The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Chapter Two

Before Beth could choke out a refusal, Lord Ian propelled her along the gallery, half lifting, half pulling her. He yanked open a velvet-draped door and all but shoved her inside. Beth found herself in another box, this one large, heavily carpeted, and filled with cigar smoke. She coughed. “I need a drink of water.”

Lord Ian pushed her down into an armchair, which welcomed her into its plush depths. She clasped the cold crystal glass he thrust at her and drank deeply of its contents. She gasped when she tasted whiskey instead of water, but the liquid burned a fiery trail to her stomach, and her vision began to clear.

Once she could see again Beth realized she sat in a box that looked directly onto the stage below. From its prime position she judged that it must be the Duke of Kilmorgan’s box. It was very posh indeed, with comfortable furniture, gaslights turned low, and polished inlaid tables. But apart from herself and Lord Ian, the box was empty.

Ian took the glass from her and seated himself on the chair next to hers, far too close. He put his lips to the glass where Beth had just drunk from it and finished off the contents. A stray droplet lingered on his lower lip, and Beth suddenly wanted to lick it clean.

To drag her mind from such thoughts, she slid the paper from her glove. “What did you mean by this, my lord?” Ian didn’t even look at the letter. “Exactly what it said.”

“These are very grave—and quite distressing—accusations.” Ian’s expression said he didn’t give a damn how grave and distressing they were. “Mather is a blackguard, and you would be well rid of him.”

Beth crumpled the letter in her hand and tried to organize her thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Ian Mackenzie sitting half a foot from her, his powerful presence all but making her fall off the chair. Every time she drew a breath, she inhaled the scent of whiskey and cigar and dark maleness she wasn’t used to.

“I have heard that collectors envy one another to the point of madness,” she said.

“Mather isn’t a collector.”

“Isn’t he? I’ve seen his porcelain. He keeps it locked away in a special room, and won’t even let the servants in to clean.”

“His collection isn’t worth a damn. He can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake.”

Ian’s gaze roved over her, as warm and dark as his touch.

She shifted uncomfortably.

“My lord, I’ve been betrothed to Sir Lyndon for three months, and none of his other acquaintances have mentioned any peculiar behaviors.”

“Mather keeps his perversions to himself.” “But not from you? Why are you privileged with this information?”

“He thought it would impress my brother.”

“Good heavens, why should such a thing impress a duke?”

Ian lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his arm brushing Beth’s. He sat too close, but Beth couldn’t seem to make herself rise and move to another chair.

“Do you go about prepared with letters such as these in case they’re wanted?” she asked.

His gaze moved swiftly to her, then away again, as though he wanted to focus on her and couldn’t. “I wrote it before I came tonight, in case when I met you I thought you’d be worth saving.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Mather is a blind idiot and sees only your fortune.” Exactly what her own little voice had just told her. “Mather doesn’t need my fortune,” she argued. “He has money of his own. He has a house in Park Lane, a large estate in Suffolk, and so forth.”

“He is riddled with debt. That’s why he sold me the bowl.”

She didn’t know what bowl, but humiliation burned in her stomach along with the whiskey. She’d been so careful when the offers had come thick and fast after Mrs. Barrington’s death—she liked to laugh that a young widow who’d just come into a good fortune must be, to misquote Jane Austen, in want of a husband.

“I’m not a fool, my lord. I realize that much of my charm comes from the money now attached to me.” His eyes were warm, the gold the same color as the whiskey.

“No, it doesn’t.”

The simple phrase thawed her. “If this letter is true, then I am in an untenable position.”

“Why? You are rich. You can do whatever you like.” Beth went silent. Her world had turned topsy-turvy the day Mrs. Barrington had died and left her house in Belgrave Square, her fortune, her servants, and all her worldly goods to Beth, as Mrs. Barrington had no living relation. The money was all Beth’s to do with as she liked. Wealth meant freedom. Beth had never had freedom in her life, and she supposed another reason she’d welcomed Mather’s proposal was that he and his aunt could help her ease into the world of London Society as something more than a drudge. She’d been a drudge for so very long.

