The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Chapter Ten

Ian waited, his golden eyes burning, for her to explain the mysteries of the world. “It is the most divine thing imaginable,” she tried.

“I don’t want to hear about divinity. I want to hear about flesh and bone. Is love like desire?”

“Some people think so.”

“But you don’t.”

Sweat trickled down Beth’s back, despite the clouds cutting the sun’s heat. The trouble with Ian Mackenzie’s questions was that he asked the unanswerable. And yet she should know how to answer—everyone should. But they couldn’t, because everyone simply knew. Everyone except Ian. “Desire is part of it,” she said slowly. “The love for another’s body. But also love for their heart and their mind, and for all the silly things they do, no matter how absurd. Your world brightens when they walk into a room, dims when they leave it again. You want to be with the beloved so you can see him and touch him and hear his voice, but you want his happiness as well. It’s selfish, but not entirely so.” “I can feel desire and wanting. I find you beautiful, and I want you.”

She warmed. “I must say, you are quite good for my pride. But when you don’t desire a woman, you feel nothing for her?”

“Nothing at all.”

Beth heaved a sigh. “And that, Ian Mackenzie, is why I said you’ll break my heart.”

His gaze strayed out the window to cloud-strewn Paris. “Wanting is not enough? Desire so strong you’ll do anything to fulfill it?”

“It’s lovely in the moment, but in the long view, 1 think, no.”

“In the asylum, I learned to take the short view.” She imagined a younger Ian, lanky and not yet grown into his man’s body, bewildered and alone. The bewildered boy reminded her of the girl who found herself abandoned at fifteen with predators roaming, waiting for her to become their victim. Even now, with a respectable name and a fortune, Beth never felt entirely safe.

“I admit that I, too, have learned to take the short view,” she said.

“You feel the wanting.” Ian took her fingers between his, pressing their palms together. “You felt it at the duchesse’s.” Her face heated. “Of course I felt it. You had me in that sitting room with my skirts up to my ears. How could I not?” “Do you want to feel it again?”

Excitement whispered through her. “If I were a lady, I’d protest that of course I don’t want to feel like that ever again. But I do, actually. Very much.”

“Good, because I want to see your body.” Beth swallowed. “You’ve already seen a good portion of it.”

He sent her a dark smile. “And it was fine. I wish to see the rest. Right now.”

Beth darted a glance to the door. “Mac might return any minute.”

“He’ll stay away until we leave.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know Mac.”

“The window . . .”

“Too high for anyone to see in.”

Beth had to admit that he’d answered her most basic objections. She knew she should have other objections, but she couldn’t remember them right now.

“And if I decide I’d rather run away?”

“Then we’ll wait.”

Beth hesitated, her legs feeling like water, but at the same time, she knew nothing would induce her to leave this room short of a fire. A very large fire.

“I’ll need help with the buttons,” she said.

Beth’s clothes came off layer by layer, like a complicated wrapping peeling back to reveal simple beauty. One by one, her garments fell across the studio’s sofa in a multicolored layer: rich blue bodice and overskirt, a brighter blue underskirt, the fabric light for summer. Two silk petticoats, both white, then her corset cover, until at last Ian unlaced the linen corset himself.

Ian’s arousal throbbed, and he knew he wouldn’t be happy until he saw her bared in her entirety. He untied her lacy pantalets, then unbuttoned the chemise. The silk garments floated gracefully to the floor, and Beth stepped out of them, nude for him. She reached for him, but Ian stepped away, and Beth stopped, confused.

Her hair was mussed from undressing, little ringlets falling from the mass of curls on top of her head. Her arms were soft and round, her thighs also, her waist nipped in by years of wearing a corset.

From her waist her hips softly flared to smooth and firm buttocks. He’d seen her vee of dark hair when he lifted her skirts in the little gilded room, but it was even more beautiful now touched by daylight.

Under his close scrutiny, she blushed and folded her arms over her breasts.

