Lady Isabella''s Scandalous Marriage

  “I was going to say, it’s good to see you with her again,” Hart answered dryly. “It will take you a long time to win back Isabella’s trust, but the fact that she is speaking to you at all gives me hope.”

  Mac turned to him in surprise. Hart and he were the same height, Cameron being the tallest Mackenzie, and Mac could look straight into Hart’s golden eyes. Mac saw in them the weight of the dukedom, the responsibility for his brothers, and his own unhappy past, but also a thread of relief. He hadn’t realized that the strain between Mac and Isabella worried Hart so much.

  “You’re getting sentimental in your old age.” Mac continued the banter. “What’s softened your heart?”

  “Loss.”

  The eagle gaze flickered, and Mac closed his mouth. Hart’s mistress of many years had recently passed away in tragic circumstances, and Hart felt it. Hart never said a word about it, but Mac knew he grieved for her.

  Hart’s expression eased. “If I’ve gone soft, it comes from seeing Ian happy. I never thought I would witness that.”

  “Neither did I.”

  Mac was truly glad for Ian. Mac had alternately pitied and protected his younger brother, who’d spent years locked in an asylum, put there by their devil of a father. But Ian had recently found the contentment and joy that eluded Mac. Ian was the wise man now.

  “Don’t let go this time,” Hart said in clipped tones.

  “Appreciate what you’ve got and hold onto it. You never know when it will be taken away.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?” When Hart had proposed to Eleanor, he’d been so certain of her, and her jilting of him took them all by surprise. But perhaps it was not so surprising. Hart was difficult to endure when he was cocksure.

  “Yes, I am. Learn from my mistakes.” Hart pinned Mac with a severe look. “And don’t make any more.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Mac said, and then Hart let him go.

  “This is scrumptious.” Isabella lifted a spoonful of sweet cream to her mouth, savoring its smooth taste. She didn’t like that she immediately remembered licking a similar glob of cream from Mac’s erect cock in her drawing room. He’d tasted wonderful. The sight of him hard for her had excited her beyond anything she’d felt in a long while.

  “Lovely,” Beth agreed. “It’s frivolous of me, I know, but I believe I enjoy the lap of luxury.”

  Sitting on stools in a cramped tea tent was hardly the lap of luxury in Isabella’s opinion, but Beth had grown up in poverty. Drinking tea from dainty cups and scooping up spoonfuls of cake and cream while wearing brand new frocks and hats must seem decadent to Beth. Beth was a lady, however, descended from minor gentry, and the manners she’d learned from her long-dead mother were impeccable.

  Beth took another dainty bite, eyes dancing. “Our gentlemen look fine, don’t they?”

  Isabella glanced at Ian and Mac, who stood together not far away. They did indeed look fine, two tall Scotsmen with auburn hair in black coats and kilts. Ian and Mac were close in age, Ian twenty-seven and Mac just thirty. They both wore the Mackenzie plaid, with tartan wool socks emphasizing their muscular calves. As a girl, Isabella had laughed at the thought of men in skirts, but when she’d first seen Mac in his kilt, her opinion had undergone a rapid revision. Mac in a kilt was a glorious sight.

  Mac sent Isabella a wicked grin, as though she were a spoonful of cream he wanted to eat, and her heart throbbed.

  Perhaps, just perhaps, Mac had changed. His words were no longer slurred with drink, his speech no longer erratic or his actions unpredictable. Not that Isabella wanted Mac to be perfectly predictable, but when he spoke with her now she was certain his focus was on her. Not on his latest painting or whatever larks he’d been up to with his friends, or his thoughts half-soaked in whiskey. He’d been sober for three years, his brothers had informed her. Many of his friends had deserted him, she’d heard, considering sober, sensible Mac not entertaining enough for them. Selfish sycophants.

  But Mac now seemed too subdued, the look in his eyes—behind his teasing—too sad.

  Did I do that to him? Isabella’s heart squeezed. Her leaving Mac had hurt him badly, she knew. It had hurt her too, but at the time, she’d thought she had no choice. But the knowledge that she’d cause him such pain made her unhappy.

  Beth put aside her plate and touched her hand to her stomach. “Mmm. I think I’ve eaten a bit too much.”

