“Why would I tell them anything? Aimee has red hair like mine. I will claim she’s the orphan of a long-lost cousin from America or something.”
“My angel, all of London will conclude that she is my illegitimate daughter by an unknown woman,” Mac said. “They will think exactly what Hart thought.”
“I am long past caring what rubbish the scandal sheets print.”
Her voice was haughty, but Mac knew she damn well did care. The journalists had used much of his marriage to Isabella to sell newspapers. For some reason, the general public had been fascinated by the details of how Isabella had redecorated the Mount Street house, what happened at their parties, and the subject of every quarrel she had with Mac, real and imagined. As brother to the second most powerful peer in England and Scotland, Mac had long been used to being observed and written about, but Isabella, whose life had been very private, had felt it keenly.
Mac admitted he’d done nothing to keep the newssheets’ attention from them. He’d taken Isabella to gaming hells, had her in his studio while he painted nude models, and traveled with her to Paris where he worked for days without sleep while she shopped and went to parties. The newspapers had loved it.
“But Aimee might care,” Mac said. “In time.”
Isabella’s eyes sparkled with determination. “I will not let that child grow up poor and unwanted. Whoever this man is, he obviously doesn’t want Aimee. Mirabelle said she was his model—she thought she was modeling for the great and generous Mac Mackenzie. You were also famous for not betraying your wife—she never would have believed he was you if you and I had still been living together.” She drew a breath. “If I hadn’t left you.”
“Isabella, for God’s sake, Aimee’s existence is not your fault.”
“I should have stayed, Mac. I should have tried to make it work.”
She was trembling, her eyes too bright. She hadn’t slept all night, the foolish chit, and now she spouted self-recriminations she didn’t mean.
“I drove you mad, my love,” Mac said. “Remember? I read the letter you wrote me. About a hundred times, each time hoping it would say something different.”
“I know. But I ran away. I was a coward.”
“Stop.” Mac drew her into his arms. She smelled of sunshine, and he wanted to sink into her and stay there the rest of the day. “I’ve met cowards, Isabella. You aren’t one. Good lord, you married me. That took courage.”
“Don’t tease me right now,” Isabella said into his shoulder. “Please.”
Mac stroked her hair, the brilliant red of it shining in the sunlight. “Hush, my love. You may take care of the baby if you want to.”
“Thank you.”
Mac fell silent, but he didn’t like this. Not Isabella’s generosity in wanting to help the poor motherless mite, but he feared she wanted to assuage some imagined guilt by doing so. He also worried about what the madman would do once he found out that Isabella had taken Aimee. Mac needed to find the blackguard.
Aimee woke up, saw Isabella, and cooed for her attention. Right now, the child wanted to be held and fed and made safe. There would be time enough later to sort out complicated adult emotions.
Isabella lifted the girl. Aimee started to cry and reached for Mac. Resigned, Mac held out his arms, trying not to like it when she cuddled under his chin and was quiet.
Isabella smiled, her cheeks still wet. “Whether you like it or not, Mac, she’s decided you belong to her.”
“Which means if you want to look after her, I’ll have to stick close by you.”
“Until she gets used to me, certainly. In that case, you’d better have Bellamy buy tickets so we may return to London.”
“London? What’s wrong with Kilmorgan? She has places to run and play here, and the crofters’ children to play with.”
Isabella gave him one of those looks that informed Mac that he was hopelessly male. “I must make arrangements for nannies and governesses, there are clothes to be sorted out, a nursery to be prepared. A hundred things to do before the Season starts.”
Mac bounced Aimee. “She’s not ready to make her debut yet, surely. She’s too tiny to waltz.”
“Don’t be silly. My Seasons are always full, and I’ll not send my child packing to the country so I don’t have to be bothered with her while I’m entertaining guests.”
“As our own dear parents did, you mean?” Aimee enjoyed herself pulling Mac’s hair until he swung her high in the air and gently tossed and caught her. She squealed in delight.
“Yes,” Isabella said. “I remember what a lonely, unwanted feeling that was. I’ll not have Aimee growing up glimpsing us from afar.”
Isabella had decided. Mac held Aimee close again but felt a qualm of misgiving. He’d known that losing their baby had hurt Isabella deeply, but he hadn’t realized until this moment just how much she longed for children. Enough that she was ready to make Aimee hers? Using a twisted logic that Aimee would never have been born if Isabella hadn’t left Mac?
One thing was certain: Whatever Isabella’s complicated motivations, she was determined to go to London with Aimee. Aimee was quiet only around Mac, and Mac was determined not to let Isabella out of his sight.
Ergo, they were off to London. He and Isabella, who’d thus far been two wary satellites circling each other, were now part of a solid threesome.
Chapter 14
London was shocked to hear of the estrangement between the Scottish Lord and his Lady. The Lord has retreated to the Continent, and the Lady lives in Mount Street no longer. There is a saying, that many a bride and groom should heed, which is Marry in haste, Repent at leisure. —January 1878
Mac had called Isabella courageous on the terrace, but Isabella saw Mac’s true colors on the journey to London. They left the day after giving Mirabelle a proper funeral, her grave sad in the rain-soaked churchyard.
Aimee had taken to Mac with a vengeance and scarcely allowed anyone else to touch her. She’d conceded to letting Isabella hold her, putting together in her tiny brain that Isabella went with Mac. But she also made it clear that she preferred Mac. He cheerfully obliged and let Aimee sit on his lap, play with his watch fob, bounce on his knee, tug his hair, and grab his nose.
Isabella had never thought of Mac as being good with children—when she’d carried his child, she’d been secretly worried that Mac might not be interested in the babe once it was born. Now as she watched from her seat in the compartment, Isabella observed with amusement that Mac might be even better with children than she was. He fed Aimee milk from a cup, let her tear apart the bread that came with his dinner, and balked only when it was time to change her nappy. There were limits, Mac said as he handed the soiled child to Evans. The servant had softened quite suddenly to Mac after observing him with Aimee, and had taken to giving him indulgent smiles.
As the train rolled on, Mac fell asleep leaning against the compartment wall, and Aimee slept in his arms. The sight of Isabella’s large husband in kilt sprawled across the seat with a baby on his chest made her heart warm.
When they reached London the next morning, Mac directed his town coachman to take them to Isabella’s house. Isabella was very aware of her neighbors’ stares as she descended from the coach in North Audley Street, followed by her estranged husband carrying a baby. She sensed curtains lifting, faces at windows. Mac was right: The gossip would be merciless.
Her household staff, on the other hand, rose to the occasion. Morton had been warned by telegrams from Bellamy to expect them, and he’d cleared the bedroom where Daniel had slept to make a nursery. He’d also taken the liberty of contacting his niece, a nanny who was currently looking for a post. Morton had arranged for Miss Westlock to arrive for an interview that afternoon, if that were convenient for her ladyship, that is.
“This is why I say you stole my best servants,” Mac said. “Morton is a god among butlers.”
“I endeavor to give satisfaction, my lord,” Morton said coolly.
“I know you do, Morton, but I’m aware that you would throw me over in a heartbeat if you had to choose
