The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

by Jennifer Ashley

  “You are right, Isabella. He did love you.”

  Silent tears slid down Isabella’s cheeks. “You should have seen me at my debut ball—I was a silly ninny, and he was the most decadent man I’d ever seen. He wasn’t even invited to the ball; he ‘crashed,’ as they say, for a wager. He made me dance with him, said I was too afraid to. He teased me and made fun of me until I wanted to strangle him. He knew it, drat him. He played me like a fish, knowing all he had to do was scoop me into his net.” She sighed. “And he did. I married him that very night.”

  Beth studied the painting again. Mac might have begun the night as a lark, but it had ended quite differently. The picture was the work of a man inspired, all tenderness and soft colors. The work of a man in love.

  “Thank you for showing me,” Beth said.

  Isabella smiled. “You need to understand about Mackenzies. I am so happy you’ve caught Ian’s attention, but I might have done you a disservice, my dear. Loving a Mackenzie can tear you to pieces. Be careful, darling.”

  Beth’s heart throbbed. She knew as she looked again at the beautiful woman painted with love by Mac Mackenzie that it was already far too late for caution. Beth didn’t see Ian for a week after their encounter. She waited for the promised message setting up their next liaison, but nothing came. She tried not to start every time the bell rang downstairs, every time she heard a footman or maid hurrying toward her chamber. She tried not to feel the sting of disappointment as the days passed without a word. There could be a hundred reasons why he didn’t seek her out, she told herself, the foremost of which was that Ian had business to attend to. Isabella explained that Hart had Ian read political correspondences and treaties for him and commit them to memory, then alert Hart to those with particular phrases Hart told him to watch for. Ian also had great mathematical skill and kept his eyes on all the Mackenzie brothers’ investments. Like a cardsharp who knew every card on the table, Ian followed the ups and downs of markets with uncanny precision. In the years since Ian had left the private asylum, he’d nearly doubled the Mackenzies’ already large fortune.

  “I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was the reason Hart got Ian released from the asylum,” Isabella said when she’d explained. “That’s a bit unfair of me, but Hart does put Ian’s astonishing brain to much use. No wonder Ian gets headaches.”

  Beth felt indignant on Ian’s behalf. Perhaps Ian liked working for his brother, though he’d never mentioned it. But it would explain his absence during the week. On Saturday, Isabella took Beth to another whirlwind ball, this one at the palatial home of a duchesse. Beth danced with gentlemen who regarded her with predatory eyes. If she’d been a vain young woman, she might believe they were dazzled by her, but she knew better. Many of Isabella’s bohemian friends lived far beyond their means, and a widow with a large bank account was just what they needed. French peasants pretending to be quality, Mrs. Barrington would have said with a sniff. She’d disapproved of the entire nation of France, forgiving it only slightly for producing Beth. Beth fanned herself in a corner after a rigorous waltz with such a gentleman. He ran on about the cost of keeping a carriage and decent servants. But one has to, my dear, or one appears gauche. The sweet nothings a lady wanted to hear. A servant saved her from the conversation by bringing her a note. Beth excused herself from the spendthrift gentleman and unfolded the paper.

  Most urgent I see you. Top of the house, first door. Ian. Beth’s pulse leapt. She crumpled the note in her pocket and sped through the house and up the winding staircase. At the top she found a recessed door trimmed with gold. She opened it to an ornate little room with Ian Mackenzie in the middle of it. He scowled at a pocket watch in his hand and didn’t look up when she entered “Ian,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Ian clicked his watch closed and tucked it into his waistcoat.

  “Close the door. We don’t have much time.”

  Chapter Eight

  Beth closed the door and stood with her back against it.

  “Time for what? Are you all right?”

  “Come over here.”

  Beth lifted the sarin skirts of her ball gown and picked her way delicately toward him. Delicately because her feet were already swollen in her too-tight shoes, and the four story climb had left her wincing.

  Ian caught her hand and pulled her the last couple of steps. She landed against his hard body, and his strong arms came around her. “What… ?”

