The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

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.”

Chapter Eight

Beth closed the door and stood with her back against it.

“Time for what? Are you all right?”

“Come over here.”

Beth lifted the sarin skirts of her ball gown and picked her way delicately toward him. Delicately because her feet were already swollen in her too-tight shoes, and the four story climb had left her wincing.

Ian caught her hand and pulled her the last couple of steps. She landed against his hard body, and his strong arms came around her. “What. .. ?”

He stopped her words with his mouth. His tongue stroked hers, stirring embers that hadn’t quite gone out since their last encounter. This man could kiss.

Beth eased away from him with difficulty. “If we haven’t much time, perhaps you’d better tell me what’s wrong.” “What are you talking about?”

“The note.” She took it from her pocket. “Did you not send it?”

Ian glanced once at it, his amber eyes meeting hers for an instant. “I did.”

“Why?”

“So you would come to me.”

“Are you saying you summoned me up here, saying it was most urgent, just to kiss me?”

“Yes. To continue our liaison.”

“Here. Now?”

 “Why not?”

He bent to kiss her again, and she tried to step away. Her heel snagged on the carpet, and he caught her squarely in his arms.

Ian smiled. It was a feral smile, the smile of a predator who’d caught his prey. Her thundering heart told her she didn’t mind much.

“This is someone else’s house,” she tried.

“Yes.” His tone said, What of it?

Beth had imagined them conducting their affair in her bedroom, secretly, after she’d made sure everyone was out of the house. It would be clandestine and hole-in-corner—not that she knew much about having affairs.  “Someone could come in,” she said. “And there’s no bed.” Ian laughed softly. She’d never heard him laugh before, and she liked it, all smooth and throaty and dark.  Ian crossed the room to turn a little key in the lock, then laced his arms around her from behind. “We don’t need a bed.”

“None of these chain look quite comfortable.”

He nuzzled beneath her hair. “You are not used to this.”

“I confess, this is my first liaison.”

He kissed her neck as he slid his hands up her tightly cinched waist to her breasts. Beth closed her eyes and leaned into his warm palms.

“You are right,” she whispered. “I am not used to this at all. What do you wish to do?”

“Touch you,” he said in her ear. “Learn you. Have you touch me.”

Beth’s heart jumped. “You said we didn’t have much time.”

“No.”

“Then what do I do?”

Ian licked her neck, bared by the low-cut gown. “Pull up your skirt.”

Did he expect to do this standing up? Beth wasn’t quite certain it would work, especially not with her corset smoothing down to her hips. Dratted underthings.  Ian took hold of her skirts and started shoving them upward.

Beth curled her fingers in the fabric and helped him.  It was quite a task, and Beth reflected that if she’d known he’d planned this, she’d have worn fewer petticoats.  But she’d wanted the line of her gown to look well, vain creature that she was. At least in this gown made for dancing she’d been able to leave off” the bustle.

While she held her skirts bunched in her hands, Ian scraped a curve-backed chair in front of her and sat down. This put his face on a level with her pantalets. She wore a new pair, ivory silk, quite thin, adorned with lovely little embroidered flowers. Beth had never owned such frivolous, feminine undergarments in her life, but Isabella had insisted Beth purchase them.

Ian untied the tapes of the pantalets. With her hands full of skirts, Beth could scarcely stop him, but she did let out a tiny squeak when he yanked the drawers down. From the softening of his eyes, Beth concluded that he could see everything.