The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Chapter Seven

Pleasure bubbled through Ian’s tension. “Carnal relations,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said, her voice shy. “If it would interest you.”

If it would interest me?

“You mean bed,” he said bluntly.

Her blush deepened, her fingers twisting the ring around and around. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Not like a mistress, you understand, but just two people enjoying... that side of life. We like each other well enough, and I don’t foresee that I will marry again. Mather frightened me off that, goodness knows. But perhaps we can be . . . lovers, at least while we are in Paris. I’m babbling, I know, but I can’t help myself.”

Did she know how beautiful she was? Her cheeks were flame red, her look both defiant and uncertain. He gazed into her eyes for one fleeting instant and said, “Yes.”

Beth let out a breath that turned to a shaky laugh. “Thank you for not leaving in disgust.”

Disgust? What man could be disgusted with a lady with eyes like hers, who’d just stammered out that she wanted to be his paramour?

Ian took a step back to have a full view of her. She wore a simple frock of mauve broadcloth, the overskirt pleated, the underskirt soft ruffles. A row of buttons shaped like blackberries marched up her bodice to her chin. The damn collar was too high, closing her off instead of exposing her lovely neck.

“We will start now,” he said.

She jumped. “Right now?”

“Before you have second thoughts.”

Beth pressed fingers to her mouth, as though trying to stop her smile. “Very well, what did you have in mind?” “Unbutton your frock.” He came to her and touched the button at the hollow of her throat. He wanted to take it between his teeth and see if it truly tasted of blackberries. “Down to there.”

“Only that?”

“For now.”

She gave him a surprised look but began to undo her buttons. Her pale throat came into view, the hollow damp with perspiration. It was a beautiful throat, long and slender, unmarred.

Ian slid his hands around her waist. She looked up at him, lips parted, but he didn’t kiss her. He gently pushed open the placket, then leaned down and kissed her neck. “Ian.”

“Shh.”

He licked the hollow of her throat, then pulled her soft skin between his teeth.

“What are you doing?”

“Giving you a love bite.”

“A love—“

Ian bit down, and Beth inhaled sharply. He suckled, keeping it tender. He tasted the salt of her skin, felt her pulse flutter beneath his lips.

Strip for me, he wanted to say. He wanted to see his Beth with her skirts up, her fingers untying the waistband of her pantalets. He wanted her to pull the pantalets down so he could see her triangle of hair glistening with moisture. His already hard erection gave a throb.

He wondered if her nipples would taste the same as her neck. He wanted to unbutton the bodice and remove the damned corset so he could feast on her breasts. He wanted to open his mouth over one, grip the other with his hand.

Go slowly with her. Savor this.

Ian raised his head. He let his gaze brush hers, catching a flash of blue before he lowered it to the safety of her lips again.

Very kissable lips. The bottom one curved slightly, as though she liked to smile; the top one was ever so slightly bowed. Her eyes were half closed, her hair mussed, a dark mark on her throat where he’d suckled her.

“Your turn now,” he said.

Ian slid off his frock coat, pulled off his tie and collar.

Beth watched him intently as he bared his throat. She approached him tentatively, keeping her gaze fastened to his neck. Her curls ticked his chin as she leaned into him, her balled hands resting on his shoulders. Her lips touched his throat, warm and firm. Then he felt the tiny prick of her teeth.

He couldn’t stifle his groan as she caught a fold of his skin. The slight pain as she began to suckle made him want to spill his seed. Lay her on the floor, part her legs, send it inside her. Never since he’d been seventeen years old and first excited by the attentions of a rosy-cheeked maid had he come so close to losing control.

He wanted to open his shirt all the way and have Beth apply her mouth to his nipples. Then let her sink down to her knees to take his staff into her clever mouth and practice giving him love bites there.

Have carnal relations, she’d said in her sweet voice. On occasion, when we mutually agree.

Oh, yes, there would be many occasions, and he would make certain they always agreed.

Beth eased away and looked up at him, her eyes blue enough to break his heart. “Is that right?” He couldn’t talk anymore, the words jumbling up without meaning. He took her mouth in a wild kiss and scraped her hard against him.

So many occasions, every day, anyplace they happened to be. His mind spun with possibilities. He liked games, and this one he’d never tire of.

It took all his strength to press her away. If he didn’t end this now, he truly would have her on the floor, or maybe straddling him on the convenient straight-backed chair. Both ways. He’d take her all night and not tire. He kissed her forehead, not hearing whatever it was she was saying. He wished he had Mac’s charm, so he could .find the right words to thank her, to propose another tryst, to continue the play. Instead Ian cupped her face in- his hands and gave her another kiss on the mouth. “I said, will you send another message through the very useful Curry?” she asked.