Ian leaned against the back of a chair and basked in her beauty. “You don’t need to hide from me.” Beth hesitated, then gave a little laugh and spun around, arms outstretched. She was so beautiful, with her curls every which way, her mouth laughing, her blue eyes flashing in the fading sunlight. The clouds thickened and rain began to fall, but that didn’t dampen the glow inside the room. Beth laughed again. “How strange is life?” she asked. “One moment you are a dowdy companion without a shilling, the next you are a wealthy bohemian in Paris. One moment a drudge, the next you are buying gifts for your paramour.”

Her words slid over him like water. He’d remember each one in its precise order later, but he would never understand them any better than he did now.

Beth caught up the drape Cybele had dropped and spun it around herself. The gauzy folds caught her hips and breasts, not hiding her in the slightest. She spun around and around, laughing.

Ian grasped the drape when she whirled by, and used it to haul her against him. She stumbled into his arms, still laughing. His first kiss parted her lips, stopping the laughter as she melted to him.

Beth had seen him at his worst, and yet she’d come here today, bleating an apology and handing him a gift. He caught the glint of the gold pin on his chest and his heart warmed beneath it.

Other parts of him were plenty warm, too. He lifted her against him, loving her pliant, bare body in his arms. If she’d been a courtesan, Ian would have already bent her over the chair and taken her without further ado. But while Beth’s husband might have taught her the pleasures of the bed, she’d know nothing of the crude coupling of courtesans. She smiled at him in perfect faith, a flower just opening.

Beth’s fragile trust was in Ian’s hands. He’d growled that he didn’t want to be protected, but the instinct to protect her was strong. Beth was so alone in the world, so vulnerable, and she didn’t even realize it.

Ian rubbed his hands over her warm body, wanting to gather her to him and not let go. The thought of anything happening to her, of other men demanding things from her, wound his thoughts into a frenzy.

“Kiss me,” he said.

Beth smiled into his mouth. She wrapped her arms around him, the gauzy drape coming around his neck. She tasted like warm honey, incredible sweetness. Something deep inside him responded. Ian recognized wanting, but it was more than that.

He slid his broad knee between hers, coaxing her forward as he kissed her. He boosted her with his hands on her buttocks until she trustingly straddled his thigh. Ian loosened his hold a little, letting her slide against his rock-hard thigh. Beth looked surprised, and then a soft sound escaped her lips.

Ian held his hands loosely on her hips, rocking her against his hard leg, teaching her to pleasure herself. Her sweet and exciting scent surrounded him. He kissed her, then left her alone to enjoy the strange sensation of the fabric against her cleft.

Beth scraped back and forth, her breath coming faster, cheeks pink and damp with sweat. She’d never pleasured herself, he realized. This was new to her, astonishing, delightful. Her head went back, and she closed her eyes. Wisps of hair trickled down her neck, her lips parting in desire. “Ian,” she whispered. “How do you know so well.. . what I want?”

He knew because her body told him. He liked a woman rising under his touch like Beth did now, eyes softening in delight. Women were more beautiful than ever when they gave in to pleasure. He loved how they smelled, how they tasted, the sound of their breathy sighs, the warmth of their bodies under his hands.

That meant that Ian could stand in Mac’s studio, fully dressed, and have Beth go crazy with pleasure. He liked the power of it, and the joy of watching Beth’s eyes widen and hearing her gasp turned to frenzied cries of delight. Ian took a curl at her forehead between his lips. He wanted her in every way possible, but he was enjoying slowly spinning out the seduction, giving her one taste at a time, watching her learn to want him.

One night, he would have her. By then, Beth would want him so much he could make her his forever. Ian didn’t understand love, by his own admission, but he knew having Beth in his life was something worth striving for. She’d said no the first time he’d asked her to marry him; she’d explained in her sensible manner that she had no inclination to marry. But Ian would change her mind. Ian Mackenzie had learned to be good at getting what he truly wanted. Beth’s cries rang against the studios high ceiling. She clasped his face between her hands and kissed him, hard. “Thank you, Ian,” she whispered.