Married women were supposed to look the other way at their husbands’ affairs. Thomas had said this was balderdash, rules thought up by gentlemen so that they could do as they liked. But then, Thomas had been a good man. The man sitting next to her couldn’t be called good by any stretch of the imagination. He and his brothers had terrible reputations. Even Beth, sheltered by Mrs. Barrington for the last nine years, knew that. There were whispers of sordid affairs and stories of the scandalous separation of Lord Mac Mackenzie from his wife, Lady Isabella. There had also been rumors five years ago about the Mackenzies’ involvement in the death of a courtesan, but Beth couldn’t remember the details. The case had gained the attention of Scotland Yard, and all four brothers had removed themselves from the country for a time.

No, the Mackenzies were by no means considered “good” men. Then why should a man like Lord Ian Mackenzie bother to warn nobody Beth Ackerley that she was about to marry an adulterer?

“You could always marry me,” Lord Ian said abruptly.

Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you could marry me. I don’t give a damn about your fortune.”

“My lord, why on earth should you ask me to marry you?”

“Because you have beautiful eyes.”

“How do you know? You’ve not once looked at them.”

“I know.”

Her breath hurt, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you do this often? Warn a young lady about her fiance, then turn about and offer to marry her yourself? Obviously the tactic hasn’t worked, or you’d have a string of wives dogging your footsteps.”

Ian looked away slightly, his hand coming up to massage his temple, as though he had a headache coming on. He was a madman, she reminded herself. Or at least, he’d grown up in an asylum for madmen. So why did she not fear to sit here alone with him, when no one in the world knew where she was?

Perhaps because she’d seen lunatics in Thomas’s charity work in the East End, kept by families who could barely manage them. Poor souls, they’d been, some of them kept roped to their beds. Lord Ian was a long way from being a poor soul.

She cleared her throat. “It is very kind of you, my lord.”

Ian’s hand closed to a tight fist on the arm of his chair.

“If I marry you, Mather can’t touch you.”

“If I married you it would be the scandal of the century.”

“You would survive it.”

Beth stared at the soprano on the stage, suddenly remembering that gossip painted the large-bosomed lady as a paramour of Lord Cameron Mackenzie, another of Ian’s older brothers. “If anyone has seen me dive in here with you, my reputation is already ruined.”

“Then you will have nothing to lose.”

Beth could stand up in a huff, point her nose in the air as Mrs. Barrington had taught her, and march out. Mrs. Barrington had said she’d slapped a good many would-be suitors in her time, though Beth would leave off the slap. She couldn’t imagine Lord Ian being fazed by any blow she could land, anyway.

“If I said yes, what would you do?” she asked in true curiosity. “Balk and try to talk your way out of it?”

“I would find a bishop, pry a license out of him, and make him marry us tonight.”

She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids? What about all the flowers?” “You were married once before.”

“So that ought to have satisfied my need for white gowns and lilies of the valley? I must warn you that ladies are quite particular about their weddings, my lord. You might want to know that in case you decide to propose to another lady in the next half hour.”

Ian closed hard fingers around her hand. “I am asking you. Yes or no?”

“You don’t know anything about me. I might have a sordid past.”

“I know everything about you.” His gaze went remote, and his hand closed more tightly on hers. “Your maiden name is Villiers. Your father was a Frenchman who appeared in England thirty years ago. Your mother was the daughter of an English squire, and he disowned her when she married your father. Your father died a pauper and left you destitute. You and your mother were forced into a workhouse when you were ten years old.”

Beth listened in astonishment. She’d made no secret of her past to Mrs. Barrington or Thomas, but to hear it come out of the mouth of a lofty lord like Ian Mackenzie was unnerving.

“Goodness, is this common knowledge?” “I told Curry to find out about you. Your mother died when you were fifteen. You were eventually employed by the workhouse as a teacher. When you were nineteen the vicar newly in charge of the workhouse, Thomas Ackerley, met you and married you. He died of fever a year later. Mrs. Barrington of Belgrave Square hired you as her companion.” Beth blinked as the drama of her life unfolded in the brief sentences. “Is this Curry a Scotland Yard detective?” “He is my valet.”

