“Poor Isabella,” Beth said as Isabella closed the door. “I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.”
Isabella crossed to the bed, sank onto the chair beside it, and clasped Beth’s fingers between hers. “Are you all right?” she asked shakily. “The baby?”
“Is fine,” Beth said, smiling. “And I’m in good hands, as you can see.” She looked fondly at Ian, who’d not glanced up at Isabella’s entrance.
“Thank God.” Isabella bent her head over their clasped hands. The simple prayer poured out of her heart. “Thank God.”
“I really am fine, Isabella. I became overheated, that is all, first jumping up and down for the races and then sitting inside the stuffy tent. Also, my lacing was too tight, and you saw me gobbling up all those cream cakes.”
Her voice was light, ready to make a jest of the whole event. How silly I am, she was saying. And haven’t I paid the price? Isabella closed her eyes and rested her forehead on Beth’s hand.
Beth stroked her hair. “Are you crying, Izzy? I truly am all right. What is it, darling?”
“Isabella had a miscarriage,” Ian rumbled beside her.
Through a wash of painful memory, Isabella felt Beth start, heard her shocked exclamation.
“Four years ago,” Ian went on. “She was at a ball, and I had to take her home. I couldn’t find Mac. He was in Paris.”
Beth took in Ian’s disjointed sentences without question. “I see. Goodness, no wonder you two rushed me here in such alarm.”
“The child was a boy, three months gone,” Ian went on, reducing the most terrible event of Isabella’s life to short, exact phrases. “It took me five days to find Mac and bring him home.”
Five days in which Isabella had lain alone in her bed lost in the blackest melancholia she’d ever experienced. She’d thought at one point that she’d die; she hadn’t the strength to fight to live. But her body had been young and strong, and she’d recovered physically though not in spirits.
“And for that, I’ve never forgiven myself,” Mac said behind her.
Isabella raised her head to see Mac standing in the doorway, watching her with somber resignation.
“I’ve told you,” Isabella said. “You couldn’t have known it would happen.”
Mac unfolded his arms and walked into the room with slow, measured steps. “You were the person I most treasured in the world, and I wasn’t there to take care of you. You were right to hate me.”
“I didn’t . . .” Isabella trailed off. She had hated him at the time, hated that she’d had to suffer her grief alone. She’d also hated herself because she’d instigated the argument that had made Mac disappear two weeks before the miscarriage. She’d lashed out at him, telling him she was tired of his constant drunkenness and wild escapades with his equally drunken friends. Mac had decided, as usual, that the best thing he could do for her was to leave.
“I don’t hate you now,” she amended.
Mac sent Beth a faint smile. “Do you see what a very wretched life Isabella led with me? I made her miserable, alternately smothering her and then deserting her. Most of the time my head was fuddled with drink, but that’s no excuse.”
“That is why you became a teetotaler,” Beth said, understanding.
“Partly. Let that be a lesson to those who overindulge. Drink can ruin a life.”
Isabella rose with a rustle of skirts. “Don’t be so dramatic, Mac. You made a mistake, that is all.”
“I made the same mistake repeatedly for three years. Stop excusing me, Isabella. I don’t think I can take your pitying forgiveness.”
“And I can’t take your self-flagellation. It’s so unlike you.”
“It used to be unlike me. I’ve taken it up as a hobby.”
“Stop,” Ian growled from the bed. “Beth is tired. Go have your row outside.”
“Sorry, old man,” Mac said. “I came in here, in fact, to bring something to Beth. To cheer her up.”
Isabella watched rigidly. She felt a fool now, panicking over Beth while Mac and Ian had kept their heads. She realized that her fear of watching Beth live out Isabella’s remembered ordeal had rendered her unable to think or act.
“I adore presents,” Beth said, smiling.
Ian propped himself on his elbow as Mac approached, remaining by Beth’s side like a protective dragon. Mac took a large sheaf of banknotes from his pocket and laid them on the blanket.
“Your winnings, madam,” he said.
“Oh, heavens, I forgot all about them! Bless you, Mac. What a fine brother-in-law you’ve turned out to be. You fetch me a carriage and a doctor and my ill-gotten gains—all in one afternoon.”
“The least I can do for you for looking after my baby brother.”
Beth smiled in delight. Mac looked smug, and Ian . . . Ian had lost the train of the conversation and was tracing patterns on Beth’s abdomen.
“What about my winnings?” Isabella asked, her voice still shaky.
“I’ll distribute those to you outside. Good night, Beth.”
Isabella kissed Beth’s cheek, and Beth pulled Isabella into a tight hug. “Thank you, Isabella. I’m so sorry I gave you a fright.”
“Never mind. You are well. That is the important thing.” Isabella kissed her again and left the room through the door that Mac held open for her.
Mac strolled in silence with Isabella down the gallery while the dogs flowed around them, sensing that the crisis was over.
“Well,” Isabella said, wishing her cursed voice would stop trembling. “Are you going to give me my money?”
Mac turned her to face him. “Certainly. After I exact my price.”
Her heart jumped, and she didn’t like that his nearness made her want to melt to him again. Being held by him had felt too good.
“I am hardly a lady of easy virtue, thank you very much. I won’t kiss you for a guinea.”
“It’s one hundred guineas, and that is not what I had in mind.” His eyes glinted. “Though it’s an interesting suggestion.”
“Mac.”
Mac put his hands on her shoulders. Warm, sure hands, which burned through her thin gabardine. “My price is that you promise to stop carrying your grief alone. You accused me of self-flagellation, but you’ve folded in on yourself so tightly you barely let anyone touch you. Promise me you’ll cease keeping it to yourself.”
Anger rose through her worry. “And who am I to share this painful part of my life with? Who will be willing to listen to me bleat on about my tragedy without feigning an excuse to leave the room?”
“I will.”
Isabella stopped. She opened her mouth to answer, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t let her.
“It is my tragedy as well as yours,” Mac went on in a gentle voice. “When I heard about our baby, I wanted to die. Doubly so, because I was so far away from you. You might have died that night too, and there I was, oblivious and stupid in a Montmartre hotel. Ian never says much, but I know he thought I could do with a few of the tortures he’d endured in the asylum. You thought so too.”
Isabella nodded, tears burning her eyes. “But at the same time I needed you so much I didn’t care how far Ian had to go to find you.”
“Well, he found me,” Mac said. He spread his arms. “And here I am again.”
“Yes, here you are. What am I going to do with you?”
“I can think of so many things.”
The air went still as they regarded each other. The sun warmed Isabella’s skin, the last rays shining through the window.
She asked because she didn’t know what to do with him springing back into her life. He’d given up drink because of her, and now he was a different Mac—sober, quieter, more cynical, but still with a touch of his old wicked arrogance.
Mac slid his hands around her waist, heating her through her corset. His large body enclosed hers, the strength of his hands both unnerving and comforting. He could easily overwhelm her, take from her what he