  Isabella was about to make a jest about her having to eat for two, but one look at Beth’s face had Isabella jumping to her feet and calling frantically for Ian.

  Ian dropped his plate, his piece of cake landing facedown on the ground. He ran over to the ladies and swept Beth into his arms before she could protest.

  “For heaven’s sake, Ian,” Beth said. “I’m fine. No need for fuss.”

  Isabella knew quite well that Beth was not fine. Her face was paper white, her lips pale, her pupils enormous.

  Ian wasted no time carrying Beth out of the tea tent, scattering startled ladies before him like flocks of birds. Isabella followed, and she sensed Mac on her heels. At one point Mac tried to catch Isabella’s arm, but she shook him off and hurried with Ian and Beth toward the gates.

  She heard Mac stop someone behind them and instruct him to run for the Mackenzie carriage. Thank God for Mac. He loved his jokes and his escapades, but in a crisis, he knew how to keep his head. Soon Hart’s landau careened toward them, the coachman standing on his box.

  Ian climbed swiftly in, cradling Beth, and barely waited for Isabella to ascend before he bellowed at the coachman to get them home. They’d traveled to the track with the top down because the day was fine, and the seats were now warm with sunshine. Isabella dropped into one as the coach sprang forward.

  Mac got left behind. Isabella looked back and saw him raise his hand to them, and through her panic, she felt grateful to him for knowing what to do.

  She felt grateful again when they reached home and a doctor arrived on their heels to look after Beth. Mac had sent a messenger racing through the town to find him, the doctor said, with money for a hansom cab.

  The doctor ordered Isabella out of the room. She didn’t want to go, but Beth smiled wanly and repeated that she’d be fine. Ian refused to leave, however, and the doctor stopped arguing with him.

  Isabella paced the upstairs hall of the long house, barely seeing the grand view the gallery gave to the extensive gardens. The dogs followed her, shooting her worried looks, knowing something was dreadfully wrong. Servants rushed into and out of Beth’s room, carrying towels and basins, but no one stopped to speak to Isabella, and she heard nothing from inside the bedroom.

  She was still pacing when Mac arrived. All five dogs rushed down the stairs to greet him, then rushed back up the stairs with him.

  When he asked, “Any news?” Isabella felt as though she’d burst.

  “They won’t let me in, they won’t tell me. I don’t know what is happening.” Tears poured from her eyes. “They won’t tell me whether Beth’s all right.”

  Mac’s strong arms came around her, and the world stopped spinning. He smelled of the outdoors, of smoke and soap, the comforting scents of Mac. He said nothing at all, not wasting time on platitudes or false comfort, and for that she was grateful. Mac knew good and well why Isabella was so worried, and he knew that Isabella’s fears weren’t groundless. He simply held her like a moor in a safe harbor, and Isabella clung to him without shame.

  They stood for a long time, Isabella’s head on Mac’s shoulder, while sunshine warmed them through the western windows. The dogs quieted, settling down where they could keep an eye them.

  The sun was on level with the horizon when the doctor emerged from Beth’s room and said quietly to Isabella, “You can see her now.”

  Isabella tore herself from Mac and rushed to the bedroom, not even waiting to ask the doctor whether all were well.

  Chapter 10

  The evil rumor that the Scottish Lord has taken up with a lady of Lesser Status has b
een refuted by all and sundry, and proven to be False. His Lady seems happy to have her Lord returned to her after another sudden absence, and the entertainments once again flow in the Lord and Lady’s home.

  —January 1877

  Beth lay under the covers, her face pale above a lace-collared nightgown. Ian, in his kilt and shirtsleeves, stretched out beside her, one large, brown hand splayed across Beth’s abdomen.

  “Poor Isabella,” Beth said as Isabella closed the door. “I didn’t mean to give you such a fright.”

  Isabella crossed to the bed, sank onto the chair beside it, and clasped Beth’s fingers between hers. “Are you all right?” she asked shakily. “The baby?”

  “Is fine,” Beth said, smiling. “And I’m in good hands, as you can see.” She looked fondly at Ian, who’d not glanced up at Isabella’s entrance.

  “Thank God.” Isabella bent her head over their clasped hands. The simple prayer poured out of her heart. “Thank God.”