“Oh, of course. A valet.” She fanned herself vigorously. “He looks after your clothes, shaves you, and investigates the pasts of obscure young women. Perhaps you should be warning Sir Lyndon about me instead of the other way around.”

“I wanted to discover whether you were genuine or false.”

She had no idea what that meant. “You have your answer, then. I’m certainly no diamond in the rough. More like a pebble that’s been polished a little.”

Ian touched a lock of hair that had drifted to her forehead.

“You are real.”

The touch had her heart pounding and heat washing to every limb. He sat too close, his fingertips so warm through his gloves. It would be a simple thing to tilt her head back and kiss him.

“You are ten times higher than I am, my lord. If I married you it would be a misalliance never to be forgotten.” “Your father was a viscount.”

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about dear, dear Father.” Beth knew exactly how real her father’s claim to be a viscount had been, exactly how well her father had acted the part.

Lord Ian drew a thin curl between his fingers, straightening it. He let it go, his eyes flickering as it bounced against her forehead. He drew the curl out again, watching it bounce back, and again. His concentration unnerved her; the closeness of his body unnerved her still more. At the same time, her own wanton body was responding.

“You shall take all the spring out of it,” she said. “My maid will be so disappointed.”

Ian blinked, then returned his hand to the arm of his chair as though having to force it.

“Did you love your husband?”

This bizarre encounter with Lord Ian was the sort of thing she would have had a good laugh over with Thomas. But Thomas was gone, years ago, and she was alone.

“With all my heart.”

“I wouldn’t expect love from you. I can’t love you back.” Beth plied her fan to her hot face, her heart stumbling.

“Hardly flattering, my lord, for a woman to hear a man won’t fall in love with her. She likes to believe she will be the center of his abject devotion.”

Mather had said he’d be devoted. The crumpled letter burned her again.

“Not won’t. I can’t love you.”

“I beg your pardon?” She’d been using the phrase so often tonight.

“I am incapable of love. I will not offer it to you.” Beth wondered what was more heartbreaking, the words themselves or the flat tone of voice with which he delivered them. “Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right lady, my lord. Everyone falls in love sooner or later.” “I have taken women as lovers, but never loved them.” Beth’s face heated. “You make no sense, my lord. If you don’t care about my fortune or whether I love you, why on earth do you wish to marry me?”

Ian reached for the curl again as though he couldn’t stop himself. “Because I want to bed you.”

Beth knew in that instant that she was not a true lady, and never would be. A true lady would have fallen out of her chair in a gentle swoon or screamed down the opera house. Instead, Beth leaned into Ian’s touch, liking it. “Do you?” His hand loosened more curls, rendering the maid’s work useless. “You were a vicar’s wife, respectable, the sort to be married. Otherwise, I would offer a liaison.” Beth resisted rubbing her face against his glove. “Have I got this right? You want me to come to your bed, but because I was once a respectable married lady, you must marry me in order to get me there?”

“Yes.”

She gave a half-hysterical laugh. “My dear Lord Ian, don’t you think that a bit extreme? Once you’d had me in your bed, you’d still be married to me.”

“I planned to bed you more than once.”

It sounded so logical when he said it. His deep voice slid through her senses, tempting her, finding the passionate woman who’d discovered how much she loved touching a man’s body and having that man touch her. Ladies were not supposed to enjoy the marriage bed, so she’d been told. Thomas had said that was nonsense, and he’d taught her what a woman could feel. If he’d not taught her so well, she reflected, she’d not be sitting here boiling with need for Lord Ian Mackenzie.

“You do realize, my lord, that I am engaged to another man? I have only your word that he is a philanderer.” “I will give you time to make inquiries about Mather and put your affairs in order. Would you prefer to live in London or my estate in Scotland?”

Beth wanted to lay her head back on her chair and laugh and laugh. This was too absurd, and at the same time dismayingly tempting. Ian was attractive; she was alone. He was rich enough not to care about her little fortune, and he made no secret that he wanted to enjoy carnal knowledge of her. But if she truly knew so little about Lyndon Mather, she knew nothing at all about Ian Mackenzie.

