Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

  “I don’t know.” Mac kissed her lips. “I like it here.”

  Isabella started to answer, but Mac pushed one slow thrust inside her, and Isabella’s words died into pleasure. He had always done that, made her pliant and sleepy, then surprised her with a burst of lovemaking so wild they ended up exhausted and sore. He’d leave her breathless, hot, laughing, and well pleasured.

  He did it again. By the time they climaxed together a second time, they were on the floor, Isabella still on Mac, the red brocade drape ripped from its hanging and tumbling around them. Mac laughed, his voice low, and then his eyes grew dark, as they did when he was about to release. Mac’s hands roved Isabella’s sweat-slick body, the odors of lovemaking mingling with that of paint. Oil paint was Mac’s smell—she couldn’t catch a whiff of it without being plunged into memories of him.

  Mac gathered her against him as they quieted, both trying to catch their breath. They lay without talking for a long time, while the sun rose higher outside the long windows.

  “Mac,” Isabella murmured. “What happened to us?”

  Mac smoothed her hair with his palm. “You married a Mackenzie. You must have been mad to do that.”

  “But I wasn’t.” Isabella raised her head, looked down at his strong face. “I knew it was the right thing to do. I’ve never doubted that.”

  “It was a damn fool thing for me to do. I couldn’t resist teasing the little debutante in white, but should have left you the hell alone.”

  “But I am glad you did not. I knew what sort of man my parents wanted me to marry—my father had picked out three likely gentlemen already. They thought I didn’t know, but I did. When you whispered to me on the terrace that you didn’t think I’d have the courage to elope with you, I saw my escape, and I took it.”

  “Escape?” Mac’s brows drew together. “I was your escape? Isabella, you wound me.”

  “I chose you, Mac. Not for your riches—Miss Pringle emphasized that money is no reason for a lady to marry; the richest husband can be stingy and make you miserable.”

  Mac’s scowl deepened. “Miss Pringle ought to have been a preacher.”

  “She did sermonize, rather. But she wasn’t wrong.”

  “Were you thinking of the moral Miss Pringle when you decided to run away from your family and live in scandal with me?”

  “We didn’t live in scandal; we married.” Isabella traced his lips. “If a bit improperly.”

  “Nothing improper about it. I made damn sure it was a legal marriage, because I knew your father would come sniffing around, trying to annul it.”

  “Poor Papa. I dashed all his hopes. It made me unhappy to do it, but if I had to choose all over again . . .” She looked straight into Mac’s eyes. “I would do the same.”

  Isabella saw his confusion, his hope, his sadness. “I ruined your life.”

  “Do not be such a martyr. Do you know why I agreed to marry you, Mac Mackenzie? I’d never met you, but I did know about you—everyone talks about your family. I’d heard all about Ian in that horrid asylum and about Cam and Hart and their unhappy marriages, and about you painting naked women in Paris.”

  Mac’s eyes widened, copper outlined with black. “Gracious, such scandal to touch a maiden’s ears.”

  “I’d have to have been buried in a hole to not hear the gossip, scandalous or no.”

  “Hart’s and Cam’s marriages were unfortunate, I grant, but why on earth would that make you want to marry their brother?”

  “Because their wives were cared for. Elizabeth was cruel to Cameron, I know she was, but he never says a word against her. And Sarah frustrated Hart by being so timid, but he, too, never said a word. He gave up his longtime mistress to be faithful to her, no matter that Sarah was clearly afraid of him. But he took care of her to the end. Not just to hide the dirty linen, but because he cared. I saw Hart when she and the child died. He was grief-stricken, not relieved as some malicious people put about. Mrs. Palmer’s death was the last nail in the coffin. Hart is so lonely.”

  Mac groaned. “Isabella, if you start making Hart barley tea and knitting him slippers, I will become ill.”

  “Selfish of you. He needs looking after.”

  “He is the great Duke of Kilmorgan. I need looking after.” Mac closed strong arms around her. “I am the man who had all the happiness he could handle before he went and lost it. You need to knit me slippers.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous.” Isabella kissed the tip of his nose. He caught her by the back of her neck and pulled her down for a serious, long kiss. The discussion, she realized, was over.