Ian sank his fingers into her bottom and returned the kiss, tasting her as her orgasm wound down. She’d thanked him in the duchesse’s tiny sitting room, yet she was the one who stilled the beast inside him. He should be thanking her for giving him this peace, if only for a few precious moments.

I have become a truly wicked woman, Beth wrote in her journal a few days later. I find myself looking forward every day to what naughtiness Ian and I might do together.

Yesterday he escorted Isabella and me to Drouant’s, that very fashionable new restaurant where everyone goes to see who is there and with whom. Ian doesn’t speak much in company and never minds that Isabella and I gossip like magpies—or rather, Isabella tells me all about the people she sees, and I inhale it with too much enjoyment.

Ian held my hand under the table the entire meal. Isabella knew—of course she did. She seems quite enchanted with Ian’s attentions to me. But if she knew how Ian held my hand, she might not be so sanguine.

Ian cannot do something so simple as hold a woman’s hand. He moves his thumb up my wrist and under my glove, finding points that shoot wild heat through my body. He caresses the inside of my palm with soft fingers, and then he threads his fingers through mine and holds hard, as though teaching me that my hand belongs there with his. He calmly eats his sole meuhiere, or whatever exotic concoction Isabella has insisted we try, and says not a word. Ian and I are lovers—how strange for me to pen the word. And yet, we have not consummated our affair, not in the way of the marriage bed. I had thought, in Mac’s studio, that he would remove his clothes and couple with me on the couch. But he did not. He didn’t take off one stitch, not even loosening his collar, while I lay against him in my altogether. Quite disappointing.

However, my bare skin against the fabric of his coat was a strange but pleasing sensation. I never thought myself so depraved, but it made me feel rather wild and wanton. I would have done anything in that room, anything he wanted me to, but he gently suggested I dress and go before Isabella worried where I was.

I did, but the way he kissed me before I departed promised more adventures at a later time. And good heavens, did I , have an adventure today. . . .

Beth paused in her writing to listen to the rain beating at the windows. Paris had come in for a series of summer storms, rain and wind gushing endlessly through the city. It had ruined Beth’s morning walk and put paid to her and Isabella strolling along looking at shops.

Ian had said he’d take Isabella and me driving in the park today, and he arrived at the appointed hour. Isabella took one look at the slate gray sky and flatly refused to go. If we wanted fresh air so much, she said, Ian and I could go without her. Ian didn’t look as though he minded one way or another, so I found myself climbing into the carriage alone with him. Was Isabella a bit too easily put off by the weather? Did she too readily press her hand to her head and declare she felt a migraine coming on? She seems to want me to be improper—perhaps to encourage Ian to propose? But Ian and I are grown-up people—he is twenty-seven, Isabella tells me, which puts him two years younger than 1.1 am not a virginal debutante sheltering behind her mama’s skirts, and he is not a dark villain. We are simply a widow and a bachelor of the same age enjoying each other’s company. When the carriage began moving around the park at a fair clip, I boldly told Ian how much I’d liked feeling his clothes against my body in Mac’s studio. He smiled that warm, melting smile of his and said that if I liked that sort of sensation, I could pull down my drawers then and there and sit bare-buttocked on his lap.

The thought aroused me instantly, and Ian knew it, drat the man. I believe he delights in putting me in this state. I did not obey, because I could imagine the coach having an accident and me scrambling to safety with my lacy drawers about my ankles. Paris is a more permissive place than London, but I think even here I’d never live it down. Ian smiled at my fears and told me that nearly getting caught was part of the fun. I countered by mentioning that he had seen quite a lot of my bare skin, while I hadn’t seen a bit of his.

He then asked me which bit I had in mind.

