Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

Chapter 4

The smitten Groom of Mount Street has purchased his Lady a country Cottage in Buckinghamshire where she hosts charity Garden Fetes now that the weather has grown warm and Town swelters. The great and the good attend these parties and speak of nothing else. —July 1875

Crane spluttered, but Mac couldn’t summon up much anger for the little man. Mac’s entire awareness centered on Isabella standing near him as resplendently beautiful in a brown-and-cream day dress as she had been in her elegant satin ball gown and diamonds.

If Mac were to paint her in this costume he’d use the palest of yellows for the trim, cream and umber for the bodice, darker brown for the shadows. For her skin, tints of cream and pink. Darkened red for her lips, which would be the only color on her face, rippling red orange for the curls under her hat. Eyes a suggestion of black and green, in shadow.

“Mac, I was just explaining . . .”

Mac didn’t hear her. Or rather, he couldn’t hear Isabella’s words—he heard only her voice, low, musical, designed to make his heart dance.

“Your lordship.” Crane rubbed his hands together in that irritating manner he had. “You brought me the paintings yourself.”

“Paintings?” Mac’s brows rose. “You mean, there’s been more than one?”

“Of course. I have another here.” Crane minced his way into a back room and came out with a framed canvas almost as tall as himself. Mac laid his walking stick and hat on a table helped Crane lift the painting to a hook on the wall.

It was a Venice picture. Two men worked a gondola in the foreground, with the buildings of the Grand Canal fading into the mist, the merest suggestion of reflections of them in the murky water.

“One of your best, your lordship,” Crane said. “From your Venetian Period.”

The painting was damned good, Mac had to say that. The composition was finely balanced, the colors just right, light and shadow precise without being dull. Mac had painted quite few a pictures of canals while he’d been wallowing in self-pity after Isabella’s departure. But he hadn’t painted this one.

Isabella rolled her lower lip under her teeth, rendering it red and kissable. She shot Mac a worried look. “It is a forgery, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t paint that, Crane. Someone’s having you on.”

Mr. Crane pointed at the corner of the painting. “But you signed it.”

Mac leaned close to see the words Mac Mackenzie scrawled in the corner in his usual lazy style. “That does look like my signature.” He stepped back and regarded the picture fully. “Mind you, it isn’t bad.”

“Isn’t bad?” Isabella burst forth like a fury. “Mac, it’s a forgery.”

“Yes, and a damned good one. The fellow paints better than I do.”

Crane looked horrified. He glanced over his shoulder as though the police might come flooding in any moment to drag him away to a dank, dark dungeon. “But, your lordship, my assistant swore you brought it in yourself.”

“Mr. Crane,” Isabella began.

Mac cut her off. “Don’t blame him, love. If I didn’t know better, I couldn’t tell the difference myself.”

“Well, I could.”

“Because you have an eye for it. How many of these did you take, Crane?”

“Just the two,” Crane said in a small voice. “But I’m afraid I asked for more.”

Mac burst out laughing. Isabella looked indignant, but Mac couldn’t help himself. It was too idiotic. He hadn’t been able to paint anything decent in years, and this upstart not only painted better than Mac did, he gave Mac the credit for it.

“Out of curiosity, how much did Mrs. Leigh-Waters pay you?” Mac asked.

“A thousand guineas, my lord,” Crane whispered.

Mac whistled then laughed harder.

Isabella glared at him. “That’s criminal.”

Mac wiped his eyes. “Good Lord, Crane, I’m sure you were happy with that commission. What became of her payment, by the way? I’m sure this ‘Mac Mackenzie’ didn’t let go of his share.”

Crane looked troubled. “Funny thing, my lord. He’s never come for it. And he left no address or name of a bank where we could send it on. That was three months ago.”

“Hmm,” Mac said. “Well, if ever he does come ’round—”

“You must contact his lordship at once,” Isabella said.

“I was going to say, let the fellow have the cash. He’s obviously desperate for money.”

“Mac . . .”

“He did the work, after all.”

Mac wasn’t sure whether Isabella was more beautiful when she smiled or when she was bloody furious. Her cheeks were red, her eyes shone with green fire, and her breasts rose delightfully inside her tight bodice.