  Mac had rolled her over onto the fallen curtain, his body positioned between her legs, when someone thumped on the door. Bellamy’s gruff voice sounded through it.

  “My lord?”

  “Bloody hell,” Mac growled. “Go away.”

  “Ye said if it were urgent . . .”

  “Is the building falling down?”

  “Not yet, my lord. His Grace wishes to see you.”

  “Tell His Grace to lose himself, Bellamy. In a land far, far away.”

  Bellamy paused, clearly unhappy. “I think ye should speak to him, my lord.”

  “Blast you, man, you work for me, not my interfering brother.”

  “In that case, my lord, I wish to give notice.”

  Mac heaved an exasperated sigh. The brothers were used to Hart summoning them peremptorily, but Isabella saw that this time, Hart might have gone too far.

  “It’s all right,” she said. She ran her fingertip down Mac’s nose to his lips. “It might be important. I won’t run away.”

  Mac gave her a long, intense kiss. The heat of it made her close her arms around him and nestle against him. She somehow knew that when this moment was gone, she’d never have another like it. She wasn’t certain how she knew, but the feeling gripped her and made her hold hard to Mac.

  Mac himself would have stayed there, she knew, but Bellamy knocked on the door again and coughed.

  “This had better be damned important,” Mac muttered as he rose from Isabella, snatched up his kilt, and made his way to the door, giving Isabella a fine view of his still-trim derriere.

  Chapter 13

  The Lady of Mount Street has packed her things and retreated to the seaside after a sudden illness. Mayfair is the lesser for her departure.

  —September 1877

  Urgent, Bellamy had said. Damned disaster, Mac thought as he stepped off the stairs.

  Hart stood in the ground floor hall with Ian and a woman Mac had never seen before. The grand hall of the Palladian-style house traversed its entire length and was filled with polished wood, oil paintings, and tall windows. The very center of the hall sported a round table with a massive flower arrangement that the staff changed daily. It used to sport a marble statue of an entwined Greek god and goddess by Bernini, but as beautiful as it was, Beth had decided that flowers would be less shocking to ladies who might pay calls there. The Bernini now resided in Hart’s private suite upstairs.

  Mac doubted that the woman had come to call on Beth or Isabella. She was thin to the point of emaciation and wore a dark brown dress, a battered hat, and a cloak that hung loosely from bony shoulders. Her face was worn with care, though she did not look to be much older than Isabella. At her feet, attached to her wrist by a piece of string, stood a tiny girl with bright red hair and brown eyes.

  Hart spoke to the woman in French. Ian stood next to them, his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels as he did when he was distracted or upset.

  Mac closed the shirt Bellamy had tossed at him over his bare torso and approached them. “Hart? What do you want? Who is she?”

  The look Hart turned on him could have punched a hole in a stone wall. Hart’s eyes, golden like an eagle’s, always had a predatory bent, and at the moment they were filled with fury.

  “I give you free rein because I’m no saint myself,” Hart said in a tight voice. “But I do not like lies.”

 
“Lies? What lies? What the devil are you talking about?”

  Ian cut him off. “She claims the child is yours. She is wrong.”

  “Of course she’s wrong,” Mac said in astonishment. “I’ve never seen the woman before in my life.”

  The young woman watched their conversation with uncomprehending eyes, looking anxiously from one brother to the other.

  Mac addressed her in impatient French. “You’ve made a mistake, Madame.”

  She gave him an anguished look and started babbling. Of course she had not mistaken Mac Mackenzie, the great Scottish lord who had been her lover for years in France. Mac had left his wife for her, but disappeared a year after their little girl had been born. She’d waited and waited for him to return, then she grew ill and too poor to care for little Aimee. She’d traveled all the way to Scotland to find Mac and give Aimee to him.

  Mac listened in growing amazement. Hart’s face was set in anger, and Ian stared at the floor, fist tucked under his chin.

  “I swear to you, Hart, I have no idea who she is,” Mac said when the woman’s speech wound down. “I have never bedded her, and this girl not my child.”