I, of course, want to see all of him. The feel of hard muscle beneath his suits suggests a body well honed, and the thought of viewing any part of it makes me pulse with excitement. Unfortunately we were in a moving carriage, and Ian removing all his clothes, then resuming them wouldn’t have been practical. He told me I could view any bit I wished, but I’d have to open that part of his clothing myself. Depraved thing that I am, I reached over and began to unfasten his trousers.

Ian sat back and let me, his eyes closing to slits of gold. He spread his legs but refused to help me. This vexed me, because men’s clothes are wretched things. I don’t know how they manage. I had to unbutton and untie and move several pieces of fabric before I finally found what I sought. Ian was shaking by the time I finished—with laughter, I believe. At last his clothes parted, and I was able to reveal that part of a man’s anatomy that is the cause of so much wickedness. I am pleased to say I felt no embarrassment or timidity as I closed my hand around it and drew it forth.

Ian did not need to be embarrassed either. He is perfectly shaped. His shaft is smooth and dark, very warm in the cool carriage. It ends in a wide tip, like a cap with a tiny slit in its middle. I stroked my finger over this slit, and Ian made a hungry noise.

Realizing he liked this, I moved my thumb over the tip in a circular motion until he groaned again. I played with him thus, enjoying my power. I varied my technique, grasping his shaft and stroking my fingers up and down it, or tickling my way around the flange.

Ian put his hand over his face and wrapped his other arm tightly around me. I rested my cheek on his chest and kept up my play with his fascinating appendage.

After a while, I wanted more. The carriage was moving smoothly, so I slid from the seat to my knees. I studied him a little while at eye level, enjoying looking over every part of him. Then I leaned over and took him into my mouth. Ian jumped like I’d stung him. I feared I’d hurt him, but when I tried to back away, he laced his fingers through my hair and pulled me to him again.

I’d never tasted a man’s shaft before, and I licked it, assessing what it was like. I found the taste faintly salty, but darker, different from his lips.

I speculated whether I could put a love bite on him here, and when I began to try, he moaned out loud. He moved his legs farther apart while I worked, and his feet flexed in his boots. I heard him whisper my name, but I couldn’t reply, my mouth being far too full of him.

I couldn’t quite leave a love bite, though I tried for a long time. When I finally gave up, I pushed my mouth back over his shaft, as though I meant to swallow it entirely. The thought excited me. I wanted to devour him. I didn’t understand the wanting, but I pushed him into my mouth as far as he could go.

I know he liked this, because he wrapped his legs around my middle, and the sounds that came out of his mouth were incoherent. His hips moved, making him rise out of the seat. I felt gleeful that I could torment him this way, just as he’d tormented me. I now knew how to give him such pleasure he couldn’t keep still.

I dipped my hand between his spread legs to find the round firmness of his balls, and entertained myself moving them gently in my palm. I felt him shudder, felt the pulsing inside him, and then suddenly he let out a loud groan and filled my mouth with his seed.

I was surprised and nearly pulled away, but my heart beat swiftly, and I decided I wanted to stay put. Ian tasted like fine cream with a little bite, not at all a bad concoction. I slid my tongue around my mouth as he eased himself out, and I swallowed him, happy to keep some part of him for myself.

lan dragged me up into the seat without bothering to refasten his trousers. He kissed me hard, despite what I’d just done, as though he wanted to taste what lingered on my lips, He looked at me and said nothing at all, but his grip on my face softened. I saw his gaze try to meet mine and fall short every time.

Finally he growled a little and gathered me into his arms. He held me thus, stroking and kissing my hair, until the carriage slowed again in front of Isabella’s house.

Ian refused to come in, which I understood, though he’d of course fastened his trousers again. I expected him to say some good-bye, to let me know when we might meet again and continue our wanton entertainment, but he remained silent. He was breathing hard, though, and I believe he’d not had a chance to compose himself.

Isabella greeted me without the slightest trace of the headache she’d affected before I left. In fact, the deceptive young woman raced upstairs and dressed to attend a salon, even though the rain hadn’t slackened one whit. I declined to attend with her, because lan wasn’t escorting us, and I couldn’t imagine any delight that could match what I’d experienced in Ian’s closed carriage on this wet day.

