“I didn’t see Sally Tate die,” he said, his gaze fixed on the door frame. “And I didn’t drive the scissors into Lily.”
“How did you know it was scissors?”
He darted his gaze over her face, watching her eyes sharpen. “I saw her that night. I went to visit her and found her dead.”
A swallow moved in Beth’s slender throat. “You didn’t report this to the police?”
“No. I left her and caught the train to Dover.”
“Inspector Fellows says a witness saw you go to the house.”
“I didn’t notice anyone there, but I didn’t look. I had the train to catch, and I didn’t want to draw a connection between me and Lily and High Holborn.”
“The inspector drew it anyway.”
Ian’s rage began to rise again. “I know. I tried to protect her from him. I failed her.”
“A footpad or a cracksman might have killed her. That can’t be your fault.”
Lily hadn’t struggled. She’d known and trusted whoever had driven the scissors deep into her chest. His own observation and Curry’s confirmed that.
“I couldn’t protect her. I can’t protect you.” Her little smile returned. “You have no need to protect me.”
Lord, could the woman be any more innocent? Beth was associated with Mackenzies now. That marked her in the eyes of the world. “Fellows will use you to get to us. It’s his way.”
“Does he use Isabella?”
“He tried. He failed.” Fellows had thought Isabella would hate all things Mackenzie once she’d walked out on Mac.
He’d assumed she’d tell Fellows all their secrets, but Fellows had been so very wrong. Isabella was the daughter of an earl, blue-blooded through and through, and she refused so even to speak to a mere policeman. Her loyalty remained with Mac’s family.
“There you are, then,” Beth said. “He’ll fail with me as well.”
“If you throw in your lot with us, you’ll regret it.”
“I told you, it’s too late for that. I’ve come to know Isabella well, and I know she wouldn’t speak so fondly of you if she thought you capable of murder.”
It was true that Isabella retained affection for Ian, Hart, and Cam, God knew why. Ian had liked Isabella right away when Mac had presented her the day after their elopement. She’d been incredibly innocent, but she’d taken her plunge into their masculine world with aplomb.
“Isabella believes in us.”
Beth’s touch softened. “If she does, I do, too.” He felt his red anger lessening, the despair easing. Beth believed him. She was a fool to, but the fact that she did wormed its way into the empty spaces inside him. “You’d take the word of a madman?” he asked.
“You’re not a madman.”
“I was put into that asylum for a reason. I couldn’t convince the commission that I was sane.”
She smiled. “One of my husband’s parishioners firmly believed she was Queen Victoria. She wore black bombazine and mourning brooches and talked constantly of her poor, deceased Albert I can’t believe you are as eccentric as she.” Ian turned from her, forcing her to let go of his arm. “When I was first released from the asylum I wouldn’t speak for three months.”
He heard her stop behind him. “Oh.”
“I hadn’t forgotten how—I simply didn’t want to. I didn’t know it distressed my brothers until they told me. I can’t read hints from others. A person has to tell me a thing plainly.”
She gave him a shaky smile. “Which is why you don’t laugh at my little jokes. I thought I’d lost my knack for it.”
“I learn what to do by watching others, like applauding at the opera when the rest of the audience starts. It’s like learning a foreign language. And I can’t follow a conversation when I’m with a crowd.”
“Is that why you didn’t speak much when you came to Mather’s box at Covent Garden?”
“One-on-one is much easier.” He spoke a fact. He could focus on what one person was saying, but trying to follow several people’s contributions to a conversation led to confusion.
As a youth he’d been punished for not answering at the table or not joining in a discussion. Sullen, his father had labeled him. Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy. Beth’s eyes were tight. “My dear Ian, then we are birds of a feather. Mrs. Barrington had to teach me how to behave in society from the ground up, and I still don’t understand all the rules. For instance, do you know it is considered vulgar to eat ices with a spoon? One must use a fork, which seems rather ridiculous. The most difficult is to leave a few morsels of food on the plate, so as not to seem overzealous in eating. I had so many hungry days in my youth that I consider this beyond perplexing.”
