of his jacket. “We can interpret your dreams according to that fellow Freud-society’s newest conceit.”
“Or we could interpret yours,” she lightly returned, reminding herself this was nothing more than amorous sport for her husband.
“Uh-uh. My dreams aren’t for the faint of heart.”
“Pshaw-you don’t frighten me.”
“Nor do I intend to,” he suavely remarked. “I promised to entertain you, I believe.”
“As if I’ve forgotten. I’m afraid I’m no different than all the ladies lusting after you over tea,” she said, untying the ribbon in her hair as she approached him. “Just add me to your list.”
“You forget, I’m a happily married man without a list,” he sportively noted, holding out his hand.
“Your many lovers wouldn’t agree. I believe they’re ever hopeful.” She dropped the twirl of pink ribbon into his open palm and shook out her pale tresses.
“Let them be. I don’t care. I like your hair loose,” he said, deliberately changing the subject. “You remind me of a fresh-faced country lass. My country lass,” he murmured, dropping the ribbon on a table. Reaching out, he slid his fingers through the soft silk of her hair and held her gently captive.
She smiled up at him. “And you’re my irrepressible temptation.”
“A mutual dependency in that regard,” he said a trifle gruffly, surprised at the urgency of his desire. He let his hands drop.
“You don’t like the feeling.”
“No. On the other hand,” he more sensibly acknowledged, turning her and beginning to unhook her gown, “my libido has a narrow focus when it comes to feelings.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “And those feelings are-” “Likely to keep you up all night.”
“How nice. I never have to wait with you.”
“I can pretty much guarantee that.”
But he undressed her without haste, unhooking, unbuttoning, untying with a smooth, deft competence, taking his time. He wasn’t a novice, nor in the mood for slam-bang sex; as for his languid pace-it was a matter of self-discipline.
Less seasoned in the lists of love, Isolde was acutely aware of his touch-the casual drift of his fingers over her skin, the warmth of his palm sliding her dress sleeve down her arm, the occasional brushing contact with his erection as he moved behind her. Each time his hard, solid length grazed her bottom or hip, little anticipatory tremors quivered deep inside her, warming her blood, stirring her skittish senses, making her fully conscious of the heady phrase insatiable longing.