Isabella laughed again, the sound silken. “What utter cheek.”
“Wagers are wagers, my dear. The wager is all.”
“I suppose this is a male ritual I’ll never understand. Although at Miss Pringle’s Select Academy, we could get up to some fine dares.”
Mac leaned his arm on the wall, putting himself even closer to her. “I’m certain Miss Pringle was shocked.”
“Not shocked, only cross. She always seemed to know what we were up to.”
“The very perceptive Miss Pringle.”
“She is highly intelligent. Don’t make fun of her.”
“Never. I’m rather fond of her. If you are the product of her academy, all young ladies ought to attend.”
“She wouldn’t have room for them,” Isabella said. “That is why it’s called Miss Pringle’s Select Academy.”
This was how it used to be with Isabella, the two of them chattering nonsense while he let the silk of her hair trickle through his fingers. They’d lounge in bed, talking, laughing, arguing about nothing, everything.
Damn it to hell, I want that back.
He’d missed her with his entire body since the moment Ian had handed him the letter. What’s this? Mac had asked, not in the best temper—his head aching from a night of drunken debauchery. Does Isabella have you passing billets-doux now?
Ian’s golden gaze had slid to Mac’s right shoulder, Ian uncomfortable with looking into anyone’s eyes. Isabella is gone. The letter explains why.
Gone? What do you mean, gone? Mac had broken the seal and read the fateful words: Dearest Mac. I love you. I will always love you. But I can live with you no longer.
Ian had watched while Mac swept the contents of his painting table to the floor in rage. Once he’d cooled down, Mac had stared bleakly at the letter again, and Ian, a man who didn’t like to be touched, had laid his hand on his brother’s shoulder. She was right to go.
The weeping came much later, when Mac had drunk himself into a stupor, the letter crumpled on the table next to him.
Isabella shivered suddenly, breaking his thoughts.
“You’re cold,” Mac said. The temperature had dropped, and Isabella’s low-cut gown was no defense against an autumn evening. Mac slid off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.
He kept hold of the edges of the coat while his need for her plucked at him. They were relatively alone and unseen, she was his wife, and he needed so much to touch her. Dancing with her had been a mistake. It had given him a taste of her, and he hungered for much, much more. He wanted to unravel her complicated curls, have her long hair spill over his naked body. He wanted her to look up at him with languid eyes and smile at him, wanted her to lift to his hand as he pleasured her.
Mac had painted her the morning after their hasty wedding, Isabella sitting on the edge of the bed, nude, the sheets tangled around her. She’d been winding her flame-colored hair into a knot, her firm breasts lifting with her movements. She’d taken that painting with her when she’d gone, and Mac had never asked for it back. He wished he had now, because at least he could look at her, and remember.
“Isabella.” The word came out half whisper, half moan. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you.” She touched his face, her hand cool and soft. “I do miss you, Mac.”
Then why did you leave me?
He bit back the words that rose in his mouth. Remonstrations would only anger her, and there had already been too much anger.
You aren’t trying hard enough to get her back, Ian had told him not long ago. I never thought you were this bloody stupid.
But Mac knew he had to go slowly. If he pushed Isabella too quickly, she’d slip out of his reach, like a sunbeam he tried to capture in his hands.
“Actually, if you’ll allow me a few precious moments,” Mac said, clearing his throat, “I brought you out here for a reason.”
She smiled. “To let me cool from our rather arduous dance?”
“No.” Damn it, let me do this. “To ask you for your help.”
Chapter 3
The lofty Lord of Mount Street, so recently a Groom, has not, we have been assured, ceased his hobby of painting in the manner of the Parisians, and in fact, has been painting with renewed vigor since his marriage. — May 1875
Isabella’s eyes flickered in genuine surprise. “My help? What on earth could I do for a lofty lord like you?”
“Nothing very difficult,” Mac said. “I simply need some advice.”
A faint smile touched her mouth, and his blood started to burn. “Good heavens, Mac Mackenzie seeking advice?”
“Not for me. For a friend.” This suddenly seemed like a bloody stupid idea, but Mac hadn’t been able to think of a better one. “I know a gentleman who wishes to court a lady,” he said in a rush. “I’ve come to ask you how to go about it.”
Isabella’s brows climbed high, her eyes so close in the darkness. “Truly? Why should you need my advice about that?”
“Because I don’t know much about courting, do I? Our own courtship lasted, what was it, about an hour and a half? Besides, this is a delicate matter. The lady in question loathes him. Once, years ago, this man hurt her. Deeply.” Mac shifted, every muscle aching. “She will need coaxing. A vast amount of coaxing.”
“But ladies do not like to be coaxed,” Isabella said, that half smile hovering. “They like to be admired and respected.”
Like hell. They wanted to be adored, wanted men panting in anticipation at the merest crook of a finger. A smile from the lady would cost even more.
“Very well,” Mac said in a tight voice. “What is your view about gifts?”
“Ladies do like gifts. Tokens of affection. But appropriate gifts, nothing wildly extravagant.”
“But he’s bloody rich, this friend. He likes to be extravagant.”
“That doesn’t necessarily impress a lady.”
Like hell, again. Women cooed over strands of diamonds, glittering blue sapphires, emeralds as green as their eyes. Mac had once bought Isabella a strand of emeralds to drape softly across her breasts. The first night she’d worn them they’d been alone, her very lovely breasts bared for him. He still remembered the taste of the emeralds against her skin.
“Then I will teach him the difference between appropriate and extravagant,” Mac said, his voice thick. “Anything else?”
“Yes. Time. The lady will need time to think and not be rushed. To decide whether the gentleman will be appropriate for her.”
Time. There’d been too damn much of that. Wasted weeks and months and years, when Mac could have been curled against her in bed, tasting her and smelling her, feeling her warmth against the length of his body.
“You mean time for the fellow to prove his devotion?” Mac couldn’t keep the impatient edge out of his voice. “Or time for the lady to drive him completely mad?”
“Time for the lady to decide whether his devotion is true or all his imagination.”
“The lady decides that, does she?”
“She does. Always.”
Mac growled. “Bloody hard luck on the gentleman isn’t it, when a lady knows his mind better than he does?”
