Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage hp-2

by Jennifer Ashley

  “That’s my girl.” Mac stepped back. A towel around his waist did not make him any less mouth-watering; it only made Isabella long to hook her finger around the cloth and pull it away. “Sensible in the face of tribulation,” he said. “I’ve always loved that about you.”

  Isabella lifted her chin and willed her voice not to shake. “Miss Pringle taught us that practical common sense was much more important than learning how to pour tea.”

  “Someday I must meet Miss Pringle and congratulate her on her success.”

  “She’d hardly want to meet you. She has no use for men.”

  Mac leaned closer, warmth filling the space between them. “Maybe she’ll make an exception for me. After all, I’m in love with her best and brightest student.”

  “I was one of her dullest, not brightest.”

  “Liar.”

  Mac slid his hand to the back of her neck, under her hair, and a trickle of water found its way inside her collar. His breath touched her lips, and Isabella closed her eyes, waiting for the soft pressure of his mouth.

  It never came. He caressed her neck for a moment or two then released her. As chill disappointment wrapped her heart, Mac kissed his fingertip, slightly wrinkled from the water, and pressed it to her lips.

  “I’ve changed my mind about the hotel,” he said. “Your house is much more comfortable. See you in the morning, love.”

  He turned from her, made for the other door, and just as he opened it, dropped the towel.

  Isabella sagged against the doorframe as her gaze riveted to his tight and beautiful backside. His skin was bronzed above the waist, paler below where his kilt would cover him from country sunshine.

  She remembered how she’d loved to watch his naked body as Mac lounged in bed after lovemaking, kicking back the covers when he grew too warm. They’d laugh and talk, tease each other, and return to loving, so comfortable with each other. Those days seemed so long ago, so far away.

  Mac grinned over his shoulder at her, and whistling, walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.

  It was a long time before Isabella could peel herself from the doorway and return to sit rigidly in her chair before the fire. Going to bed for the remaining few hours of the night was out of the question.

  Isabella entered her dining room in the morning to see two newspapers held by two sets of male hands, one set large and muscular, the other narrower and bonier. The occasional crunch of toast sounded behind the sheets of newsprint.

  Isabella seated herself in the chair Bellamy held out for her, while her footman set a plate of steaming eggs and sausage before her. She thanked both servants politely and started sorting through the post that lay to the right of her plate. Down the table, pages turned and more toast crunched.

  Haughty society ladies might be surprised to see the wild Mackenzies apparently tamed into such domestic order. An illusion, Isabella would have to tell them. Newspapers and breakfasts simply kept them quiet for a time.

  And yet, there had been many mornings like this. Breakfasts at Kilmorgan Castle when all four brothers were under one roof were happy occasions, filled with loud laughter and male speech. Breakfasts at Mount Street had been cozy and quiet—sometimes Mac would walk down the length of the table to her on some pretense, sit next to her, lift her onto his lap. They’d cuddle together, feeding each other bits of the cooling breakfast. Isabella eyed the barrier of Mac’s newspaper and shivered with memories.

  Someone thumped on the front door. Bellamy set down a pot of steaming coffee and departed to answer it.

  Why was Bellamy answering doors? Isabella wondered. Where the devil was Morton? Mac had been in the house perhaps five hours, and already he was rearranging the staff’s schedule.

  “Let me in, Bellamy,” came a gravelly, male voice. “I know he’s in there.”

  Daniel’s newspaper flew high as he exploded out from under it. He gave Isabella one wild, pleading look then raced through the connecting door to the library.

  Mac laid down his paper and took up another piece of toast. Cameron strode into the dining room and scowled at Mac, Isabella, the hastily pushed back chair, and the scattered newspaper. Isabella motioned Bellamy to pour her more coffee, and Mac took a bite of toast as Cameron made for the connecting door, flung it open, and stormed inside.

  There was the sound of a scuffle, voices raised in protest, and the bang of another door. Cameron entered the dining room through the hall again, dragging a struggling Daniel with him.

  “Ow, Da’, let me go.”

  Cameron shoved Daniel back into his chair. “What the devil do ye think ye’re doing here?”

  “Aunt Isabella said I could stay.”

  Isabella continued to sort through her letters as though nothing very remarkable had happened. “I thought it best, Cam. He’d only have run away again if I’d sent him back to your professor.”

  “Aye, that’s likely true.” Cameron scraped back a chair and sat heavily on it. The big man wore a black evening suit and kilt, presumably leftover from the night before. His cravat was crumpled and his face dark with whiskers, but otherwise, he looked as wide awake as Mac. Isabella, on the other hand, was groggy from lack of sleep. Mac lying in a bed two rooms away had kept her on the chair, eyes open, for the rest of the night.