  “I really am fine, Isabella. I became overheated, that is all, first jumping up and down for the races and then sitting inside the stuffy tent. Also, my lacing was too tight, and you saw me gobbling up all those cream cakes.”

  Her voice was light, ready to make a jest of the whole event. How silly I am, she was saying. And haven’t I paid the price? Isabella closed her eyes and rested her forehead on Beth’s hand.

  Beth stroked her hair. “Are you crying, Izzy? I truly am all right. What is it, darling?”

  “Isabella had a miscarriage,” Ian rumbled beside her.

  Through a wash of painful memory, Isabella felt Beth start, heard her shocked exclamation.

  “Four years ago,” Ian went on. “She was at a ball, and I had to take her home. I couldn’t find Mac. He was in Paris.”

  Beth took in Ian’s disjointed sentences without question. “I see. Goodness, no wonder you two rushed me here in such alarm.”

  “The child was a boy, three months gone,” Ian went on, reducing the most terrible event of Isabella’s life to short, exact phrases. “It took me five days to find Mac and bring him home.”

  Five days in which Isabella had lain alone in her bed lost in the blackest melancholia she’d ever experienced. She’d thought at one point that she’d die; she hadn’t the strength to fight to live. But her body had been young and strong, and she’d recovered physically though not in spirits.

  “And for that, I’ve never forgiven myself,” Mac said behind her.

  Isabella raised her head to see Mac standing in the doorway, watching her with somber resignation.

  “I’ve told you,” Isabella said. “You couldn’t have known it would happen.”

  Mac unfolded his arms and walked into the room with slow, measured steps. “You were the person I most treasured in the world, and I wasn’t there to take care of you. You were right to hate me.”

  “I didn’t . . .” Isabella trailed off. She had hated him at the time, hated that she’d had to suffer her grief alone. She’d also hated herself because she’d instigated the argument that had made Mac disappear two weeks before the miscarriage. She’d lashed out at him, telling him she was tired of his constant drunkenness and wild escapades with his equally drunken friends. Mac had decided, as usual, that the best thing he could do for her was to leave.

  “I don’t hate you now,” she amended.

  Mac sent Beth a faint smile. “Do you see what a very wretched life Isabella led with me? I made her miserable, alternately smothering her and then deserting her. Most of the time my head was fuddled with drink, but that’s no excuse.”

  “That is why you became a teetotaler,” Beth said, understanding.

  “Partly. Let that be a lesson to those who overindulge. Drink can ruin a life.”

  Isabella rose with a rustle of skirts. “Don’t be so dramatic, Mac. You made a mistake, that is all.”

  “I made the same mistake repeatedly for three years. Stop excusing me, Isabella. I don’t think I can take your pitying forgiveness.”

  “And I can’t take your self-flagellation. It’s so unlike you.”

  “It used to be unlike me. I’ve taken it up as a hobby.”

  “Stop,” Ian growled from the bed. “Beth is tired. Go have your row outside.”

  “Sorry, old man,” Mac said. “I came in here, in fact, to bring something to Beth. To cheer her up.”

  Isabella watched rigidly. She felt a fool now, panicking over Beth while Mac and Ian had kept their heads. She realized that her fear of watching Beth live out Isabella’s remembered ordeal had rendered her unable to think or act.

  “I adore presents,” Beth said, smiling.

  Ian propped himself on his elbow as Mac approached, remaining by Beth’s side like a protective dragon. Mac took a large sheaf of banknotes from his pocket and laid them on the blanket.

  “Your winnings, madam,” he said.

  “Oh, heavens, I forgot all about them! Bless you, Mac. What a fine brother-in-law you’ve turned out to be. You fetch me a carriage and a doctor and my ill-gotten gains—all in one afternoon.”

  “The least I can do for you for looking after my baby brother.”

  Beth smiled in delight. Mac looked smug, and Ian . . . Ian had lost the train of the conversation and was tracing patterns on Beth’s abdomen.

  “What about my winnings?” Isabella asked, her voice still shaky.

  “I’ll distribute those to you outside. Good night, Beth.”