Ian let her words wash over him without bothering to follow them. He liked her voice, smooth and cool, like the mountain stream he fished from in the wilds of Scotland. “You call me Ian now,” he said.
She blinked. “Do I?”
“You’ve said it five times since I arrived.”
“You see? I do consider us friends.”
Friends. He wanted so much more than that.
Beth gave him a glance from under her lashes. “Ian, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
He waited, but she took a step back, toying with the silver ring on her left hand He knew jewels well enough to see that the ring was cheap, the one stone in it the merest chip. Someone poor had given it to her, but she’d kept it with care. She’d returned Mather’s diamond ring without hesitation, but this one was precious to her.
“Ian, I wonder if perhaps…”
Ian focused his attention on her words with difficulty. He’d rather listen to her flowing voice, watch the rise and fall of her breasts, study the movement of her lips. “Since you seem to like me a little,” she said, “I wonder whether you would be interested… in having a liaison with me.”
The last words came out in a rush, and Ian’s attention snapped to her.
“Have carnal relations, I mean,” Beth continued. “On occasion, when we mutually agree.”
Chapter Seven
Pleasure bubbled through Ian’s tension. “Carnal relations,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said, her voice shy. “If it would interest you.”
If it would interest me?
“You mean bed,” he said bluntly.
Her blush deepened, her fingers twisting the ring around and around. “Yes, that is exactly what I mean. Not like a mistress, you understand, but just two people enjoying… that side of life. We like each other well enough, and I don’t foresee that I will marry again. Mather frightened me off that, goodness knows. But perhaps we can be… lovers, at least while we are in Paris. I’m babbling, I know, but I can’t help myself.”
Did she know how beautiful she was? Her cheeks were flame red, her look both defiant and uncertain. He gazed into her eyes for one fleeting instant and said, “Yes.”
Beth let out a breath that turned to a shaky laugh. “Thank you for not leaving in disgust.”
Disgust? What man could be disgusted with a lady with eyes like hers, who’d just stammered out that she wanted to be his paramour?
Ian took a step back to have a full view of her. She wore a simple frock of mauve broadcloth, the overskirt pleated, the underskirt soft ruffles. A row of buttons shaped like blackberries marched up her bodice to her chin. The damn collar was too high, closing her off instead of exposing her lovely neck.
“We will start now,” he said.
She jumped. “Right now?”
“Before you have second thoughts.”
Beth pressed fingers to her mouth, as though trying to stop her smile. “Very well, what did you have in mind?”
“Unbutton your frock.” He came to her and touched the button at the hollow of her throat. He wanted to take it between his teeth and see if it truly tasted of blackberries. “Down to there.”
“Only that?”
“For now.”
She gave him a surprised look but
began to undo her buttons. Her pale throat came into view, the hollow damp with perspiration. It was a beautiful throat, long and slender, unmarred.
Ian slid his hands around her waist. She looked up at him, lips parted, but he didn’t kiss her. He gently pushed open the placket, then leaned down and kissed her neck. “Ian.”
“Shh.”
He licked the hollow of her throat, then pulled her soft skin between his teeth.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you a love bite.”
“A love—“
Ian bit down, and Beth inhaled sharply. He suckled, keeping it tender. He tasted the salt of her skin, felt her pulse flutter beneath his lips.
Strip for me, he wanted to say. He wanted to see his Beth with her skirts up, her fingers untying the waistband of her pantalets. He wanted her to pull the pantalets down so he could see her triangle of hair glistening with moisture. His already hard erection gave a throb.
He wondered if her nipples would taste the same as her neck. He wanted to unbutton the bodice and remove the damned corset so he could feast on her breasts. He wanted to open his mouth over one, grip the other with his hand.
Go slowly with her. Savor this.