  “Bring me something to eat, Bellamy,” Cameron said. “I’m famished. And coffee, lots of it.”

  Bellamy was already on his way with the coffeepot. The footman opened the dumbwaiter and extracted another tray of covered dishes to place in front of Cameron.

  Daniel rubbed his neck. “You’re supposed to be in Scotland with the ponies, Da’. How did you know I was here?”

  “Dr. Nichols telegraphed to Kilmorgan that you’d gone missing. Hart telegraphed me.”

  “Dr. Nichols is a daft old man,” Daniel grumbled. “I thought he’d be too scared of you to tell on me.”

  Cameron dissected his eggs and sausage. “That daft old man is one of the most brilliant physicists in the world, ye little beggar. I wanted him to teach you something.”

  “Not if it means missing the St. Leger.”

  “Daniel did promise to return to his studies if he was allowed to go to the races,” Isabella said. “Didn’t you, Daniel?”

  “I did,” Daniel said in a bright voice. “I promise I’ll become a dried-up stick like Dr. Nichols if you let me go to Doncaster w’ ye. It’s damned unfair for me to have to miss it. I never miss the St. Leger.”

  “You watch your language around a lady,” Cam growled.

  “Aunt Isabella don’t mind.”

  “That doesn’t make any difference. Apologize.”

  “Oh, very well. Sorry, Auntie, for m’ foul tongue.”

  Isabella gave Daniel a gracious nod, while Mac turned another page of his newspaper. Cameron gave attention to his coffee and held out the cup for Bellamy to refill.

  “What the devil are you doing here, Mac? And why is Isabella serving you breakfast instead of dropping you down the cistern?”

  “My house burned down,” Mac said from behind his paper.

  “What?”

  Mac folded his newspaper, slid it to Cam, and tapped an article. The banner read: “Conflagration at peer’s Mayfair home.”

  “They’ve got that wrong,” Daniel said. “Uncle Mac’s not a peer. Only Uncle Hart is.”

  “The reading public doesn’t care, my boy,” Mac said. “They just want to read about a fire at the house of an aristocrat.”

  “What the hell happened?” Cameron demanded.

  Mac explained while Cam listened in growing bafflement and anger. “You think whoever’s forging your paintings tried to burn you out? Why? Because you found out he was doing it? How did the bastard get inside your house at all? Beg pardon, Isabella.”

  Mac shrugged. “My front door stood unlocked much of the day. I have a footman stationed at the door, but I imagine he’d have had to relieve himself at some point.”

  “Or he let in the culprit himsel
f,” Cameron suggested.

  “I’d be surprised; he’s loyal. I plan to quiz him, but I’m letting my servants sleep this morning. They had a bad night.”

  “Bellamy isn’t sleeping.” Isabella looked pointedly at the former pugilist who remained hovering nearby with the coffeepot.

  “He refused,” Mac said. He shot Bellamy a severe look, which Bellamy blandly returned. “He seems to think I’ll be struck down by an assassin if he lets me out of his sight.”

  “Could be.” Cameron shoved his plate away and wiped his mouth on a napkin. He took another long drink of coffee and clattered the cup to the saucer. “You’ll be safe enough here, Mac, with Bellamy and Isabella’s household looking after you.”

  Mac slanted a smile down the table at Isabella. “Exactly what I thought.”

  “I’m certain the Langham will suit your needs much better,” Isabella said coolly.

  Cameron shook his head. “Hotel’s full up. Heard the manager say it this morning.”

  If Cameron had been back to the hotel that morning, Isabella would eat her silverware. “Hart keeps his house open and ready at all times,” she pointed out.

  The brothers looked at each other, wordlessly trying to figure out how to refute her argument. Daniel grinned. “I’ll stay in Hart’s house.”

  “No, you will not,” Cameron returned. “Isabella, would you mind if Danny stays on with you? It’s only a few days until we go to Doncaster.”

  Daniel simultaneously brightened at the confirmation he’d get to attend the races and looked crestfallen that he’d have to stay with an auntie who didn’t like him smoking. “I can go to the hotel with you, Da’. You already have a room there. I can squeeze in.”

  Cameron shook his head. “I’m in and out too much to keep a proper eye on you. Isabella’s is the best place for you to stay.” Cameron rose, came to Isabella, and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you, sister-in-law. Lovely breakfast. See you on the train, Mac.”

  He shot his son one last scowl and strode out of the room. In the hall he thanked the footman who’d scuttled to open the door for him, and was gone.

