Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

Chapter 11

The Here-and-Gone habits of the Scottish Lord of Mayfair cause much speculation all around. The Lady appears at balls and operas and hosts soirees with her youngest brother-in-law at her side, her own Lord nowhere in sight. —April 1877

Isabella held her breath as Mac slid off his coat and dropped it over the nearest chair. She’d been shaking since he’d entered the room. Tonight Mac wore black trousers rather than a kilt, cream waistcoat and white shirt, no different from any other man-about-town; but with Mac, there was always a difference. His presence filled whatever room he entered and pinned her like a flopping fish.

She found herself growing still more nervous as he looked down at her. Would he like what he saw? Mac preferred ladies who were curvaceous, and in the days after Isabella had left Mac’s house, she’d lost almost a stone, finding herself unable to eat. She’d regained some of her appetite, but her youthful plumpness had never returned. Mac had remained much the same in looks, although the puffiness that drink settled on his face had vanished, rendering his cheeks square and lean. He was more handsome now than he had ever been.

Mac pulled off his waistcoat and opened the cuffs of his shirt. Isabella’s hungry gaze absorbed him as he folded his sleeves to the elbows. His sinewy forearms were covered with dark gold hair that caught the light as he moved.

Once he’d adjusted his sleeves, he smiled at her and leaned to pluck the sponge from her nerveless fingers.

Mac made no pretense of not looking at her. His gaze traveled from her throat to her bosom, down her belly to her lower leg and foot resting on the edge of the tub. He squeezed out the sponge, holding it high so that the water sloshed back into the tub. Mac moved behind her and brushed his hand over the nape of her neck, and she leaned forward, bowing her head.

Isabella closed her eyes at the first touch of the sponge. Warm water flowed down her spine to the cleave of her buttocks; the water and the friction of the sponge made a fine sensation. If Evans had been washing her, the sensation would have remained merely pleasant. But it was Mac, with his hard body so near, his scent and warmth touching her, and pleasant became erotic.

Isabella laid her cheek on her knees and smiled as Mac continued to wash her back. He rested one hand on the edge of the tub, his skin brown and strong. Bits of paint clung to his fingertips.

The sight of the paint flecks made Isabella’s heart constrict. Of all the things she could remember about him, why did those tiny specks fill her with longing? Perhaps because the sight reminded her of what he was—an artist who painted for the love of it, not caring whether others praised him or censured him.

Isabella leaned forward and kissed his fingers.

Mac lifted his hand away, but only so he could snake both arms around her from behind. He pulled her back into his embrace, never mind how much water flowed out of the tub and over his shirt. He slid his hands across her slick skin to cup her breasts, and Isabella closed her eyes.

This was all so familiar, yet distant at the same time. Mac’s breath tickled her ear, and his big hands warmed her breasts while his fingers drew her nipples into hot points. He kissed her neck, his mouth a point of fire.

Mac, how I’ve missed you.

Isabella inhaled as Mac slid one hand down her belly and pressed his fingers between her legs. Isabella’s thighs opened at his touch. Her mind warned her to stop him, to modestly push him away, but her body wasn’t obeying. It had been too long, and Mac knew how to make her body sing.

Isabella closed her eyes, letting the wanton in her take over. When she lifted her hips so he might stroke her better, he laughed softly.

“That’s my wicked lady. You’re as smooth and sweet as I recall.” Another chuckle. “And as slippery.”

“It’s the soap.”

“No, love.” He swirled his fingers around her opening, fingers spreading her petals. “It’s you.”

“Only because it’s been so long.”

“I think you’re remembering what it’s like.” Mac nibbled at her earlobe. “Let me remind you, my Isabella, that you made me feel splendid in your parlor. Now let me return the favor.”

Isabella’s hips rocked as he cupped her, the breathtaking friction driving away all thought but Mac and his beautiful hands. He’d learned to read her well during their marriage, and he put his knowledge to good use. Mac’s fingers did their dance, teasing, tickling, making her groan.

As the first of her climax rose, Mac slowed his movements so that she would fade a little and build again. He did this the second time, and the third, until she was growling in frustration. Mac only laughed and brought her almost to climax again.

When she finally went over the top, Isabella nearly slid out of the tub onto him. Mac smiled down at her, his eyes dark. He was soaked, his shirt translucent with water. His hair was wet too, and the floor wasn’t much better.