“What about Mrs. Leigh-Waters?” Crane’s face was ashen. “I should tell her what I’ve done.”

Mac shrugged. “Why? She likes the painting—praised it to the skies, my wife tells me. If Mrs. Leigh-Waters is happy, why spoil it for her?” He took up his stick and hat. “But if any more Mac Mackenzies turn up to sell you paintings, be warned. I never sell mine. I see no reason to charge people for my worthless drivel.”

“Drivel?” Crane cast him an indignant look. “Your lordship, they call you the English Manet.”

“Do they? Well, you know my opinion of ‘them.’ ”

“Yes, my lord, you’ve said.”

“Utter idiots, I believe is the term I prefer. Good morning to you, Crane. My dear?” Mac offered his arm to Isabella. “Shall we go?”

To his surprise, Isabella took his arm without rebuff and let him escort her out of the shop into the now-falling rain.

Isabella tried to remain angry as Mac assisted her into her landau, but the strength of his hands as he lifted her dissolved all thought.

She dropped into her seat and settled her skirts, expecting to hear the door shut and Mac say his farewells. Instead, the carriage listed as Mac climbed in and sat down beside her.

Isabella tried not to shrink away. “Do you not have your own coach?”

“Yours will suit my needs for now.”

Isabella started to give him a heated answer, but just then droplets poured from her hat brim to stain her tight jacket. “Oh bother, the rain. My new hat will be ruined.”

“Take it off.”

Mac flipped his own hat to the opposite seat as the landau jerked forward. Rain drummed on the canvas roof, a hurried thrumming that matched the beating of Isabella’s heart.

She snatched out hat pins, removed the hat, and dabbed at the straw with her handkerchief. The ostrich feathers were already soaked, but perhaps Evans could save them. She leaned forward to drop the hat on the seat next to Mac’s, and when she sat back again, Mac had extended his arm across the seatback behind her.

Isabella stilled. Being a large man, Mac liked to spread out, usually crowding Isabella to do it. She used to love to snuggle into him when they rode in a carriage, as though he were a great bear rug. She’d felt so protected and warm.

Mac regarded her with a lazy smile, knowing damn well why she remained upright on the seat, back rigid.

“What about your coachman?” she asked stiffly.

“He knows his way home. He’s lived there for years.”

“Very amusing.” Isabella tried a different tack. “Why on earth did you spew that nonsense to Mr. Crane about letting this other man keep the money? He is forging your paintings and selling them. Why should he profit?”

Mac’s arm brushed her as he shrugged. “But he hasn’t returned for the money, has he? Perhaps his game is different. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t sell his things under his own name, so he used mine.”

“Your name, your style, and your colors. How do you suppose he came up with the formula for your yellow? You keep it a secret.”

Mac shrugged again, his body moving in a most distracting manner. “Trial and error? And you’re rather assuming the forger is a man. It could be a woman.”

“Crane said a man calling himself Mac left the paintings.”

“The woman could have a male accomplice, someone who resembles me.”

He sprawled so comfortably, as though there were no tension at all between them. Mac wore trousers instead of a kilt today, a trifle disappointing.

“You are being most maddening about this,” she said.

“I told you, I don’t care.”

“Whyever not?”

Mac sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Must we go over it again, sweeting? That part of my life is in the past.”

“Which is absolute nonsense.”

“Perhaps we should change the subject.” Mac’s face settled into firm lines. “How are you this morning, love? Had any interesting correspondence?”

He wore that stubborn Mackenzie look, which said if he didn’t want to talk about a thing, an iron bar couldn’t pry his mouth open to do it. Well, she could pretend as well.

“I had a letter from Beth, as a matter of fact. She and Ian are settling in nicely. I miss her.”

Isabella couldn’t keep the sigh from her voice. Beth was a delightful young woman, and Isabella was excited that she had a new sister. Isabella hadn’t seen her own younger sister, Louisa, since the night she’d married Mac. Isabella’s family had disowned her, the upright Earl Scranton appalled that his daughter had eloped with a Mackenzie. The Mackenzies might be rich and powerful, but they were also decadent, immodest, profligate, promiscuous, and worst of all, Scots. Louisa was seventeen now, nearing her own come-out. The thought made Isabella’s heart ache.