“Yes.” How easy it was to be with her, when she answered questions so he didn’t have to. “That will do.” He retrieved his coat, thrusting his collar and tie into the pocket, and turned for one last look.

Beth stood upright in the middle of the room, where he’d found her when he’d first stormed in. Now her dress gaped to her throat to expose the dull red mark he’d left on her skin. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips swollen with his kisses. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

“Good night,” she whispered.

He made himself turn away and thrust open the doors, ignoring the footman and Katie, who suddenly scuttled away down the hall. He snatched hat, gloves, and scarf from hooks in the foyer and banged out of the house before he could give in to temptation and stay.

He would soon arrange it so he never had to leave. He’d marry her for a very basic reason: to have her with him every night, every day, every afternoon, and every time in between. He walked down the boulevard, something in him awakening and breaking free.

The night had turned foggy, which only enhanced Ian’s ability to hear the footsteps that turned and followed him as he moved off down the avenue.

Sleep was impossible. Beth paced her bedchamber far into the night, wrapped in a dressing gown. She found herself unable to return to her journal or to go to bed. The events were too fresh to write about, and anytime she tried, her trembling hand spilled ink all over her journal pages. She kept her dressing gown closed to her throat, though every so often, she’d stop in front of the mirror and ease it open. The red mark Ian had left stood out stark against her skin, almost a bruise, though not quite. Some of the game girls who’d come to the workhouse had had such marks, had laughed at Beth when she asked about them in concern. Beth pressed her hand against the love bite. She’d had no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing. Now she remembered the warm tingle in her veins when his breath touched her throat, the throbbing of her opening when his teeth closed on her neck. His hair had touched her chin, warm and soft and smelling of soap.

She heard Isabella come home and hoped her friend wouldn’t race in for a late-night chat. Beth had come to like Isabella, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide her agitation, her excitement. Isabella would crack Beth open like an egg.

Isabella was uncharacteristically quiet as she came down the hall and soon closed her door. Through the wall, Beth heard the low voice of her maid, readying Isabella for bed.

Then the maid departed and all was silence. Beth still couldn’t settle down. Her body was keyed up, angry at her for not completing what she’d started with Ian. She had feared he’d laugh at her suggestion that they have a liaison—she’d shared a man’s bed and knew of orgasm, but Ian Mackenzie was decadence itself. A completely different thing.

He’d given her his slow half smile, had met her gaze for the briefest instant, and said yes. He’d not been amused, bored, indifferent, embarrassed. The smile had set her body aflame.

As Beth turned to make another agitated pass through her room, she heard a muffled sound through the walls. She knew the sound, had heard it often from herself after Thomas had died. She’d lain alone in her plain bedroom in Mrs. Barrington’s house and wept.

Drawing her wrapper around her, Beth hurried next door to Isabella’s room. Tapping on the door brought no response, so she pushed her way in.

The gaslights had been turned low, and a weak yellow glow filtered through the room. Depressing. Beth turned up a light to reveal Isabella on a chaise longue, her head in her hands. Isabella’s long hair poured over her back like a scarlet curtain, and she wept in choked, heaving sobs. Beth slid next to her, her hand on Isabella’s satiny hair.

“Darling, what is it?”

Isabella jerked her head up. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. “Go away.”

“No.” Beth lifted a curl from Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve cried alone like this before. It’s a terrible thing.” Isabella regarded her with streaming green eyes before she flung her arms around Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, stroking her hair.

“Mac was at the ball tonight,” Isabella sobbed.

“Oh, dear.”

“The comtesse invited us both to see what would happen when we saw each other. The bitch.”

Beth agreed. “What did happen?”

Isabella raised her head. “He utterly ignored me. Pretended he didn’t see me, and I pretended I didn’t see him.” She made a sound of anguish. “But, oh, Beth, I love him so much.”

“I know, dearest.”

“I want to hate him. I wish I could hate him. I try so hard, but I can’t. I’m usually brave about it. But when I saw him tonight. . .”

Beth rocked her a little. “I know.”

“You can’t know. Your husband died, but it’s not the same. You know he loved you, and he’s always in your heart. But whenever I see Mac, the knife twists so hard. He loved me once, before it all went wrong.” The last word elongated into a sob. Beth held her close, resting her cheek against Isabella’s hair. Beth’s heart ached. She’d seen the strain in Isabella’s eyes, and she’d seen the hard weariness in Mac’s. It was none of her business, but she wished she could put it right.

Isabella raised her head again and wiped her eyes. “I want to show you something.”

“Later, Isabella. You should rest.”

“No. I want you to understand.”