Mac lifted her slippery body and kissed her. The kiss was deep, a lover’s kiss. She snaked her hand to the front of his trousers where his cock stood up thick and long.

“Yes, it’s hating me,” Mac whispered. “I want to gobble you up and not care.” He kissed her questing mouth, his lips bruising.

Isabella wanted more. She held onto him, fingers sinking into his wet shirt. “Mac.”

“I know what you want.” Mac lifted her to the lip of the tub. “Remember how well I know you?”

Isabella nodded. They’d played like this before, and she understood exactly what he needed her to do. She stood up in the water, moving her legs apart, and Mac knelt in front of her on the wet floor.

Her head went back as Mac pressed his mouth to her. If he knew how to use his hands, his skill with his mouth surpassed that. His tongue was a hot pressure that parted her opening and delved straight inside her.

This was heaven. Isabella threaded her fingers through his hair and held on as he drank her. She was going to die. She’d not felt womanly pleasure since they’d parted ways, and she couldn’t imagine that any man could have ever pleasured her better than Mac. He knew how to use his tongue and lips, even his teeth, to drive her insane. She found herself rocking back and forth, her incoherent cries ringing to the ceiling.

Mac’s unshaven whiskers scratched her skin as his wonderful mouth kept up its torture. He smoothed her back and buttocks, tongue encouraging her to release.

Her next peak was more than she could bear. She wanted to pull him inside her, she wanted him to carry her to bed and never let her leave. This was the Mac who had made her the weakest, the one who could dissolve her into a pliant puddle.

She wanted him so much. She would beg him to take her to bed, just this once. Isabella clutched his shirt, while his mouth drove her on and on. The shirt tore a little under her grip.

“Mac . . .”

Oh, drat it all to hell, she heard Evans’s heavy tread in the corridor.

Isabella gasped and pushed him away. Her body cried out with loss as Mac knelt back on his heels and dabbed his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes had a warm gleam, a man knowing his power.

Isabella plopped back down in the water, feeling a delicious bite where he’d suckled her. “You have to go.”

Mac remained on the floor, his smile positively evil. “Why, love? Will you be ruined if you’re found here alone with your rake of a husband?”

“No. Just . . .” She made shooing motions, which scattered droplets of water.

“Just what?” Mac stood up, taking his time. His shirt was plastered to his chest, showing his dark hair and the outlines of his aroused nipples. “Hide behind the screen? Or under the bedclothes? Dear, oh dear, what would Lady Priss and Miss Prude say?”

“Mac.”

Mac leaned down and gave her another devastating kiss. She tasted herself in his mouth, all mixed up with his spice. “As you wish, my lady. I will leave you. This time.”

Isabella breathed a sigh of relief, though she wasn’t certain why she should be so worried. Evans had walked in on them plenty of times when they’d been kissing each other, and the maid had always pretended to be oblivious. But for some reason, Isabella did not want Evans to see Mac now. Perhaps the embarrassment came from Isabella having to admit that Mac made her weak?

Mac brushed her face with his fingers and finally headed for the door, opening it just as Evans reached the threshold. Evans gave Mac an even stare over the pile of towels in her arms.

“Good evening, Evans.” Mac snatched a towel off the top and started mopping his face and neck with it. “I must warn you. Her ladyship is a bit tetchy tonight.”

Isabella screamed in frustration, and her sponge sailed across the room and splatted on the door next to Mac’s head. Mac laughed and wiped soapy water from his face. He winked at Evans.

“See what I mean?”

Isabella gave Mac a cool look when he entered the breakfast room the next morning. Mac had to grin when she wasn’t looking—Isabella was a master at the cut direct. She didn’t make a drama of it or play games, she simply behaved as though the person in question did not exist.

Mac sat back and enjoyed the show. He knew she was furious with him for working her into a frenzy, even though she’d enjoyed every second of it. She’d even enjoyed throwing the sponge at him. But he also knew that it was a good thing Evans had interrupted, because if they’d carried the play to its natural conclusion, Isabella would have pushed Mac away more adamantly than before.

Her anger he could conquer. But if she moved to self-loathing, he wouldn’t be able to combat that. Mac could fight Isabella if she didn’t trust him; he couldn’t fight her when she didn’t trust herself.

His cock disagreed, the organ only wanting to bury itself inside her and be happy. Cocks were simpleminded things.