“You’ll see Beth in Doncaster,” Mac was saying. “That is, if you can tear yourself away from London to go.”

“Of course I will be at the St. Leger. I haven’t missed it in years. Do you think Beth will come? I mean, with the baby.”

“Since the baby isn’t born yet, I imagine it will accompany her.”

“Very droll. I meant, do you think Beth will want to travel? Even on a train? She needs to be careful, you know.”

“Ian will keep an eagle eye on her, my love. I have every confidence in him.”

True, Ian kept Beth in his sight at all times. Ever since Beth had broken the news that she was due to deliver a baby sometime in the spring, Ian’s protectiveness had doubled. Beth sometimes rolled her eyes about it, but she exuded joy at the same time. Beth was very well loved, and she knew it.

“It is a delicate time for a woman, even one as hearty as Beth,” Isabella said, words tumbling from her. “Even with Ian constantly watching over her. She will need to rest and take care, and not try to do too much.” The last word ended on a sob, and Isabella pressed the backs of her fingers to her mouth.

She wished she weren’t so exhausted from her sleepless night and early morning. Then she could sit here in no danger of breaking down. She wouldn’t weep in front of Mac; she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t.

“Love.” His voice caressed her. “Please don’t.”

Isabella angrily brushed away her tears. “I am happy for Beth. I want her to be happy.”

“Hush, now.” His arms came around her, Mac shutting her away from anything that wanted to hurt her.

“Stop,” she said. “I can’t fight you now.”

“I know.” Mac rested his cheek on her hair. “I know.”

She heard the break in his own voice, turned her head to see his copper-colored eyes swimming with tears. It was his tragedy too, she knew. Their shared grief.

“Oh, Mac, no.” Isabella rubbed a drop from his cheek. “It was so long ago. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

“I do.”

“Let’s not talk of it. Please. I can’t.”

“I won’t make you. Don’t worry.”

His eyes were still wet. Isabella slid her arms around his neck, rubbing under his hair, knowing he found that soothing. A tear trickled to his upper lip, and Isabella instinctively kissed it away.

Their mouths met, touched, warmth on warmth, clung. Mac’s lips parted, and she tasted the sharp sweep of his tongue, the salt of his tears. This was no seduction; he kissed for comfort, hers and his own.

Even after more than three years apart, everything about Mac was familiar. The rough-silken feel of his hair, the texture of his tongue, the burn of whiskers on her lips, all were the same.

But there was one difference. Instead of being overlaid with the bite of single-malt, Mac’s mouth tasted only of Mac.

Mac eased away, but his lips lingered on hers like mist on glass. Another light brush of mouths, and Mac sat back, tracing her cheek. “Isabella.” It was a whisper, filled with sadness.

“Please don’t.”

He knew what she meant. “This will not be a weapon in our game,” Mac said. “I’d never, ever do that to you.”

“Thank you.”

Their breaths mixed as she gratefully exhaled. Mac smiled a little and touched another kiss to her lips.

“My coat, on the other hand . . .”

“Morton is having it cleaned,” Isabella said quickly as she accepted the handkerchief Mac handed her. “You’ll soon have it back.”

Mac leaned on his elbow on the back of the seat. “I meant the story that you kept my coat in your bed with you all night. Lucky garment. You forget how swiftly gossip runs between our houses. Our servants have a messaging system that Prussian generals would envy.”

“Nonsense.” Isabella’s heart thumped. “I put the coat down on the bed last night, is all, then I forgot about it and fell asleep.”

“I see.” Mac’s eyes glinted with his knowing smile, despite the tears that hadn’t yet dried on his cheeks.

Isabella gave him a haughty look. “You know what staff can be like when they get an idea into their heads. The story grows with each retelling.”

“Servants can be quite perceptive, my sweet. Far more intelligent than their masters.”

“I only mean that you shouldn’t take everything they say as absolute.”

“Of course not. May I beg a glove from you so I can lay it on my pillow tonight? You can refuse my request, of course.”

“I do refuse. Most emphatically.”

“I wish only to entertain the servants,” he said.

“Then send them to a music hall.”