Isabella rose, pushing back her hair, and padded across the room to her wardrobe. She opened it and extracted a small picture wrapped in cloth. Isabella carried it to her bed, laid it reverently on the mattress, and stripped off the cloths.

Beth caught her breath. The painting showed Isabella sitting on the edge of a tumbled bed. A sheet slid provocatively down her shoulder, baring one prefect breast, and a swirl of hair peeped from the join of her thighs. Isabella was looking away from the painter, her red hair caught in a loose knot at the base of her neck.

Despite the subject—a woman just rising from the bed of her lover—the portrait was in no way lewd or indecorous. The muted colors were elegantly cool, with Isabella’s hair and a sprig of bright yellow roses the only vivid colors. It was the portrait of a beloved, painted by a man who regarded his wife as his lover. It was also, if Beth was any judge, an amazingly good painting. The light, the shadows, the composition, the color—so much captured on one small canvas. The painter had signed the corner with a flourish:

Mac Mackenzie.

“You see?” Isabella said softly. “He really is a genius.”

Beth pressed her hands together. “It’s absolutely beautiful.” “He painted that the morning after we married. He did the sketch right there in the bedroom, then painted it in his studio. Slapdash, he called it, but he said he couldn’t stop himself.”

“You are right, Isabella. He did love you.”

Silent tears slid down Isabella’s cheeks. “You should have seen me at my debut ball—I was a silly ninny, and he was the most decadent man I’d ever seen. He wasn’t even invited to the ball; he ‘crashed,’ as they say, for a wager. He made me dance with him, said I was too afraid to. He teased me and made fun of me until I wanted to strangle him. He knew it, drat him. He played me like a fish, knowing all he had to do was scoop me into his net.” She sighed. “And he did. I married him that very night.”

Beth studied the painting again. Mac might have begun the night as a lark, but it had ended quite differently. The picture was the work of a man inspired, all tenderness and soft colors. The work of a man in love.

“Thank you for showing me,” Beth said.

Isabella smiled. “You need to understand about Mackenzies. I am so happy you’ve caught Ian’s attention, but I might have done you a disservice, my dear. Loving a Mackenzie can tear you to pieces. Be careful, darling.”

Beth’s heart throbbed. She knew as she looked again at the beautiful woman painted with love by Mac Mackenzie that it was already far too late for caution.

Beth didn’t see Ian for a week after their encounter. She waited for the promised message setting up their next liaison, but nothing came. She tried not to start every time the bell rang downstairs, every time she heard a footman or maid hurrying toward her chamber. She tried not to feel the sting of disappointment as the days passed without a word. There could be a hundred reasons why he didn’t seek her out, she told herself, the foremost of which was that Ian had business to attend to. Isabella explained that Hart had Ian read political correspondences and treaties for him and commit them to memory, then alert Hart to those with particular phrases Hart told him to watch for. Ian also had great mathematical skill and kept his eyes on all the Mackenzie brothers’ investments. Like a cardsharp who knew every card on the table, Ian followed the ups and downs of markets with uncanny precision. In the years since Ian had left the private asylum, he’d nearly doubled the Mackenzies’ already large fortune.

“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was the reason Hart got Ian released from the asylum,” Isabella said when she’d explained. “That’s a bit unfair of me, but Hart does put Ian’s astonishing brain to much use. No wonder Ian gets headaches.”

Beth felt indignant on Ian’s behalf. Perhaps Ian liked working for his brother, though he’d never mentioned it. But it would explain his absence during the week.

On Saturday, Isabella took Beth to another whirlwind ball, this one at the palatial home of a duchesse. Beth danced with gentlemen who regarded her with predatory eyes. If she’d been a vain young woman, she might believe they were dazzled by her, but she knew better. Many of Isabella’s bohemian friends lived far beyond their means, and a widow with a large bank account was just what they needed. French peasants pretending to be quality, Mrs. Barrington would have said with a sniff. She’d disapproved of the entire nation of France, forgiving it only slightly for producing Beth. Beth fanned herself in a corner after a rigorous waltz with such a gentleman. He ran on about the cost of keeping a carriage and decent servants. But one has to, my dear, or one appears gauche. The sweet nothings a lady wanted to hear. A servant saved her from the conversation by bringing her a note. Beth excused herself from the spendthrift gentleman and unfolded the paper.

Most urgent I see you. Top of the house, first door. Ian.

Beth’s pulse leapt. She crumpled the note in her pocket and sped through the house and up the winding staircase. At the top she found a recessed door trimmed with gold. She opened it to an ornate little room with Ian Mackenzie in the middle of it. He scowled at a pocket watch in his hand and didn’t look up when she entered “Ian,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Ian clicked his watch closed and tucked it into his waistcoat.

“Close the door. We don’t have much time.”