Over breakfast, Isabella declared her plans to accompany the family north to Scotland after the races. That clinched it for Mac. Any other year, Mac would have remained in Doncaster for a time with Cam as he saw to the horses, preferring the company of his fun-loving middle brother and nephew to Hart’s unpredictable moods. But when Isabella announced that she would accept Beth’s invitation to share a first-class compartment, nothing short of contracting plague would have induced Mac to stay behind.

When they boarded the train a few days later, Ian followed Beth and Isabella into their compartment without apology. Neither he nor Beth seemed surprised when Mac entered and seated himself next to Isabella. Mac leaned back comfortably and crossed his ankles, while Isabella edged close to the window, her face resolutely turned from him.

They changed trains in Edinburgh and again Mac squeezed into the compartment with the other three for the shorter journey to Kilmorgan.

The arrival of the family at the small Kilmorgan station became the major undertaking it always was. The stationmaster came out to welcome Hart home; two landaus and two chaises pulled up; and three valets and two maids each tried to take over directing how the baggage should be moved. The porter, the postmistress, the publican, the publican’s wife, and whoever happened to be in the pub at the time also came out to help or just to have a chat.

Hart might be the second-most important peer in the realm, but here in his own demesne, the villagers he’d grown up with talked familiarly to him, giving him advice, laughing when he made a joke. The publican’s wife pressed Isabella about the annual harvest festivities that would be held at the “big house” for the villagers and neighboring estates. This would be Beth’s first, and Beth asked questions with interest.

The postmistress had no shyness about seizing Mac by the arm and peering into his face through her thick spectacles. Her husband was crippled with rheumatism, and Mrs. McNab looked after him with cheerful spirits. Her routine was to glean information about the lives of her neighbors and relay it all to Mr. McNab.

“Are ye and her ladyship Mr. and Mrs. again?” Mrs. McNab asked, her voice carrying across the platform. “Such a shame ye parted ways, when it was clear to see ye were so much in love, even if she is an English lass.”

Mac winked at her. “I am moving things back in that direction, good lady.”

“See that ye do. This parting of husbands and wives might be fashionable in the cities, but it’s no’ but a scandal. What the pair of ye needs is a passel o’ bairns. That will make her happy, ye mark my words.” Mrs. McNab had six sons, all grown now, towering over their petite mother and terrified to death of her.

Mac saw Isabella’s back stiffen, but she gave no other indication she’d heard as she glided out of the station. Mac patted Mrs. McNab’s hand, thanked her for her advice, and strode after Isabella.

He wasn’t quick enough to get into the coach with her and Ian and Beth, so he rode in the second chaise with Hart. He didn’t see Isabella when they reached the house, but Kilmorgan Castle—not really a castle anymore but a sprawling monstrosity of a house—was so gigantic, she could be anywhere. He changed out of his soot-stained suit in his own wing of the house then knocked on the door to the chamber next to his. This room used to be Isabella’s, but he found the suite empty, the bed stripped, the grate cold.

“She’s staying in a chamber down the hall, milord,” Evans said, walking by with an armload of dress boxes. “Her ladyship’s instructions.”

Two weeks ago, Isabella’s decision to use a different room might have angered Mac; now it amused him. If she thought moving down the hall would thwart him, she was sorely mistaken.

He continued his search for her and at last found her on the top floor in his studio. She stood with her back to him, studying three canvases propped against the far wall. Mac could see them quite clearly, the three paintings of Isabella that Mac had done in secret before his studio burned down.

“Bloody hell.”

Isabella heard Mac’s low exclamation but didn’t turn. She couldn’t turn from the three images of herself that glowed like goddesses from the canvas.

One painting showed her face, neck, and hint of bosom, her hair piled high and laced with yellow roses, as it had been the night of Lord Abercrombie’s ball. Another showed her sitting on the floor, bare with her legs stretched out, her hair obscuring her face. The third had her asleep, head on her arm, red hair curling over her naked body.

“I never sat for these,” Isabella said without turning around.

“No.” Mac closed the door. “I painted from memory.”

The pictures were done in muted hues highlighted by Mac’s characteristic touches of reds and yellows. The women in these paintings lived and breathed, were real. They were her.

“When?” she asked.

“In London, before my house burned.”

“Three paintings in a week?”

“I was inspired.” Mac’s voice was tight. “And they’re not really finished.”