Mac’s smile widened. “I like that idea. I’d have the house to myself for an evening.” He ran one finger down her arm. “Perhaps I could invite someone to call.”

Isabella strove not to jump. “I am certain that your chums would enjoy a night of billiards and a generous amount of Mackenzie whiskey.”

“Billiards. Hmm.” Mac’s look turned thoughtful. “I might take pleasure in a game of billiards, with the right companion.” He took her hand, traced a design on her palm through her tight kid glove. “I could think of a few interesting wagers we could have. Not to mention the double entendres I could make about thrusting cues and balls and pockets.”

Isabella snatched her hand away. “You do like to hear yourself talk, Mac. Now, I must insist you tell me why you have no interest in the forged paintings.”

Mac lost his smile. “Drop the topic, Isabella. I banish it from our game.”

“This isn’t a game. It is our lives—your life. Your art. And I’d be a bloody fool to play any game you invented.”

Mac leaned to her as the carriage slowed. Isabella had no idea where they were, and she didn’t have the energy to lift the curtain to find out.

“It is a game, my love.” He held her gaze. “It is the most serious game I’ve ever engaged in. And I intend to win it. I will have you back, Isabella—in my life, in my house, and in my bed.”

Isabella couldn’t breathe. Breathing meant she’d inhale his scent and his warmth.

His eyes were hard, the copper irises still and cool. When he looked at her like this, she could believe that his ancestors had ruled the Highlands and swept nearly all the way through England in attempt to wrest it back for the Stuarts. Mac was a decadent man who went to parties in the finest houses, but the gentlemen who hosted the parties would quickly back down from the look in his eyes at present. Mac was determined, and when he was determined, ’ware all those who stood in his way.

Isabella lifted her chin. Betraying weakness to him would be fatal.

“Very well, then,” she said. “I intend to pursue the forger. If I play your game, I must make up my own rules.”

He didn’t like that, but Isabella had learned enough about Mac to know she should never let him have it all his way. She’d go down swiftly if she did that.

To her surprise, he made a conceding gesture. “If you must. Do your worst.”

“I said that about you after you left me at the ball.”

By Mac’s sudden, blazing smile Isabella realized she’d miscalculated. She hadn’t meant to say the words—they had slipped out before she could stop them. But she’d hugged herself on the cold terrace as she huddled there in Mac’s coat, angry, unnerved, lonely, scared, and angry again. “Do your worst, Mac Mackenzie,” she’d breathed in frustrated rage. “Do your absolute worst.”

“A fine invitation.” Mac cupped her face between his hands. He was strong; she’d never forgotten what natural power Mac had.

He kissed her, not tenderly this time. It was a hard, rough, hungry kiss, one that mastered her and bruised her lips. She realized with dismay that she kissed him just as hungrily back.

Mac pulled away, leaving her lips parted and raw. “I promise you,” he said. “This is nothing compared to my worst.”

Isabella tried to answer with a cutting remark, but her voice no longer worked. Mac gave her a feral smile, snatched up his hat and stick, and flung open the door of the now-still landau.

Isabella saw that they had halted in a snarl of traffic on Piccadilly, the landau perilously close to the posts that separated road from buildings and people. Mac leapt to the ground without bothering with the step.

“Until next time.” He clapped on his hat. “I look forward to another engagement on whatever battlefield you choose.”

Whistling, Mac strolled away. Isabella followed his broad back as he moved smoothly through the crowd until the footman slammed the door, cutting off her view. She peered through the rain-streaked window, but the familiar form of her husband was lost to the mist and crowd.

Feeling bereft, Isabella fell back against the seat as the landau jerked to roll on through Piccadilly.

Mac thoroughly disliked formal musicales, but he made an exception and dressed to attend the one at Isabella’s house two nights later. Two nights of restless sleep, twitching as he relived the kisses in the landau. In his fevered visions he would continue, loosening her bodice and licking her creamy breasts as they welled over the top of her corset.

He mused that lusting after one’s own wife was far more frustrating than lusting after a stranger. Mac knew exactly what Isabella looked like under her clothes, exactly what he was missing. He had many times undressed her during their marriage, liking to dismiss Evans and take over the servant’s duties to prepare Isabella for bed. As Mac lay awake alone, sweating, and randy, he remembered peeling each layer from her body—bodice, skirts, petticoats, bustle, corset, stockings, chemise.