  He stopped her words with his mouth. His tongue stroked hers, stirring embers that hadn’t quite gone out since their last encounter. This man could kiss. Beth eased away from him with difficulty. “If we haven’t much time, perhaps you’d better tell me what’s wrong.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The note.” She took it from her pocket. “Did you not send it?”

  Ian glanced once at it, his amber eyes meeting hers for an instant. “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “So you would come to me.”

  “Are you saying you summoned me up here, saying it was most urgent, just to kiss me?”

  “Yes. To continue our liaison.”

  “Here. Now?”

  “Why not?”

  He bent to kiss her again, and she tried to step away. Her heel snagged on the carpet, and he caught her squarely in his arms.

  Ian smiled. It was a feral smile, the smile of a predator who’d caught his prey. Her thundering heart told her she didn’t mind much.

  “This is someone else’s house,” she tried.

  “Yes.” His tone said, What of it?

  Beth had imagined them conducting their affair in her bedroom, secretly, after she’d made sure everyone was out of the house. It would be clandestine and hole-in-corner—

  not that she knew much about having affairs. “Someone could come in,” she said. “And there’s no bed.” Ian laughed softly. She’d never heard him laugh before, and she liked it, all smooth and throaty and dark. Ian crossed the room to turn a little key in the lock, then laced his arms around her from behind. “We don’t need a bed.”

  “None of these chairs look quite comfortable.”

  He nuzzled beneath her hair. “You are not used to this.”

  “I confess, this is my first liaison.”

  He kissed her neck as he slid his hands up her tightly cinched waist to her breasts. Beth closed her eyes and leaned into his warm palms.

  “You are right,” she whispered. “I am not used to this at all. What do you wish to do?”

  “Touch you,” he said in her ear. “Learn you. Have you touch me.”

  Beth’s heart jumped. “You said we didn’t have much time.”

  “No.”

  “Then what do I do?”

  Ian licked her neck, bared by the low-cut gown. “Pull up your skirt.”

  Did he expect to do this standing up? Beth wasn’t quite certain it would work, especially not with her corset smoothing down to her hips. Dratted underthings. Ian took hold of her skirts and started shoving them upward.

  Beth curled her fingers in the fabric and helped him. It was quite a task, and Beth reflected that if she’d known he’d planned this, she’d have worn fewer petticoats. But she’d wanted the line of her gown to look well, vain creature that she was. At least in this gown made for dancing she’d been able to leave off” the bustle. While she held her skirts bunched in her hands, Ian scraped a curve-backed chair in front of her and sat down. This put his face on a level with her pantalets. She wore a new pair, ivory silk, quite thin, adorned with lovely little embroidered flowers. Beth had never owned such frivolous, feminine undergarments in her life, but Isabella had insisted Beth purchase them.

  Ian untied the tapes of the pantalets. With her hands full of skirts, Beth could scarcely stop him, but she did let out a tiny squeak when he yanked the drawers down. From the softening of his eyes, Beth concluded that he could see everything. He touched the swirl of hair between her legs. A hot tingle flushed t
hrough her body, and she made a soft sound in her throat.

  “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  Beth could barely breathe. “I am happy not to disappoint you.”

  “You could never disappoint me.”

  He sounded grave, as though he took her flippant words seriously. He leaned forward and touched his lips to the nub that was swelling with all its might.

  “You are wet for me.” Ian’s breath brushed her where no man’s breath should in someone else’s sitting room. “So wet.” His tongue flicked out and tasted it. I am going to drop over dead right here. Mrs. Barrington would meet her at the gates of heaven and laugh herself silly. This is what happens when you give in to base lust, my gel, she’d say.

  Then again, if Beth died of giving in to base lust, would heaven’s gate open for her at all?

  I’m sorry, Saint Peter, but I hadn’t felt the caress of a man in such a long, long time. You took my Thomas away from me; could I not have some bodily pleasure to compensate?