“I’m still puzzled,” she managed to say. “A friendly warning about Sir Lyndon is one thing, but to warn me and then offer me marriage in the space of minutes another. Do you always make up your mind so quickly?”

“Yes.”

“ ‘If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly’? That sort of thing?”

“You can refuse.”

“I think I should.”

“Because I’m a madman?”

She gave another breathless laugh. “No, because it is too enticing, and because I’ve drunk whiskey, and I should return to Sir Lyndon and his aunt.”

She rose, skirts rustling, but Lord Ian grasped her hand.

“Don’t go”

The words were harsh, not a plea. The strength left Beth’s limbs and she sat down again. It was warm here, and the chair was oh, so comfortable. “I shouldn’t stay.”

His hand closed over hers. “Watch the opera.” Beth forced her gaze to the stage, where the soprano was singing passionately about a lost lover. Tears gleamed on the singer’s face, and Beth wondered if she were thinking about Lord Cameron Mackenzie.

Whoever the woman thought of, the notes of the aria throbbed. “It’s beautiful,” Beth whispered.

“I can play this piece note for note,” Ian said, his breath warm in her ear. “But I cannot capture its soul.” “Oh.” She squeezed his hand, hurt for him welling up inside her.

Ian almost said, Teach me to hear it as you do, but he knew that was impossible.

She was like rare porcelain, he thought, delicate beauty with a core of steel. Cheap porcelain crumbled to dust or shattered, but the best pieces survived until they reached the hands of a collector who would care for them. Beth closed her eyes to listen, her enticing curls trembling at her forehead. He liked how her hair unraveled, like silk from a tapestry.

The soprano ended the piece on another long, clear note.

Beth clapped spontaneously, smiling, eyes glowing with appreciation. Ian had learned, under Mac’s and Cameron’s tutoring, how to applaud when a piece stopped, but he never understood why. Beth seemed to have no trouble understanding, and responding to, the joy of the music.

When she looked up at him with tears in her blue eyes, he leaned down and kissed her.

She started, her hands coming up to push him away. But she rested her hands on his shoulders instead and made a soft noise of surrender.

He needed her body under his tonight. He wanted to watch her eyes soften with desire, her cheeks flush with pleasure. He wanted to rub the sweet berry between her legs and make her wet, he wanted to drive into her until he released, and then he wanted to do it all over again.

He’d wake with her head on his pillow and kiss her until she opened her eyes. He’d feed her breakfast and watch her smile as she took food from his hand.

He drew his tongue across her lower lip. She tasted of honey and whiskey, sweet spice. He felt her pulse pounding beneath his fingertips, her breath scalding his skin. He wanted that hot breath on his arousal, which was already hard and aching for her. He wanted her to touch her lips to it like she touched them to his mouth.

She wanted this—no maidenly vapors, no shrinking away from him. Beth Ackerley knew what it was to be with a man, and she liked it. His body throbbed with possibilities. “We should stop,” she whispered.

“Do you want to stop?”

“Now that you mention it, not really.”

“Then why?” His lips brushed her mouth as he spoke. She tasted whiskey on his tongue, felt the firm brush of his lips, the roughness of his chin. He had a man’s mouth, a commanding mouth.

“I’m sure there are a dozen reasons why we should stop. I confess I can’t think of any good ones at the moment.”

His fingers were strong. “Come home with me tonight.” Beth wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. Joy shot through her entire body, a painful ache she’d thought she’d never feel again.

“I can’t,” she almost moaned.

“You can.”

“I wish . . . “ She imagined the newspapers blazing the gossip all over London tomorrow. Heiress Abandons Fiance for Sordid Affair with Lord Ian Mackenzie. Her origins were murky—would anyone be surprised? Blood will out, they’d say. Wasn’t her mother no better than she ought to be?

“You can,” Ian repeated firmly. Beth closed her eyes, trying to press aside sweet temptation.

“Stop asking me.. ..”

The door of the box banged open, and harsh, gravelly tones cut through the audience’s thunderous applause. “Ian, damn it, you were supposed to be watching Daniel. He’d down dicing with the coachmen again, and you know he always loses.”