  Isabella kissed Beth’s cheek, and Beth pulled Isabella into a tight hug. “Thank you, Isabella. I’m so sorry I gave you a fright.”

  “Never mind. You are well. That is the important thing.” Isabella kissed her again and left the room through the door that Mac held open for her.

  Mac strolled in silence with Isabella down the gallery while the dogs flowed around them, sensing that the crisis was over.

  “Well,” Isabella said, wishing her cursed voice would stop trembling. “Are you going to give me my money?”

  Mac turned her to face him. “Certainly. After I exact my price.”

  Her heart jumped, and she didn’t like that his nearness made her want to melt to him again. Being held by him had felt too good.

  “I am hardly a lady of easy virtue, thank you very much. I won’t kiss you for a guinea.”

  “It’s one hundred guineas, and that is not what I had in mind.” His eyes glinted. “Though it’s an interesting suggestion.”

  “Mac.”

  Mac put his hands on her shoulders. Warm, sure hands, which burned through her thin gabardine. “My price is that you promise to stop carrying your grief alone. You accused me of self-flagellation, but you’ve folded in on yourself so tightly you barely let anyone touch you. Promise me you’ll cease keeping it to yourself.”

  Anger rose through her worry. “And who am I to share this painful part of my life with? Who will be willing to listen to me bleat on about my tragedy without feigning an excuse to leave the room?”

  “I will.”

  Isabella stopped. She opened her mouth to answer, but the lump in her throat wouldn’t let her.

  “It is my tragedy as well as yours,” Mac went on in a gentle voice. “When I heard about our baby, I wanted to die. Doubly so, because I was so far away from you. You might have died that night too, and there I was, oblivious and stupid in a Montmartre hotel. Ian never says much, but I know he thought I could do with a few of the tortures he’d endured in the asylum. You thought so too.”

  Isabella nodded, tears burning her eyes. “But at the same time I needed you so much I didn’t care how far Ian had to go to find you.”

  “Well, he found me,” Mac said. He spread his arms. “And here I am again.”

  “Yes, here you are. What am I going to do with you?”

  “I can think of so many things.”

  The air went still as they regarded each other. The sun warmed Isabella’s skin, the last rays shining through the window.

  She asked because she didn’t know what to do with him sp
ringing back into her life. He’d given up drink because of her, and now he was a different Mac—sober, quieter, more cynical, but still with a touch of his old wicked arrogance.

  Mac slid his hands around her waist, heating her through her corset. His large body enclosed hers, the strength of his hands both unnerving and comforting. He could easily overwhelm her, take from her what he wanted, and yet he never had. He’d never so much as tried. Not once.

  Mac touched her face with gentle fingers. His eyes held no demand, no heat, though she could feel his obvious physical reaction through her skirts.

  “I’m here,” he said. “You don’t have to bear the burden alone anymore.”

  “For now.” Could she have sounded more bitter?

  She thought Mac would flinch or grow angry, but he just smoothed her hair. “For always. I’m not leaving you again, Isabella.”

  “We are separated.”

  “By legal document. But if you need me—for anything, day or night—you have but to crook your finger, and I’ll be there.”

  She tried a smile. “Mac tied to a woman’s apron strings?”

  “I’d gladly lash myself to you, love, if you ever wore an apron.” He kissed the corner of her mouth, the warmth of his lips burning electricity across her skin. “Especially if you wore nothing but an apron.”

  Mac could still make her laugh, that was certain. He touched another kiss to her lips, but then the house filled with sudden sound as Cam, Daniel, and Hart entered and started up the stairs to check on Beth, followed by all the dogs. Mac smiled at Isabella, kissed her lips, and turned with her to greet them.

  Mac wasn’t fool enough to assume that Isabella would welcome him back with open arms after one brief kiss in the sunshine. They’d made a bit of progress, but he knew they had a long way to go.

  For the next week in the Doncaster house, Cam and Daniel attended the races, Ian stayed with Beth, Isabella stayed home in case Beth needed her, and Mac moved between racetrack and house. He kept an eye out for the man Steady Ron had mistaken for Mac, but neither he, nor Steady Ron, nor the other bookmakers saw the Mac look-alike again. He also heard no word from Fellows in London, but Mac’s prickling feeling remained, and he could not relax his guard.