The hotel room was hot and close, despite the window thrown open to coax in the summer breeze. The suite had been fitted with a fan that spun lazily overhead, propelled by compressed gas. But it worked in fits and starts and did nothing to move the still Italian air.

“There is another one, Your Grace.”

The Duke of Kilmorgan’s whippet-thin valet laid a newspaper across the volume of papers on the duke’s desk.

Hart scanned the page Wilfred had folded open for him, but the relevant story was obvious. A society paper sketch portrayed Ian Mackenzie alongside a lovely young woman with dark hair at a crowded theatre. Behind the young woman, his sister-in-law, Isabella, beamed. Stark capitals, with many exclamation marks, blazoned in French across the page:

A new amore for a duke’s brother? The mysterious English heiress, Mrs. A —, accompanies Lady I and her brother-in-law to a production of La Bonne Femme, the latest and most scandalous musical comedy to open in Paris. Naughty, naughty Mrs. A .

“Who the devil is this woman?” Hart growled. He’d never heard of her, never seen her before. “Lord Ian is quite rich, Your Grace,” Wilfred said in his creaking voice. “Perhaps she seeks to double her investment.” “I find no humor in it, Wilfred.” Hart bent the pen in his hand until the slender instrument snapped. Ink splattered across the newspaper.

“Of course not, Your Grace.”

“Damn it all, what is Isabella playing at?”

“You think she has a hand in it, Your Grace?”

“Both hands. Damnation.”

“Is it such a danger?” When Hart glared up at Wilfred, the man flushed. “I mean, sir, that if her ladyship likes this Mrs. Ackerley, approves of her, perhaps all is well? If your brother, his lordship, enjoys her company . . . well, he is getting to be of an age where he should think about settling down.” Hart watched him steadily until Wilfred trailed off. “You’ve been in my employ ten years, Wilfred. You know Ian, and you know what he’s capable of.” “I do, Your Grace.”

“Isabella isn’t aware of certain facts. Neither are you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Trust me when I say Ian must be kept away from this woman, whoever she is.” Hart studied the drawing, the woman’s round, pretty face and dark curls on top of her head. She looked innocent and harmless, but Hart knew better than anyone how much looks could deceive. This was the fifth time a Parisian newspaper had chosen to print such a tidbit about Ian and this Mrs. Ackerley. “Whatever her motives are. they can’t be good.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Have a packed valise standing by for me at all times, Wilfred. I want to be able to leave at a moment’s notice.” “Of course, Your Grace. Shall I dispose of the newspaper?”

“Not yet.” Hart put his hand on it. “Not yet.” Wilfred bowed and left him. Hart studied the picture again, noting the way Ian was half turned to look at Mrs. Ackerley. An artist’s interpretation, yes, but it likely wasn’t far off the mark. Mrs. Ackerley must know Ian’s history by now, his eccentricities, his headaches, his nightmares. The latter depended on whether she’d yet wormed her way into his bed. Hart clenched his fists and rested them on the newspaper. Ian wasn’t even supposed to be in Paris. Ian was to stay in London, returning to Scotland when Hart finished his business on the Continent. There had been no mention of Ian visiting Mac or Isabella in Paris.

“I don’t know who you are,” Hart said, tracing the outline of the laughing Mrs. Ackerley. “But you have taken one step too far.”

Hart slowly crumpled the page in his hands, then tore it apart in long, ragged strips.

In the week between Ian’s interesting carriage ride with Beth and his next planned encounter with her, he saw nothing of Inspector Fellows. He had Curry watch out for the man, but Curry couldn’t find him either. “ ‘E must ‘ave run off ‘ome,” Curry declared,” ‘is tail between ‘is legs.”

