The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

“I am a wicked, wicked woman,” she murmured. “Kiss me again.”

Without a word he swiftly slanted his lips over hers. His tongue stabbed inside her mouth, and he pressed his fingers to the corners of her lips, opening her wider.  These weren’t the kisses of a man flirting. They were the kisses of a man who wanted to lie with her, damn the timing and damn the circumstances. Every part of her that touched him throbbed.

“We should stop,” she whispered.

“Why?”

Beth couldn’t think of a reason. I am a widowed lady, well past the age of innocence. Why should I not kiss a handsome man in a drawing room? A little carnality won’t hurt me.

She snaked her wanton hand between his thighs, finding the hard ridge behind his trousers.

“Mmm.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “Do you want to touch it?”

Yes, please, said the wicked lady. “I can hear the china breaking now.”

“What?” His brow furrowed.

“Never mind. You are a rogue and a scoundrel, and I love every single second of it.”

“I don’t understand you.”

She cupped his face. “Never mind, never mind. I’m sorry I spoke.”

Her lips felt raw, swollen from his kisses. She kissed the curve of his lower lip, tasting the corners of his mouth as he’d done with her. He chased her tongue, pinning it inside her mouth before he proceeded to lick every inch of it.

He wants me to welcome him into my bed and not be ashamed.

This was a world she didn’t know, one she’d only glimpsed through half-closed curtains behind which diamond bedecked women smiled at cigar-smoke-wreathed gentlemen.  So many houses, so many windows, so much warmth inside, and this was the first time she’d been invited in.  The door suddenly banged open, and Isabella strolled into the room in a blue silk dressing gown. Beth tried to jump away from Ian, but he was holding her too tight. She ended up half sitting on, half sliding off his knee.  Isabella peered blearily about. “Ian, darling, what are you doing here playing Gilbert and Sullivan at the crack of dawn? I thought I was having a nightmare.”

Beth finally slid to her feet, her face flaming. “I beg your pardon, Isabella. We didn’t mean to wake you.” Isabella’s eyes widened. “I see. I beg your pardon for interrupting.” Thank heavens for corsets, Beth thought distractedly. Her nipples were hard little points against the fabric, but the thick boning would hide it.

Ian didn’t rise. He leaned one elbow on the piano and studied the moldings behind Isabella.

“Will you stay to breakfast, Ian?” Isabella asked. “I’ll try to prop my eyes open long enough to join you.” He shook his head. “I came to deliver Beth a message.” “Did you?” Beth asked. How ridiculous, she’d never thought to ask why he’d suddenly appeared in Isabella’s drawing room.

“From Mac.” Ian continued to stare across the room. “He says he’ll be ready to start your drawing lessons in three days.  He wants to finish the painting he’s working on first.” Isabella answered before Beth could. “Really? My husband was always so good at doing two things at once.” Her voice was strained.

“The model is Cybele,” Ian answered. “Mac doesn’t want Beth there while Cybele is.”

Pain flashed through Isabella’s eyes. “He never bothered about such things with me.”

Ian didn’t answer, and Beth couldn’t help asking, “Is this Cybele so awful?”

“She’s a foulmouthed tart,” Isabella said. “Mac introduced me to her to shock me when we first married. He loved to shock me. It became his raison d’etre.”

Ian had turned his head to stare out the window, as though the conversation no longer interested him. Isabella’s delight evaporated, and her face looked pinched and tired.

“Oh, well, Ian, if you aren’t staying for breakfast, I’ll drag myself back to bed. Good morning to you.” She drifted out, leaving the door open behind her.

Beth watched her go, not liking how unhappy Isabella looked. “Can you stay to breakfast?” she asked Ian.  He shook his head and rose to his feet—did he regret leaving or was he happy to go? “Mac expects me at his studio.  He gets worried if I don’t appear.”

“Your brothers like to look after you.” Beth felt a pang.  She’d grown up so alone, with no sisters or brothers, and no friends she could trust.

“They’re afraid.”

“Of what?”

Ian kept his gaze out the window, as though he didn’t hear her. “I want to see you again.”

A hundred polite refusals Mrs. Barrington had drilled into her flitted through her head and out again. “Yes, I’d like to see you, too.”

“I will send you a message through Curry.”

“Ever resourceful, is your Mr. Curry.”

He wasn’t listening. “The soprano,” he said.  Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?” She remembered the newspaper article that had bothered her so much the day she’d met Mac. “Oh. That soprano.”

“I asked Cameron to pretend to argue with me about her.  I wanted people to focus on the soprano and forget about you. He was happy to oblige. He enjoyed it.” People must have seen Beth enter the Mackenzie box, perhaps had seen Ian spirit her away to Cameron’s coach.  He’d created a public argument with Cameron to divert attention from Beth to the Mackenzies, famous for their sordid affairs.

“Pity,” Beth said faintly. “It was such a well-done story.”

“It is not what happened.”

“I realize that. I’m overwhelmed.”

“Why should it overwhelm you?”

“My dear Lord Ian, the paid companion is the last person anyone thinks to spare gossip about. She is drab and faded—her own fault, really, that no one wanted to marry her.” “Who the devil told you that?”

“Dear Mrs. Barrington, although she didn’t put it quite like that. I should be demure and forgettable, she said. She had the best of intentions. She was trying to protect me, you see.”

“No.” He stared at her, his gaze resting on a curl over her ear. “I don’t see.”

“That’s all right. You don’t need to.”

Ian went silent again, lost in his own thoughts. Then he looked at her abruptly, crushed her to him, and pressed a swift kiss to her mouth.

Before Beth could gasp, he stood her bodily aside and strode out of the room. Beth stood still, her lips burning, until the cold draft from the slamming front door announced that he’d gone.

“Darling, how lovely,” Isabella said that evening, holding out her arm so her maid could slide a glove up it. “You and Ian.” Her green eyes danced, but shadows stained her face. “I am so pleased.”

“Nothing lovely about it,” Beth said. “I am being horribly scandalous.”

Isabella gave her a knowing smile. “Whatever you say. I shall wait avidly for further news on the subject.” “Do you not have a ball to attend, Isabella?”

Isabella kissed Beth’s cheeks, bathing her in a wash of perfume. “Are you sure you don’t mind me running off, my dear? I hate to leave you alone.”

“No, no. Go and enjoy yourself. I’m rather tired tonight, and I don’t mind time to gather my thoughts.”

Beth wanted a quiet night, not feeling up to the scrutiny of Paris this evening, even with Isabella’s protection. Isabella knew “absolutely everyone,” and had introduced Beth around with enthusiasm. Isabella hinted that Beth was a mysterious heiress from England, which seemed to go over well with the artists, writers, and poets that flocked to Isabella.  Tonight Beth was willing to forgo the glamour. She would write about her day in her journal, then retire and indulge in fantasies about Ian Mackenzie. She had no business indulging in fantasies about him, but she didn’t care.

Once Isabella had gone, Beth asked the butler to serve her a cold supper in her chamber. Then she took up a pen and turned to her diary.

She’d begun an account of her adventures in Paris, which she scribbled about whenever she had a moment. As she chewed leftover meat pie, she flipped to clean pages at the end of the notebook.

I’m not certain how he makes me feel, she wrote. His hands are large and strong, and I wanted too much for him to lift them to my bosom. I wanted to press my breasts inside his palms. I wanted to feel the