Another small silence ensued once the door closed on Achille.
“He’s been hoping you’d come back,” Oz said into the hush. “He complains I don’t eat.”
“You should. You’ve lost weight.”
“Tomorrow.” He smiled and poured himself another drink. “Now tell me how things go at Oak Knoll.”
As she ate, she spoke of her daily activities, the new cattle she’d bought, the visits she made, the small entertainments she’d attended, leaving out any mention of Will, concentrating instead on the farm and livestock.
He listened without reply, quietly drinking and watching her from under his lashes, restraining his impulse to get up, lift her from her chair, and carry her upstairs.
“Am I boring you?” she finally said.
“Not at all. I like the sound of your voice. I like to look at you. I’d like other things as well, but I promised to behave.”
He might have reached out and touched her, her body’s response so hot spur. “Don’t,” she said on a caught breath, setting down her teacup with such force the tea splashed on the cloth.
“Forgive me. I’ve missed you.” He hadn’t known until then just how much.
“You can’t walk away like you did and then expect me to-”
“Make love to me?” he said with impeccable charm.
“I won’t,” she whispered, furious at his cool insolence, her astonishing willingness, at all the women in his life.
“How can it matter if you do?”
“Because I dislike what you are.”
“That doesn’t have to affect the pleasure or play.”
“No, Oz. No!”
She was holding her hands tightly in her lap, as if white-knuckled restraint would serve as a deterrent to desire. As if saying no actually meant no. Setting his glass aside, he slowly came to his feet to play gallant to her desperate passions. Workmanlike and competent, he knew the signs of arousal, could recognize them blind in the dark.
A moment later he was lifting the small table away, and a moment after that, he leaned over, took her clenched hands in his, and drew her to her feet. “Feel my heart race,” he said, placing her closed fists on his chest. “This is like the first time for me.”
“No. I’m the thousandth, not the first.”
He shook his head, the movement small and faint. “You’re wrong. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He shouldn’t have said that, she thought, because she’d been waiting for him, for this, for the feel of his body next to hers, with utter, unequivocal longing since he’d left. The realization was so undeniable, tears welled in her eyes, and she sniffed and hiccupped, struggling to discipline her emotions.
“Don’t cry,” Oz whispered, gently wiping away the wetness trickling down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for whatever I did, for all I did, for what I didn’t do-for everything.”
“It’s not… your fault… you walked into my room… that night.”
“But I stayed.” He smiled. “And then stayed some more.” Abruptly picking her up, he said, “You may chastise me upstairs in more comfort.” Carrying her effortlessly, he strode to the door, shoved it open with his foot, and walked toward the stairway.
How smooth he was, how pliant his conscience, how gracefully he offered pleasure. And if her heart wasn’t involved she might argue, reject, and refuse. But she loved him, she understood now if she’d not known before, if by some spurious logic she’d discounted the truth in the past days and weeks. “I love you,” she whispered, like some foolish, naive, overly sentimental female being carried off by her Prince Charming.
She felt him tense for a moment in his swift passage up the stairs.
“I love you, too,” he said a fraction of a second later, telling himself words were only words, there was no point in being rude. He had what he wanted, and if in some small corner of his soul he acknowledged more than his sham nuptial tie, he was quick to dismiss that incomprehensible thought.
The door to his bedroom had been opened by some invisible hand, she noted when they arrived, although no servants had been evident as they traversed the quiet corridors. And a fresh bottle of brandy shared space on a small table near the bed with a tray of sweets and a carafe of scented tisane.
“They anticipate your every move,” she said with a wave of her hand at the display. “Or are arrangements like this commonplace?” Did Nell like tisane?
He came to rest just inside the room, glanced at the delicate pastries, the mild aperitif. “On the contrary, this little offering is unprecedented. Achille wishes to please you. As do I,” he added softly. “You have but to tell me what you want.”
She knew better than to tell him the truth-that she wanted him beyond the perimeters of their agreement. “Would you think me terribly selfish if I asked for ten orgasms?”
Any other woman offered carte blanche would have been less modest in her demands; in his experience expensive jewelry generally led the roster. “No, of course not,” he agreeably said. “Is that all?”
Her expression brightened. “Perhaps more then if you don’t mind.”
He smiled. “How much time do I have?”
“I’ll let you know.”
He liked that her timetable was vague; he liked more that she was in one of her insatiable moods.
Carrying her across the broad bedchamber, he reached the high four-poster bed and seated her facing him on the stark white coverlet embroidered with colorful tropical birds.
“This is different,” she murmured, running her fingertip over a bit of scarlet silk embroidery replicating exotic plumage. The last time she’d been here, the coverlet had been pale blue.
“My mother’s large collection of embroidered linens. The house is relatively unchanged.” He shrugged. “I’m not home much.”
He was too polite to say he didn’t often sleep at home, she thought. “Your mother’s decorative sense is lovely.”
“Lovely like you,” he said, abstractly exercising his charm, his focus on consummation. “You look very stylish today.” He reached for the gold filigree button at the collar of her bodice.
“I found a new dressmaker.”
Aware of his comment about her previous modiste, he ignored her pointed remark. “She’s very good,” he mildly said, his gaze flicking downward to her breasts before returning to her face. “It takes superb tailoring to contain such voluptuousness. You turned heads at Tattersalls. In fact,” he added with a fleeting smile, “I expect every man there would like to be doing what I’m doing right now.”
“Speaking of Tattersalls and sex, how did you dispatch Nell?” A blunt question perhaps, but she knew he wasn’t about to throw her out in his current state of arousal-his erection impressive as usual.
His smile faded and he paused, his fingers motionless on the third ornate button. “She responds to money,” he mildly replied, resuming his unbuttoning. “Unlike you.”
“I have enough money.”
He glanced up. “Apparently.” He didn’t say, I know because you tried to buy my child.
“I’m jealous of her when I shouldn’t be, when your life is your own.” Isolde envied his cool restraint, her own feelings in tumult.
“She means nothing to me, nor I to her.”
How was it that he could cooly dismiss a woman linked with him by gossip and she didn’t see him as heartless. She only saw the man she loved. Although, she’d be sensible to remember that this occasion was about sex, not love, and to that purpose, she said, “I shouldn’t have mentioned Nell. It was tactless of me.”
“Say anything you like.” His smile was indulgent, his voice untouched by umbrage. “I’m just happy you’re here.” The buttons freed, he slipped the violet silk jacket over her shoulders, down her arms, and over her hands. Tossing the garment aside, he stood for a moment surveying her, a forceful sense of droit du seigneur suborning his better judgment. “Your breasts are-”