Oz noticed Isolde leave the room with Constance, and shortly after their hostess returned alone. Scanning the room, he saw that Will was absent as well, and experiencing an unbridled rush of anger, he excused himself from the group of men with a smile and a bland excuse and went in search of his wife.
Unfortunately he found her.
At the soft footfall on the threshold of a nearby drawing room, Isolde snatched her hands from Will’s and turned to meet the hard, ruthless gaze of her husband.
He was standing in the open doorway, challenge in his stance, in the merciless set of his mouth, menace in his gaze. “Am I intruding?” His voice was meticulously soft.
“No, not at all.” She was doing nothing wrong; there was no need to blush. “Will just called me in to tell me he’s going to be a father. Isn’t that wonderful news?”
Oz turned his unpleasant regard on Will, then his lids lowered slightly, there was a fractional pause, and he said in a controlled voice, “Congratulations.” He sketched Will a self-contained bow. “If you’ll excuse us. Come, Isolde. The Florentine soprano’s about to begin.”
Will was as tall as Oz, and heavier, a solid, handsome man with grey eyes that contemplated Isolde with more than a casual claim. “I’m not sure Izzy wishes to leave. You needn’t, Izzy.”
As Oz took a threatening step into the room, Isolde hurriedly said, “I’m perfectly fine, Will. I’m looking forward to Miss Rossetti’s performance. Do give Anne my best.” Quickly moving toward the door, she brushed past Oz and hastened away down the wainscoted hall adorned with portraits of Banning thoroughbreds.
Walking very fast, Oz’s swift tread behind her, she’d almost reached the music room when she was jerked to a halt and spun around. Grabbing her shoulders, his effort at self-control obvious in the slight tremor in his arms, Oz growled, “What the hell was going on?”
“Nothing. I told you,” she said, bracing herself against his implacable gaze. “I was on my way back from the powder room when I met Will. He told me that Anne’s having a baby. That’s all.” She tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me.”
His grip only tightened, his long slender fingers like vises. “He couldn’t tell you that in the music room?”
“We met by accident.”
“The hell you did,” said Oz shortly.
“Oh, very well. He may have been waiting for me.”
A muscle clenched high over his cheekbone, and when he spoke his voice was like steel. “In the future, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself if you don’t want to make Fowler’s wife a widow. Do you understand?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She met his cold gaze with a determined lift of her chin. “I don’t respond to male tyranny; you have no jurisdiction over me.”
“On the contrary, my dear wife,” he said with sudden impatience, “I have considerable jurisdiction over you. The law is not yet in your favor, and while the double standard is deplorable, in my current frame of mind it is not entirely objectionable.”
He sounded like any rich man, assured and confident of his place and power in the world, female autonomy no part of his life. She had a choice of further provoking him with bravura challenge or calming the waters and thereby avoiding a possible embarrassment should someone come out of the music room. “For heaven’s sake, Oz,” she said, her voice deliberately unruffled, “if you recall, our marriage is temporary. There’s no need for this autocratic display of temper. You’re making too much of an innocent encounter. Will and I’ve been friends forever and-”
“Slightly more than friends as well,” said her husband, his lip curled in a sneer.
“If only you weren’t an infamous libertine,” she shot back, “you might have cause to take issue with me.” A lifetime of indulgence was unlikely to long sustain a spirit of submission.
“Men can do what women can’t.”
“Allow me to disagree!”
“Just stay away from him or I’ll put a shot through him,” Oz said, his voice ruthless and uncompromising. “I won’t wear cuckold horns.”
“Unlike all the husbands you’ve crowned with horns?” Flaring irritability in every word.
“They chose to accept it. I don’t,” he answered with enormous self-control. “Nor do I fancy being made to compete for my wife’s favors.”
“No more than I fancy being ordered about by you,” she said tartly. For a moment she thought he was going to strike her, and whether prompted by panic or the oppressive atmosphere, she suddenly felt a wave of nausea roll up her throat. Hastily slapping a hand to her mouth, she said faint and unsteady through her fingers, “Oh dear.”
Oz dropped his hands as if burned. Say it isn’t so, he thought, even as he understood that it was not only possible but also highly probable considering their single-minded obsession with sex. Softly swearing under his breath, he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, shoved it into Isolde’s hand, leaned over, picked her up, and praying she wouldn’t vomit all over them, carried her down the hall, down the stairs, and out the door.
The fresh air helped Isolde’s roiling stomach, and by the time they reached her carriage she was feeling marginally better. Oz lifted her in, jerked his head toward Dimitri, ordered, “Drive slowly,” and climbing in, dropped into the opposite seat. Leaning back, he stretched out his legs. “Feeling better?” he asked as the carriage rolled down the drive, his voice notable for its restraint.
“Slightly, yes,” she whispered, ashen to the roots of her pale hair. “Tell me it’s not what I’m thinking.”
“Perhaps something you ate is the cause,” he said, not above negotiating with the gods of anarchy and disorder.
“Do you think so?” A glimmer of hope in her eyes.
“It’s possible.” But even as he spoke, he knew he was lying, his imagination racing unchecked toward disaster. He’d practiced coitus interruptus-normally effective-but the risk increased with constant repetition and he’d been on permanent stud duty for weeks.
“You’re right. We have been careful, haven’t we?”
“Fuck no.”
She bristled at his blunt repudiation, at the sullenness of his tone. “Are you blaming me?”
“I don’t suppose,” he said, gently, “it would do much good at this point.”
“You do have some responsibility,” she said, pithy and acerbic, annoyed at his insolence. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Yes, I know. Could we talk about this later?”
“When later?” she said, affronted by his soft and savorless voice.
“When I don’t feel like strangling someone.”
“Me, you mean.”
“No, I don’t mean you. I mean the whole bloody world,” he said sharply.
“It might turn out to be nothing.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Blunt and brusque.
“We’re going to have to talk about it sometime.”
“But. Not. Now.”
Her temper was rising. “You’re acting like a child.”
He shot her a gelid look. “And you’re acting like a shrew.”
“How dare you call me a shrew,” she hissed.
A muscle twitched over his stark cheekbone, and silent, he fixed a cool eye on her.
“Just like a man,” she said, flushed and petulant. “Mute and muzzled when there’s the devil to pay.”
He rolled his eyes but gave no answer, and from that point on, no matter what she said or how she prodded him, he refused to respond. Even when she lost her temper, lunged forward, and slapped his face, he just grimaced, grabbed her, and tossed her back on her seat. Then, bracing his foot against her seat cushion as if to ward her off, he slid down on his spine, shut his eyes, and promptly went to sleep.