Ian didn’t think so. Inspector Fellows was canny and smart, and he wouldn’t run because Ian threatened him. If he’d returned to London in truth, it would be for a very good reason. Ian wished he knew what the man was planning. Isabella asked Ian to accompany her and Beth to an outing on Wednesday, and though another summer storm had come up to drench Paris, Isabella still insisted on going. “It’s a den of iniquity, darling,” Isabella said to Beth as the three of them descended in front of an ordinary looking house on the edge of Montmartre. “You’ll love it.” Ian had been here before with Mac, but entering the house was much more satisfying with Beth on his arm. She was dressed in dark red taffeta tonight, rosettes at her bosom. Everything she wore shimmered and whispered in some way. He kept her hand tight in the crook of his arm, not letting go when she tried to pull away. He was glad Isabella had been wise enough to ask Ian to escort them, because he’d be damned if he’d let Beth into this place alone. “Den of iniquity?” Beth asked, peering around the dim, dusty shop they entered. “I believe someone’s having you on.”

Isabella laughed. “This way, darling. It’s a dead secret.” She led the way through the shop to an unmarked door at the back. Light and noise and the stench of cigar smoke and perfume poured up a carpeted staircase. Not so secret, Ian thought as he let Beth precede him down the stairs. The Parisian police were aware of this illegal gambling den, but took money to look the other way. The wealthy Parisians thought they were getting away with something, excited like mischievous children. The staircase spilled them into a glittering palace. The room ran the length of several houses upstairs, and crystal chandeliers marched across the ceiling. A rich red carpet covered the floor, and the walls were lined with walnut.

People hovered around tables, talking, laughing, shouting, groaning. The click of dice, the slapping of cards, and the whir of a roulette wheel floated above it all. Too many people pressed around Ian. He didn’t like it. They crushed him, stared at him, talked all at the same time until he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He felt the need to flee winding like an insidious vine, and he looked around for the nearest retreat.

“Ian?” Beth glanced up at him, faint perfume clinging to her. Her curls on top of her head were level with his nose. He could bury his face in her hair, kiss her. He didn’t have to run.

His hand tightened on hers. “I don’t like crowds,” he said.

“I know. Should we go?”

“Not yet,” Isabella said. She looked back at them with shining eyes and stopped in front of a roulette table. The wheel’s brass finial gleamed as it spun, the wooden slats of the base beautifully inlaid. Piles of counters rested on numbers on the green baize tabletop.

Ian watched the ball whizzing around the wheel, in the opposite direction the wheel spun. Roulette wheels were precisely balanced, floating on their bases, the nearest thing to a perpetual-motion machine. Ian wanted to snatch up the ball and start the wheel again, to count how many times the ball could glide around the circumference before friction had its way.

The wheel slowed. Ian stared closely, predicting how many turns were left before the ball dropped. Fifteen, he predicted, or twenty.

The ball danced across the double row of slots before finally coming to rest. “Rouge quinze” the partially dressed lady behind it announced. Red fifteen.

There were groans and sighs. The croupier raked counters toward herself, and hands reached for winnings or left them to ride.

“I love roulette.” Isabella sighed. “It’s banned in France, but you can find it if you know where to look. Saves the bother of traveling all the way to Monte Carlo. Give me your money, and I’ll change it to markers for you.” Beth looked questioning at Ian. He nodded. The tightness had eased from his throat, and he breathed more easily. Isabella handed Beth markers, and Beth reached to put a stack on one of the numbers.

“Not there,” Ian said quickly.

“Does it matter?” Diamonds glittered on Beth’s gloved wrist as her hand stilled.

Ian took the markers from her and placed one on the lines between four numbers. “Odds are better here.” Beth looked doubtful, but she withdrew her hand to the edge of the table. The croupier spun the wheel, muscles in her bare shoulders working.

The wheel whirred, all eyes fastened on it. The ball spun in its enticing motion until it clicked softly into its slot.

“Noir dix-neuf.” Black nineteen.

Beth rapped the table in frustration as the croupier scraped away her counters.

“The same again,” Ian said.

“But I lost.”