  Ian grasped her right ankle and lifted it free of the pantalets crumpled on the floor. He planted her foot on the chair next to his thigh, which opened her legs to him. He slid his hands around her buttocks, leaned forward, and pressed his tongue into her cleft. She wanted to scream. It had been far too long. She’d been secretly sorry for women who looked upon bedding their husbands as a burden, because she’d known what a joy it could be. But the knowledge had another edge—she’d known what it was she missed during her long years alone. Ian’s talented tongue freed her at last. The position with her foot on the chair let him spread her as much as he liked. And he seemed to like it. His thumbs massaged her as his tongue probed her depths. He was right.

  She was wet, and Ian lapped up every drop. Ian tortured her for a long time, drinking her until she couldn’t contain her cries any longer. Beth felt her hips gyrating, her hands locking around her skirts. A sob bunt from her, feminine joy that had been denied her for so long. Tears rained down her face.

  Ian drew back and looked up, his eyes burning her. She felt herself falling, but Ian caught her and pulled her to his lap, safe in his strong arms. “Did I hurt you?” Beth buried her face in his fine-smelling shoulder. “No. It was wonderful.”

  “You’re crying.”

  Beth lifted her head. “Because I never thought I’d feel such bliss again.” She put her hand on his cheek, tried to turn his gaze to her, but she couldn’t make him look at her. “Thank you.”

  He nodded once, and then his feral smile returned.

  “Would you like to feel such bliss again?” Beth pressed her lips together, but her smile wouldn’t be contained. “Yes, please,” she said.

  Ian eased her onto the chair, then slid to his knees in front of her. He pushed her legs open, then leaned down and showed her that he’d done only half of what he could do with his gifted mouth.

  “Now, where did you get to, darling?” Isabella pulled Beth with her through a whirl of bright skirts in the ballroom. “You have a look in your eye. What have you been doing?”

  Her tone was disapproving.

  Beth caught sight of Ian in the marble-lined foyer outside the ballroom and felt her cheeks flush. Isabella saw her look and gasped in delight.

  “You were kissing, Ian, weren’t you? My darling, how wonderful.”

  Beth didn’t answer. If she spoke, she might burn up from the inside out. Is this me, Beth Ackerley? Dressed in satin and glittering with diamonds, having a wicked affair with the most decadent man in Paris?

  She thought of her hungry days of childhood, of grime-filled streets and thin children, of drunken men, of women desperate and exhausted. She’d never dreamed her life could change so dramatically.

  Ian paused to speak to another gentleman, then turned away with him, walking back through the darkened hall. Of course he wouldn’t enter the ballroom. He hated crowds. Beth swallowed her pang of disappointment. She couldn’t expect him to dance attendance. Or was it part of what he’d told her, that he couldn’t engage his heart? More fool Beth. She kept up lighthearted chatter with Isabella and her friends, but her attention kept straying to the outer hall. Ian never reappeared.

  Fog was gathering as Beth and Isabella left the house much later. As they crossed the small space of pavement to Isabella’s waiting carriage, Beth saw a man in the shadow between lampposts. He moved away when he caught her gaze, and the lamplight briefly shone on his thick, luxuriant mustache.

  “Mrs. Ackerley.”

  Beth turned sharply the next morning on her walk through the Tuileries Gardens. The burned-out remains of the Tuileries Palace loomed across the park, a reminder of violence in this beautiful place.

  Katie walked next to her, surly because Beth had insisted on coming out early after such a late night. Isabella remained in bed, fast asleep, but Beth felt energetic and restless.

  “Fashionable ladies never rise before noon,” Katie growled under her breath. “I thought now we were fashionable, too.”

  “Hush, Katie,” Beth said. She bade Katie walk ahead and waited for the tall man in black to catch up to her. “Well?” she asked when Katie was out of earshot “I know you’ve been following me about, Inspector. Please tell me why.”

  “Just doing my duty.”

  The wind blew in from the river, bringing with it the musty stench of water and the sound of bells from Notre Dame.

  “Does Scotland Yard know you’re in Paris?” she asked. “Looking into murders that you’ve been forbidden to investigate?”