Firelight would brush her skin and dance in her red hair. Then Mac would kiss every part of her. He would savor the touch of Isabella’s lips, each swirl of her tongue, the taste of her skin beneath his mouth. He’d move his hands to cup her buttocks, or slide his fingers between her thighs to find liquid heat there.

The hair between Isabella’s legs was not as bright red as that on her head; it was more the color of brandy. Mac would lay her on the floor or on the bed, or better still, have her sit in an armchair, while he’d lick his way from her breasts, over the flat of her stomach, to the fiery pleasure that awaited him between her parted thighs.

The night after their meeting in Crane’s shop followed by the delicious fencing match in the landau, Mac had thrown back his bedcovers, climbed to the attic, and spent the next several hours painting.

This time, he portrayed Isabella lying in his bed, on her side, asleep. He painted from memory, showing her body relaxed, one breast soft against the sheet. One leg was bent as she sought a comfortable position, her arms stretched across the pillow. Her fingers were loose, untroubled. Her face was turned downward, half hidden by her hair, and another tuft peeked coyly from between her thighs.

As in the picture of Isabella in her ball gown, Mac left the background vague, splotches of paint that suggested shadows. The bedding was cream-colored, Isabella’s hair, lips, and areolas being the only splashes of vivid color. Those and a yellow bud in a slim vase—Mac painted yellow roses into all pictures of Isabella. He signed the painting with his scrawl and left it to dry beside the other.

As Bellamy buttoned Mac into a black suit with Mackenzie kilt, Mac wondered if he’d be able to be in the same room with Isabella without tenting out the tartan. He hadn’t received an invitation to her musicale, but he didn’t intend to let that stop him.

“Let me in, Morton,” Mac told Isabella’s butler upon arriving at North Audley Street.

Morton had worked for Mac once upon a time, but the butler had become smitten with Isabella and her knack for household management. Even at age eighteen, Isabella had recognized that Mac had no idea how to run a houseful of servants and had begun making changes the morning after her arrival. Mac had cheerfully handed her the reins and told her to get on with it. When Isabella had left Mac, Morton had followed her.

Morton looked down his haughty nose at Mac. Being a foot shorter, Morton had to crank his head back to do so, but he managed it. “Her ladyship stipulated that tonight’s entertainment is by invitation only, my lord.”

“I know she did, Morton. However, please keep in mind that I pay your wages.”

Morton didn’t like the vulgar mention of money. His nose rose even more. “Invitation only, my lord.”

Mac glared, but Morton was made of stern stuff. He refused to move aside, though he knew quite well that Mac could simply pick him up and haul him out of the way if he wanted to.

“Never mind,” Mac said. “Tell her ladyship she keeps a fine guard dog.”

He tipped his hat to a large woman with enormous ostrich plumes on her head, who was stepping up to enter the house. He sensed the woman’s delight that she’d just witnessed Morton turn Isabella’s untamed husband away.

Whistling a music-hall ditty, Mac swung himself onto the scullery steps, clattered down the stairs, and entered the kitchen through the back door. The staff looked up through the steam-filled kitchen and froze in surprise. The cook stopped in the act of icing a row of teacakes, and a lump of icing fell from her spoon. The scullery maid squeaked and dropped a greasy cloth to the flagstone floor.

Mac removed his hat and gloves and shoved them at a footman. “Look after those for me, Matthew, there’s a good lad. Don’t mind if I snatch a seedcake, do you Mrs. Harper? I never had any tea today. Thank you, you’re a good woman.”

So saying, Mac snatched up a sliver of seedcake and popped it into his mouth. He winked at Mrs. Harper, who had once been an undercook at Kilmorgan. She blushed like a schoolgirl and said, “Go on with you, your lordship.”

Mac ate the cake on the way up the stairs and licked his fingers as he pushed open the green baize door at the top. He emerged into the hall to nearly run into the woman with the ostrich plumes again. Mac bowed to her while she stared with pale eyes, then he gestured for her to precede him into the drawing room.