Ian raised his head. He let his gaze brush hers, catching a flash of blue before he lowered it to the safety of her lips again.
Very kissable lips. The bottom one curved slightly, as though she liked to smile; the top one was ever so slightly bowed. Her eyes were half closed, her hair mussed, a dark mark on her throat where he’d suckled her.
“Your turn now,” he said.
Ian slid off his frock coat, pulled off his tie and collar.
Beth watched him intently as he bared his throat. She approached him tentatively, keeping her gaze fastened to his neck. Her curls ticked his chin as she leaned into him, her balled hands resting on his shoulders. Her lips touched his throat, warm and firm. Then he felt the tiny prick of her teeth.
He couldn’t stifle his groan as she caught a fold of his skin. The slight pain as she began to suckle made him want to spill his seed. Lay her on the floor, part her legs, send it inside her. Never since he’d been seventeen years old and first excited by the attentions of a rosy-cheeked maid had he come so close to losing control. He wanted to open his shirt all the way and have Beth apply her mouth to his nipples. Then let her sink down to her knees to take his staff into her clever mouth and practice giving him love bites there.
Have carnal relations, she’d said in her sweet voice. On occasion, when we mutually agree.
Oh, yes, there would be many occasions, and he would make certain they always agreed. Beth eased away and looked up at him, her eyes blue enough to break his heart. “Is that right?” He couldn’t talk anymore, the words jumbling up without meaning. He took her mouth in a wild kiss and scraped her hard against him.
So many occasions, every day, anyplace they happened to be. His mind spun with possibilities. He liked games, and this one he’d never tire of. It took all his strength to press her away. If he didn’t end this now, he truly would have her on the floor, or maybe straddling him on the convenient straight-backed chair. Both ways. He’d take her all night and not tire. He kissed her forehead, not hearing whatever it was she was saying. He wished he had Mac’s charm, so he could .find the right words to thank her, to propose another tryst, to continue the play. Instead Ian cupped her face in-his hands and gave her another kiss on the mouth. “I said, will you send another message through the very useful Curry?” she asked.
“Yes.” How easy it was to be with her, when she answered questions so he didn’t have to.
“That will do.” He retrieved his coat, thrusting his collar and tie into the pocket, and turned for one last look.
Beth stood upright in the middle of the room, where he’d found her when he’d first stormed in. Now her dress gaped to her throat to expose the dull red mark he’d left on her skin. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips swollen with his kisses. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
“Good night,” she whispered.
He made himself turn away and thrust open the doors, ignoring the footman and Katie, who suddenly scuttled away down the hall. He snatched hat, gloves, and scarf from hooks in the foyer and banged out of the house before he could give in to temptation and stay. He would soon arrange it so he never had to leave. He’d marry her for a very basic reason: to have her with him every night, every day, every afternoon, and every time in between. He walked down the boulevard, something in him awakening and breaking free.
The night had turned foggy, which only enhanced Ian’s ability to hear the footsteps that turned and followed him as he moved off down the avenue.
Sleep was impossible. Beth paced her bedchamber far into the night, wrapped in a dressing gown. She found herself unable to return to her journal or to go to bed. The events were too fresh to write about, and anytime she tried, her trembling hand spilled ink all over her journal pages. She kept her dressing gown closed to her throat, though every so often, she’d stop in front of the mirror and ease it open. The red mark Ian had left stood out stark against her skin, almost a bruise, though not quite. Some of the game girls who’d come to the workhouse had had such marks, had laughed at Beth when she asked about them in concern. Beth pressed her hand against the love bite. She’d had no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing. Now she remembered the warm tingle in her veins when his breath touched her throat, the throbbing of her opening when his teeth closed on her neck. His hair had touched her chin, warm and soft and smelling of soap. She heard Isabella come home and hoped her friend wouldn’t race in for a late-night chat. Beth had come to like Isabella, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide her agitation, her excitement. Isabella would crack Beth open like an egg.