  “I took a leave of absence. I’m in Paris on holiday.”

  “Then I take it you will not be making any arrests.”

  Fellows shook his head, his hazel eyes hard. “If I feel there’s reason to arrest anyone, I’ll go through the proper channels. I’ll inform the Surete and assist them any way” I can.”

  Beth gave him a cold look. “I’ve already told you that I’ll not spy on my friends.”

  “I’ve not come to renew that suggestion.”

  “Because you know it is useless?”

  “Because I realize you have integrity, Mrs. Ackerley. Surprising, considering your background.”

  “You’ve made your point. My mother was gently bred, despite her unfortunate marriage, please remember.”

  “Yes, I’ve made inquiries and found one country squire from Surrey called Hilton Yardley. Very respectable, very English. Died of grief when his daughter married a frog of dubious origins.”

  “No, he died of a liver complaint four years later,” Beth said. “You will no doubt say it was brought on by the shock of his daughter marrying my father.”

  “No doubt,” Fellows answered dryly.

  Beth turned and walked away at a pointedly brisk stride, but Fellows easily kept pace with her. “I approached you about a different matter, Mrs. Ackerley.”

  “I have no interest, Inspector.”

  “You will.”

  Beth halted so abruptly that her skirts swung. She held her parasol firmly and bathed him in a glare. “Very well, what is it?”

  He looked her up and down, his hazel gaze raking her in a most insulting manner. His mustache twitched. “Mrs. Ackerley, I want you to marry me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Beth stared at Inspector Fellows until she realized this wasn’t a joke. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Marry me, Mrs. Ackerley,” Fellows repeated. “I am a respectable man with a job and income, although I know you no longer need to worry about money. But you’re in deep waters, too deep for your own good.”

  “And you fear that I’ll drown?”

  Fellows grasped her elbow. His fingers were strong, like Ian’s. “The Mackenzies will pull you under. Look what they did to Lady Isabella. She was an innocent debutante, and now she’s not received by her own family. You have even less social position than she does, and once you’ve lost public regard, you will have nothing. Doesn’t matter about all your money.” Fellows’s words rang with sincerity. But there was something behind the sincerity, a wa
tchfulness that she couldn’t quite place.

  “It is the best offer you’ll have,” he said. “I’ve seen the gigolos here running after you, panting after your fortune. They’ll ruin you. I care nothing for your money—I am happy being a detective, and I will continue to forge ahead at Scotland Yard.”

  Beth clutched her parasol’s handle until her knuckles hurt. “You amaze me. Why should you worry so much about my reputation?”

  True anger blazed from his hazel eyes. “Because the Mackenzies destroy everything they touch. Any lady who goes nigh that family comes to grief. I’d like to save one, at least.”

  “One?” she asked sharply. “There have been others?”

  “Do you not know the stories?”

  Fellows’s eyes glittered. It was obvious he wanted to tell her, and Beth was cursed with wanting to know. She studied the sad ruin of-the palace, which the Parisians had already started to knock down. Clearing out the past, ridding itself of its ghosts.

  “Please tell me, Inspector,” she said. “You are going to anyway.”

  “I am talking about the wives of Hart and Cameron Mackenzie. Hart married a slip of a girl, a marquess’s daughter. This was after another young woman jilted him—came to her senses in time, most like. But the poor thing His Grace married was terrified of him by all accounts. He shut her up in that great house in Scotland and never let her out. She died trying to give him the heir he wanted. It’s said he took five minutes out to bury her in the family mausoleum, then went back to his houseful of fancy women.”

  “You’re very certain of this information.”

  “I have my sources. The duke now won’t talk about his wife and refuses to have her name mentioned.”

  “Perhaps he is grief-stricken.”

  Fellows snorted. “Unlikely. Did you forbid all and sundry to speak your husband’s name when he passed, Mrs. Ackerley?”

  “No.” She remembered the emptiness of her life after Thomas had gone. “You’re right. I didn’t want people to forget him. I wanted his name mentioned everywhere. Thomas Ackerley was a good man.”