  “Then why the hell is she saying she is?” Hart demanded.

  “How the devil should I know?”

  Mac heard a light step behind him and a rustle of silk, and he closed his eyes. Damnation.

  He opened them again to see Isabella gliding down the last flight of stairs She was fully dressed, every ribbon tied, every button buttoned. The only sign of dishevelment was her hair, which had been brushed into a ponytail that hung down her back. Isabella didn’t say a word to the brothers but headed straight for the fragile young woman.

  Hart stepped in her way. “Isabella, go back upstairs.”

  “Do not tell me what to do, Hart Mackenzie,” she said crisply. “She obviously needs to sit down. Can one of you men be prevailed upon to ring for tea?”

  “Isabella.” Hart tried his stern tone.

  “It is not Mac’s child,” Ian repeated. “Not old enough.”

  “I heard you,” Isabella said. “Come with me, petite,” she said to the woman in French. “We will sit, and you will rest.”

  The woman stared at Isabella in astonishment as Isabella put a gentle arm around her shoulders. She let Isabella lead her a few steps before she put her hand to her belly and collapsed to the floor.

  Mac shouted at Bellamy, who’d been heading for the servants’ hall in response to Isabella’s command. “Never mind the blasted tea, Bellamy. Send for a doctor.”

  He helped Isabella lift the woman and get her to a settee. The woman gazed at Mac in terror, but Isabella spoke quietly to her. “It will be all right, Madame,” she said. “A doctor will come. You will rest.”

  The woman began to weep. “An angel. You are an angel. My poor baby.”

  The child, watching her mother collapse, hearing the men shout, and being no fool, realized that something dreadful was taking place. She did what all children would do in such a situation—she opened her mouth and started to wail.

  The woman’s weeping escalated. “My poor baby! What will become of my poor baby?”

  Ian turned his back on them all and rushed up the stairs, passing Beth, who was coming down, as though he didn’t see her. Beth blinked at Ian’s retreating back then paused to debate which way to go—up or down.

  She decided on down. Beth went to the little girl and lifted her into her arms.

  “Hush now,” she said in French. “No one will hurt you. See, here is Maman.”

  Beth carried the child to her mother, but the young woman didn’t reach for her baby. She was sitting back against the cushions as though she hadn’t sat on something soft in a long time, if ever.

  Beth glanced at Mac, meeting his questioning gaze with a grave look. The child had quieted somewhat, but she sniffled into Beth’s shoulder.

  Isabella held the woman’s hand. “The poor thing is exhausted,” she said to Beth in English.

  “It’s more than that.” Mac looked at Beth. “Isn’t it?”

  Beth nodded. “I’ve seen this before, in the workhouse. A doctor can lessen the pain, but I don’t think he can help for long.”

  “That is why she came.” Isabella rubbed the woman’s hand and switched to French. “You came here because you are ill.”

  She nodded. “When the lord did not return, I did not know where else to go.”

  “We need to get her to bed,” Isabella said.

  Hart remained in the middle of the hall like a rigid god. “Wait for Bellamy to carry her.”

  “Good God, I’ll do it.” Mac scooped the woman into his arms. She was so light he almost overbalanced; it was like carrying a skeleton in clothing. Mac agreed with Beth’s assessment. The young woman was dying.

  The woman studied Mac’s face as he carried her up the stairs, a puzzled pucker between her brows. Beth and Isabella came behind them, Beth still holding the little girl.

  “Do you think the child frightened Ian?” Mac heard Beth ask.

  “I don’t know,” Isabella answered. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m certain Ian will be fine with your own babies.”

  Mac could feel Beth’s worry, but he didn’t know how to comfort her. Ian was by no means a predictable man, and who knew how he’d behave when their child arrived?

  Mac carried the woman into a spare bedroom that was kept made up for guests and laid her on the bed. The woman looked around in awe at the elegance, fingering the damask quilt Isabella pulled over her.

  Isabella rang for Evans, then took the child from Beth’s arms and shoved her at Mac.

  “Do look after her, darling. Out you go.”