“The same again.”

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ian.” She obediently put her marker in the same place. The wheel spun, the ball dropped. “Rouge vingt et un.” Red twenty-one.

Beth squealed and did a little victory hop. The croupier shoved a pile of counters onto Beth’s number. “I won. Gracious, shall I do it again?”

Ian’s large hand shot out and he scraped Beth’s winnings to her. “Roulette is a fool’s game. Come with me.” Isabella grinned at them, reaching to put her marker where Beth’s had been. “It’s all rather fun, isn’t it? You’re so lucky, darling. I knew you would be.” She laughed and spun back to the table.

Ian kept Beth’s hand in his as they moved to a long table where a portly man shook a cup of dice. Bettors up and down the table shouted encouragement, and the gentleman’s face shone with sweat. The lavishly dressed lady next to him hung on his arm and bounced excitedly. “She’ll ruin his throw,” Beth hissed.

“She might, if she is employed by the house,” Ian murmured back.

“Isn’t that cheating?”

He shrugged. “It’s the risk of coming into such places as this.”

“Isabella seemed so keen.”

“She likes danger.” After all, she’d married Mac.

“Shall I place a bet?” Beth asked.

Hazard had so many odds, so many different combinations that the dice could produce. Predicting which would come up or waiting for a precise throw seemed futile to Ian. People found that risk exciting, which baffled him. Beth’s eyes sparkled as she watched the gentleman nerve himself to throw. “What bet shall I place?” Ian rubbed his thumb over his forehead, numbers flowing through his brain in mathematical precision. “Here, and here,” he said, pointing to squares on the table. The man finally threw the dice, establishing the number he had to match, a ten. Then he threw again. Everyone groaned when the dice read twelve.

“I lost,” Beth said, disappointed.

“You won.” Ian retrieved the counters. “You bet that he would overreach on an early throw.”

“Did I?” Beth looked at the counters, then back at the table. Her cheeks were pink, lips shining red. “I think I shouldn’t wager if I have no idea what I’m betting on.”

“You’re a rich woman.” Ian placed the counters in her hands. “You have the money to lose.”

“I won’t be rich for long if I wager on hazard and roulette. What would have happened if you hadn’t been here?”

“If I’d not been here, you wouldn’t have come.”

“No?”

She raised her brows at him, dove’s wings across her face. Ian wanted to lean down and kiss them, here in the middle of the crowd. Beth, his lover, his mistress. He wanted everyone to know she belonged to him.

“Ian?”

She’d asked him a question. “Mmm?”

“I said, how do you know I wouldn’t have come without you?”

Ian took her elbow and steered her to a less crowded part of the room. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

“Really? Would you follow me about, like Inspector Fellows?”

“This is a dangerous place,” he said grimly. “Isabella understands. You don’t.”

Beth’s bosom rose. “You’re very protective.” She leaned in to whisper to him. “I thought we agreed that our relations were between two people who enjoyed that side of life. Nothing more.”

Ian didn’t remember agreeing to that. She’d said, We like each other well enough, and I don’t foresee that I will marry again.

Ian hadn’t responded, and he didn’t respond now. Having the affair with her would never be enough. He wanted more than playing with her in Mac’s studio, the bliss of having her go down on him in the carriage. He wanted it again and again, the joy of her forever. Not Beth as his courtesan, not a love affair that ended when he left Paris. He wanted Beth for always.

The problem was how to do it. Beth didn’t wish to marry, she said. Her engagement to the snake Mather had left her shy, and she’d already turned Ian down once. He would have to think of a way, but the task didn’t bother him. Ian was good at focusing his attention on a problem until he solved it, to the exclusion of everything else. A slender young man with thick blond hair stepped out in front of him, and Ian’s thoughts fell in shards. “I thought that was you.” The man’s eyes lit up, and he stuck out his hand. “Ian Mackenzie, as I live and breathe. How are you, old man? I haven’t seen you since they sprang you from prison.”