Isabella was uncharacteristically quiet as she came down the hall and soon closed her door. Through the wall, Beth heard the low voice of her maid, readying Isabella for bed. Then the maid departed and all was silence. Beth still couldn’t settle down. Her body was keyed up, angry at her for not completing what she’d started with Ian. She had feared he’d laugh at her suggestion that they have a liaison—she’d shared a man’s bed and knew of orgasm, but Ian Mackenzie was decadence itself. A completely different thing.
He’d given her his slow half smile, had met her gaze for the briefest instant, and said yes. He’d not been amused, bored, indifferent, embarrassed. The smile had set her body aflame.
As Beth turned to make another agitated pass through her room, she heard a muffled sound through the walls. She knew the sound, had heard it often from herself after Thomas had died. She’d lain alone in her plain bedroom in Mrs. Barrington’s house and wept.
Drawing her wrapper around her, Beth hurried next door to Isabella’s room. Tapping on the door brought no response, so she pushed her way in.
The gaslights had been turned low, and a weak yellow glow filtered through the room. Depressing. Beth turned up a light to reveal Isabella on a chaise longue, her head in her hands. Isabella’s long hair poured over her back like a scarlet curtain, and she wept in choked, heaving sobs. Beth slid next to her, her hand on Isabella’s satiny hair.
“Darling, what is it?”
Isabella jerked her head up. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. “Go away.”
“No.” Beth lifted a curl from Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve cried alone like this before. It’s a terrible thing.” Isabella regarded her with streaming green eyes before she flung her arms around Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, stroking her hair.
“Mac was at the ball tonight,” Isabella sobbed.
“Oh, dear.”
“The comtesse invited us both to see what would happen when we saw each other. The bitch.”
Beth agreed. “What did happen?”
Isabella raised her head. “He utterly ignored me. Pretended he didn’t see me, and I pretended I didn’t see him.” She made a sound of anguish. “But, oh, Beth, I love him so much.”
>
“I know, dearest.”
“I want to hate him. I wish I could hate him. I try so hard, but I can’t. I’m usually brave about it. But when I saw him tonight…”
Beth rocked her a little. “I know.”
“You can’t know. Your husband died, but it’s not the same. You know he loved you, and he’s always in your heart. But whenever I see Mac, the knife twists so hard. He loved me once, before it all went wrong.” The last word elongated into a sob. Beth held her close, resting her cheek against Isabella’s hair. Beth’s heart ached. She’d seen the strain in Isabella’s eyes, and she’d seen the hard weariness in Mac’s. It was none of her business, but she wished she could put it right.
Isabella raised her head again and wiped her eyes. “I want to show you something.”
“Later, Isabella. You should rest.”
“No. I want you to understand.”
Isabella rose, pushing back her hair, and padded across the room to her wardrobe. She opened it and extracted a small picture wrapped in cloth. Isabella carried it to her bed, laid it reverently on the mattress, and stripped off the cloths. Beth caught her breath. The painting showed Isabella sitting on the edge of a tumbled bed. A sheet slid provocatively down her shoulder, baring one prefect breast, and a swirl of hair peeped from the join of her thighs. Isabella was looking away from the painter, her red hair caught in a loose knot at the base of her neck. Despite the subject—a woman just rising from the bed of her lover—the portrait was in no way lewd or indecorous. The muted colors were elegantly cool, with Isabella’s hair and a sprig of bright yellow roses the only vivid colors. It was the portrait of a beloved, painted by a man who regarded his wife as his lover. It was also, if Beth was any judge, an amazingly good painting. The light, the shadows, the composition, the color—so much captured on one small canvas. The painter had signed the corner with a flourish: Mac Mackenzie.
“You see?” Isabella said softly. “He really is a genius.”
Beth pressed her hands together. “It’s absolutely beautiful.”
“He painted that the morning after we married. He did the sketch right there in the bedroom, then painted it in his studio. Slapdash, he called it, but he said he couldn’t stop himself.”