“Thank you.” Isolde grinned. “I shall wait with bated breath.”
The second glove in place, Pamela smiled. “Enjoy your Scottish cattle purchasing.”
Isolde dipped her head. “I shall.”
But after Pamela left, Isolde hadn’t even had time to finish her cup of tea before Will was announced.
“Your wife will hear of your visit,” Isolde remarked as he strolled into the drawing room, the image of a well-tailored country squire in chamois breeches, riding boots, and a tweed hacking jacket. “You must have met Pamela on your way in.”
“Can’t I visit a neighbor?” he murmured with a smile. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever. I’ve always liked you in that gown.”
“Thank you.” Short months ago, she would have glowed with happiness at not only his compliment but also his visit. And now his words were no more than pleasantries anyone might have uttered-a brother, for instance, or a familiar cousin from childhood. The glorious Lord Lennox had rendered her good service in more ways than one when Will no longer caused her distress. “Honestly, though, Will, Anne won’t appreciate you calling on me.” Anne Verney had made her feelings crystal clear, although she couldn’t bring herself to openly disparage his wife. “You know how servants gossip,” she blandly said instead.
“Don’t worry about Anne. I don’t. I never did.”
She was not only surprised at his candor, but she was also unprepared for her lack of pleasure at his admission. How she would have longed to hear such words short months ago. “Harboring such feelings,” she said with a practical logic no longer hindered by pangs of unrequited love, “why did you marry her?”
“You know why.” He stripped off his gloves and tossed them on a nearby table. “My family insisted.”
“Your family insisted on securing Anne’s dowry, you mean. And you willingly complied. I wouldn’t have thought you so dutiful.” And so willing to relinquish the affection we shared.
“We can’t all be financially secure,” he bluntly replied, dropping into a chair he’d sat in so many times before and stretching out his legs. “Could we talk about something else?”
She’d been unaware of his callousness. Although surely her husband’s callousness was of a kind. She’d not considered herself so naive and yet… the implication was clear. “What would you like to talk about?” she asked, telling herself she was capable of civility. “My marriage? Your marriage? The price of cattle?” she lightly queried.
“I’ve missed you,” he said, ignoring her levity, his smile warm and intimate, familiar. “I heard your husband went back to the city. I thought you might like company. Or do you find marriage less boring than I?”
Boring was not a word she’d use to describe her marriage. “I’m sorry you’re bored; I’m quite content.” A lie but he was the last person she was likely to confide in.
“Even abandoned by your bridegroom as you are?”
“He has business in the city.”
“Will he be back soon?”
“Really, Will, do I inquire of Anne’s schedule?” She sat up a little straighter, unwilling to continue in this vein. “Speaking of your wife, you must be aware she takes exception to me,” she ambiguously noted. “I’m not sure you should linger. And I do have a meeting scheduled with my steward and farm manager soon.”
Will gazed at her from under his lashes and slowly smiled. “Are you giving me my congй? After our long and affectionate relationship?”
So he wasn’t denying it. “Former relationship. You married first.”
His gaze narrowed. “You’re still holding that against me?”
She slowly exhaled, his unwillingness to accept responsibility so unabashedly selfish, she was mortified at her obtuseness. Love is blind was a sobering fact, as was a degree of personal naivete she’d rather not acknowledge. “I’m not holding anything against you,” she said, neither angry nor wounded, but awakened now to a sumptuous pleasure Will could never offer her. “I’m simply pointing out that you and I are both married,” she kindly said, “and not in a position to enjoy each other’s company in the same way we once did.”
“You have to admit, darling, we were very good together,” he softly said, holding her gaze. “We could be again.”
“We can’t call back yesterday. Too much has changed.” How easy it was to be gracious and affable when one’s emotions weren’t involved. She began to understand Oz’s casual urbanity.
Unchastened by her words, Will’s smile was smug. “You like sex, darling. We both know it. All I’m saying is if your husband doesn’t find time to return to Oak Knoll anytime soon, I’d be more than happy to accommodate you. Anywhere, anytime, day or night.”
Her brows rose. “And your wife? What do you say to her?”
“Don’t concern yourself with my wife. Remember, darling, anytime…”
Suddenly intent on ending this disillusioning conversation, Will’s casual infidelity reminding her too odiously of her husband’s, Isolde came to her feet. That she’d been so blind to Will’s faithlessness was disturbing to a woman who prided herself on being levelheaded. That she wanted no man other than Oz who was cut from the same cloth was even more disturbing. “I do have a meeting, Will. If you’ll excuse me. You know your way out.” And in a swirl of plum silk, she turned toward the door and quickly left.
CHAPTER 22
BACK IN THE city, Oz threw himself into work and dissipation with signal zeal. By the third day, his staff was rolling their eyes and trying to stay out of his way. He was short-tempered, short of sleep, and savagely critical of anyone who dared to question him. Only Jess escaped his temper. Even Marguerite bore the brunt of his resentments one night when she suggested he delay opening a third bottle. He turned to her and in a freezingly hostile voice said, “Pray don’t advise me. I have all the managing women I need in my life.”
When he came awake in her bed the next morning, he offered her a blanket apology-not exactly sure what he’d said or done, but at the sight of her wary gaze, he understood that he’d been rude or worse. When he returned home, he had his secretary send her a large bank draft with a written apology, then he soaked in the tub until his head stopped pounding. After which, he dressed, went down to breakfast, drank two brandies with his beefsteak and eggs, and began another day much the same as the previous one.
It was Sam who had the nerve to confront him in his office at the end of the second week. Standing just inside the door, he surveyed Oz’s languid pose, the taut fatigue of high living evident on his face, the slackly lidded gaze.
“You may go, Davey,” Oz said without lifting pen from paper, smiling faintly as his secretary quickly came to his feet. “I believe Sam has something unpleasant to say to me.”
Both men waited in silence until the door closed.
“I don’t suppose,” Oz said, putting his pen down, his dark brows level, “it would do any good to say, ‘Go away.’ ”
“You haven’t been sober since you returned to London,” Sam said, clearly not relishing his task. “Do you think it might be wise to slow down?”
Sliding lower in his chair, Oz put his fingers together on his chest and very gently said, “Did you draw the short straw in the household vote?”
“They thought me better able to deal with your drunken charm,” Sam said, sardonic and disapproving. “I was delegated to tell you you’re going out of your way to piss off everyone.”