She finally turned to look at him. Mac remained by the closed door, his hands stuffed into his pockets. Gone was the charming, smiling man who’d determinedly chased her these last few weeks. Here was the somber Mac she’d seen since their separation, the one who’d abandoned drink and his arty set, who’d holed himself up at Kilmorgan or his London house and stayed put.

“These aren’t for that wager you made, are they?” she asked. “The one about the erotic paintings?”

He looked outraged. “Good God, no. Do you think I’d allow blackguards like Dunstan and Manning to cast their lust-filled gazes upon my wife? If you think that, you don’t know me at all, Isabella.”

She hadn’t really thought that, but Mac had changed so much in the last three years, she could be certain of nothing. “Did I ever really know you?”

“I thought you did. Once.” Mac moved to the paintings. “I’ll destroy them.”

Isabella stepped protectively in front of them. “You will not. These are beautiful.”

His brows shot up. “You are happy that your estranged husband painted pictures of your naked body? Perhaps to gaze at what he couldn’t have?”

“Is that why you painted them?”

Mac scrubbed his hand through his hair. “No. Or yes. I don’t know. I had to paint them. They clawed their way out of me. But they’re not important now. I’ll have Bellamy burn them.”

“No.”

“Sweetheart, they’re the idle indulgences of a frenzied mind. Or do you mean you’d rather rip them apart yourself? I have a knife about somewhere.”

“You will not destroy them, because they’re the best things you’ve ever painted.”

Mac ran his hand through his hair again. “I agree, they’re not bad.”

“Not bad? Mac, they’re genius. They’re the same kind of picture you did the day after I married you. When you first showed me your studio, I was awestruck. Miss Pringle taught us all about great art, and I saw that yours was too.”

Mac made a derisive noise. “These are hardly Rubens or Rembrandt, my dear.”

“No, more like Degas and Manet, like Mr. Crane said.”

“Crane would flatter an ant that tracked paint across a canvas if he could obtain a commission on the sale. Besides, you name highly scandalous and despised men. Respectable society shares your opinion that I’m in the same class as they.”

“Will you take this seriously? These are lovely paintings, and I won’t let you burn them or cut them up or anything else. In fact, if I have to buy them from you to protect them, I will.”

“You know I never sell my paintings. Have them if you like them so much.”

Isabella chewed her lip. Mac always brushed off compliments to his talent with carelessness, or so she had thought until she’d realized that it simply didn’t matter to him what other people thought. Mac loved painting for its own sake and had no interest in what the world said about what he produced. That was why he gave the canvases away and didn’t fight for the approval of the Royal Academy. Mac had no self-pride about his genius. It was simply a part of him, the same way his eyes were the color of copper and his voice retained a slight Scots accent.

“You truly don’t care what becomes of them?” Isabella asked.

Mac’s gaze went to the paintings with a kind of hunger. “Of course I don’t care.”

“That is a lie, pure and plain.”

“What do you wish me to say? That yes, these are the best things I’ve ever done, that they come from part of my soul that craves what it can’t have? That they scream what I see when I look at you?”

Isabella’s face heated. “I only meant you should admit that they are good.”

“They are bloody wonderful. They’re the only things I’ve been able to paint in years.”

Isabella stared. “In years? What are you talking about?”

Mac turned away, rubbing his head again as though it ached. “Why do you think I’ve not fussed about this chap who’s forging my work?—not until he burned my bloody house down, anyway. I wasn’t joking when I said he painted better than I did. You saw that travesty I was doing of Molly. I haven’t been able to paint anything since I stopped floating through life on malt whiskey. Everything I attempted after I sobered up was horrible. I conclude that my talent lay in drink, and without it, my ability is nothing.”

“Not true—”

“Of course it’s true. The last things I painted were Venetian canals until the sight of a gondola made me physically ill. I threw the last painting and my remaining bottles of Mackenzie malt into the Grand Canal the same night. Never tell Hart about the whiskey, by the way—he’d kill me. I headed back to England after that and found that I couldn’t paint a stroke. Mind you, in the first months of temperance, my hands were too shaky to let me hold the brush, let alone button my own shirt.”

Isabella had a sudden and vivid image of Mac alone in his studio at the top of the Mount Street house, angrily hurling canvases across the room when the paint would no longer form into beautiful pictures. The realization must have broken his heart.

“You never told me,” she said.

Mac laughed. “Told you what? That I was a wreck of a man whose dust you should have shaken from your boots long ago? Even when I grew used to being sober, I couldn’t paint a shadow that wasn’t muddy, a line that wasn’t wrong.” He blew out his breath. “Then I did these.”