  The mite took one look at Mac and started howling again. Isabella ruthlessly led Mac to the door and pushed him into the hall just as Evans hurried in with an armful of clothing. Another maid followed with a basin of water, another with towels.

  Little Aimee kept shrieking, and the door slammed in Mac’s face.

  Ian came toward them down the hall, carrying a stack of boxes. “What are you doing to her?” he asked over Aimee’s wails.

  “Nothing. I’m holding her. The womenfolk took over and threw me out. I always thought Scottish women were strong-minded, but they are nothing compared to Sassenachs.”

  Ian looked at Mac as though he had no idea what he was talking about. “I found building bricks. In the attic.”

  Ian entered the small sitting room across the hall. Mac followed as Ian crouched on the floor and emptied the boxes of building bricks onto the carpet. Aimee looked down at them with interest, and her noise abruptly ceased.

  “Set her down,” Ian said.

  Mac lowered the girl, who stood unsteadily a moment before sitting down on her little rump and reaching for the bricks. Ian stretched out on the floor next to her and showed her how to stack the bricks one on top of the other.

  Mac sank into the nearest chair, letting his hands dangle between his kilted knees. “How did you know to find these in the attic?”

  “We played with them as children,” Ian said.

  “I know we did, but that was twenty-five years ago. You remembered they were there, and where, after all this time?” Mac held up his hand. “No, wait, of course you remembered.”

  Ian wasn’t listening. He taught Aimee how to build a low wall, which Aimee gleefully knocked over. Ian waited until she finished then patiently helped her build the wall again.

  Mac rubbed his hands through his hair. What an insane morning. One moment he’d had Isabella in his arms, was a happy man. He’d tasted reconciliation in the air, and he could still feel the heat of her body on his. The next, a crazed Frenchwoman had waltzed in to deposit a child in front of them and declare it was Mac’s. And Isabella, instead of snatching a pistol from the gunroom and shooting Mac dead, had rushed to help the poor woman.

  This had to be a nightmare.

  Mac rose. He needed to put something besides his kilt and shirt over his nakedness, and he needed to find
out who the devil this woman was.

  As soon as he reached the door, Aimee started to keen, a high-pitched sound that dug straight into Mac’s skull. She kept up the noise until Mac came back and sat down beside her. Aimee immediately quieted and played with the bricks again.

  “What is the matter with her?” Mac asked.

  Ian shrugged. “She wants you.”

  “Why should she?”

  Ian didn’t answer as he went on building with the bricks. As he’d done when he’d been a boy, Ian tried to stand each block exactly on top of the other, moving it in tiny increments until he was satisfied.

  Aimee laughed and knocked them down.

  “Ian,” Mac said, as Ian began to line up the bricks again. “Why are you the only one who believes me? About the child not being mine, I mean?”

  Ian didn’t look up from his fascinating task. “You have not been with a woman since Isabella left you, three and a half years ago. This girl is not much more than a baby. Even given the time it takes for a woman to carry a child to term, she is too young to be yours.”

  Flawlessly logical. That was Ian.

  “You know, my brother, I could be lying about the celibacy.”

  Ian glanced up. “But you are not.”

  “No, I’m not. Hart thinks me a liar. God knows what Isabella thinks.”

  “Isabella believes in you.”

  Mac looked back at his brother and realized that Ian looked directly into his eyes. He warmed. The times Ian managed to do so were precious. And Ian believed Mac, knew in his heart that Mac wasn’t lying. Doubly precious.

  Ian blinked and became absorbed in the bricks again, the moment gone.

  A peculiar odor began to waft through the room. Both men looked at Aimee, who picked up a block and tried to stuff it into her mouth.

  Mac grimaced. “Time to find the women, I think.”

  “Yes,” Ian agreed.

  The brothers scrambled to their feet. Aimee rocked forward on her hands and boosted herself to her chubby legs, still clutching the block. She held up her arms for Mac.

  Ian’s glance was evasive, but an amused smile hovered around his mouth. Mac picked up Aimee, who now exuded a sour smell. She happily played with the block as the two men went through the house desperately seeking someone female.