And they were genius. When Isabella had first entered the room, the paintings had been hidden inside the large wrapped bundle she’d seen Bellamy lug into her London house after Mac’s fire. She hadn’t paid attention, but today when they’d arrived at Kilmorgan, she’d gotten curious as to what Mac had been working on. She’d found Bellamy up here unpacking things and had urged the man to unwrap the paintings.

Bellamy must not have known what the pictures were, because when they came out, he turned red, mumbled something, and hastened out the door.

At first Isabella had been angry. What business had Mac to paint her without telling her? It was as though he’d peeped through a keyhole and drawn what he’d seen.

Then it had struck her how extraordinary they were. Mac’s talent shone in every brushstroke, every color. The Royal Academy had never admitted Mac’s work, claiming that his paintings were base and scandalous, but the Royal Academy could go hang as far as Isabella was concerned.

“Is that why you said you’d forfeit that wager?” Isabella asked. “Not because you couldn’t paint an erotic picture, but because you couldn’t paint at all?”

“You saw.” Mac met her gaze squarely. “I’d rather forfeit and let them laugh at me than reveal what has happened to my talent.”

“You won’t forfeit,” Isabella said. “You’ll win that bloody wager. If all you can paint is me, then you’ll paint me.”

Mac’s neck reddened with sudden anger. “The hell I will. I told you, I will not let my so-called friends look at paintings of you. These weren’t meant for anyone’s eyes but mine.”

“You can paint a body without putting in my face, can’t you? You can change the color of my hair. Or hire Molly when you go down to London again and paint her head in for mine. I don’t care.”

“Paint to order? Choose limbs and heads to suit the viewer? God save us.”

“For heaven’s sake, Mac, these aren’t for a Paris exhibition. They’re to win you a wager with a few obnoxious men at your club. Show them the pictures and then rip them up if you like. I’ll not have you ridiculed by soft-handed lordlings who have nothing to do all day but think of ways to mock others.”

Mac’s smile returned, with a flash of his old wickedness. “My, you are protective of your wreck of a husband.”

“If I can help you shut Dunstan’s and Randolph Manning’s jeering mouths, I will.”

“I promise you, I care nothing for what those fellows think of me.”

“I know you don’t, but I hate the thought of them laughing at you, saying you’re soft and weak and . . . and . . . impotent.”

Mac burst out laughing. Still laughing, he laid his arms loosely on her shoulders. “If you want to persuade me to paint erotic pictures of you, my love, I certainly will not argue with you. I’d be mad to argue. But you leave it up to me whether I want to win the blasted wager.”

When he looked like this, like the old Mac, charming and smiling and daring her, Isabella wanted to weave her entire life around him and never mind anything else. The knowledge that marriage with Mac hadn’t ever been easy faded to nothing in the face of his smile. She’d loved him then, and she loved him now. She had never stopped. But choices—choices were hell.

“Very well,” she said. She knew her tone was too capitulating, because Mac’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It’s your wager. Do as you like.” She slid out from under his touch as a brassy sound floated up the corridor outside. “Goodness, is that the gong for supper? I haven’t even changed my frock.”

Mac stepped between her and the door as she tried to leave. His eyes sparkled dangerously. “I’ll keep you to your word, my wife. We meet here, tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. Will that be too early? Will her ladyship have had ample time to rise and have breakfast?”

“Nine o’clock. I’ll be finished with my morning ride by then.”

“Nine it is.” Mac cocked a brow. “Don’t bother to dress.”

Isabella flushed, but she kept her voice cool. “I’ll wear my thickest dressing gown. I know you always forget to feed the fire when you’re working.”

Mac’s gaze moved down her throat to her bosom, as though he could see through her gown to what he would paint tomorrow. “As you wish. Until then, my lady.”

“Until supper, you mean. Unless you intend to hide in your room and not join us at table.”

Mac grinned again. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Isabella gave him a quelling look as she swept by, but his dark gaze had her heart racing. No man could look at a woman like Mac could. He made her feel desired, coveted, wanted. He looked at her as though he imagined her naked and hot on the floor underneath his equally naked and equally hot body. He was a wicked man, and he wanted to do wicked things to her.

Mac laughed behind her, as he always did when she walked away in high dudgeon, because he knew quite well that Isabella wanted to do equally wicked things back to him.