  The room settled into silence, as though a hurricane had just blown itself out. Cameron Mackenzie was a force of nature.

  Daniel stared wordlessly at the table while Isabella and Mac went back to their breakfasts. Daniel’s long arms had grown out of his jacket; he’d sprouted up this summer, and now was nearly as tall as his father.

  He was a little boy no longer, but he wasn’t a man yet, either. His throat worked as he said, “Da’ doesn’t want me with him.”

  Isabella’s heart squeezed in sympathy. “The hotel is full, that is all. And he’s right: I can look after you more properly here.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Auntie. He sent me to Dr. Nichols to get me out of his hair, and he’s having me stay with you for the same reason. Da’ doesn’t give a monkey’s ass whether I learn physics or not. He just don’t want me at the hotel with him. He wants to go about w’ women, and he doesn’t want a fifteen-year-old son in his way.”

  “You take it too hard. Cam simply wants what he thinks best for you.”

  “The boy is right,” Mac said. Isabella sent him a glare, but Mac shook his head. “Cam’s never been domestic, and you know it. I don’t know what woman can make him settle down, but I’d love to meet her.”

  Daniel brightened, prone to lightning changes of moods. “Settle down like you did, Uncle Mac?”

  “Mind your tongue, boy.”

  “Leave him be.” Isabella signaled to Bellamy, who approached with more coffee. “You’re perfectly welcome to stay with me, Daniel. We’ll play games all day, and you can escort me to the theater at night. I’m certain your Uncle Mac will have far too much to do to pay much attention to us.”

  “On the contrary.” Mac set down his cup. “I have all the time in the world.” He winked at Daniel. “Besides, I’m very good at games.”

  Mac spent the next two days busily trying not to go mad. Living in a house with Isabella, knowing she slept in the bedroom just beyond the bathroom, kept him sleepless and randy. But considering that someone had succeeded in burning Mac out of his house, possibly this person forging his paintings, possibly simply a mad arsonist, he wanted to keep a close eye on Isabella. A few of Bellamy’s cronies from his pugilist days agreed to help watch Isabella’s house, and Mac asked Inspector Fellows to have someone watch Crane’s gallery in case the forger returned. The efficient inspector already had done so.

  Meanwhile, Mac had to get through the strain of living in close proximity with Isabella without touching her. The worst was when he heard her maid prepare the bath for her, followed by the soft splash as Isabella descended into the water.

  He’d groan and rub his face, his body demanding that he fling open the door and fall into the water with her. She’d be soapy and bare, her skin flushed with heat. Even stroking himself for relief didn’t do much good. The only hands that could appease him were hers.

  Leaving for Doncaster couldn’t come quickly enough for him—but then again, Mac was loathe to abandon the cozy setup of the two of them in one house. Daniel was there too, of course, the boy cheerfully escorting Isabella about. Mac would trail along with them, wishing Cameron could take care of his own son, but not having the heart to send Daniel away.

  Mac strolled into the drawing room the day before they were to leave, while Daniel was out stocking up on books. That is, Daniel claimed that he was off to the book shops, but he was likely holed up somewhere playing cards with his friends.

  Isabella sat near the window overlooking the garden behind the house. An open magazine rested in her lap, but she wasn’t reading it. She gazed out at the rainy garden, the scarlet glory of her hair bright against her gray and blue frock.

  She looked around when she heard him enter, and Mac saw that her eyes were rimmed with red.

  He moved to the sofa and sat next to her. “Love, what is it?”

  Isabella looked away. “Nothing.”

  “I know you far too well to believe that. ‘Nothing’ usually translates to ‘something dreadful.’ ”

  Isabella opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again and slid a cream-colored paper out from between the pages of her magazine. Mac took it and read. My dearest sister,

  I am excited beyond all measure at the prospect of communicating with you again. Mrs. Douglas has my deepest gratitude. My debut will commence this spring—dare I hope that I will be able to see you after my coming-out? I will look for you at every soiree and musicale and ball, longing for one glimpse of the beautiful sister I miss with all my heart. I must not linger on this note, or Papa will suspect something. I dare not risk you writing back to me, but if you were to give Mrs. Douglas any little message, or even the promise of a kiss when at last we meet, I would treasure it as the most precious diamond. Ever your loving sister,

  Louisa

  Familiar anger at Isabella’s father rose as Mac read the missive. Earl Scranton was a selfish, priggish bastard. Isabella had cried without consolation when, after writing to her sister and mother immediately after her marriage to Mac, her letters had been returned by her father, cut into shreds. The earl had added a stern note forbidding Isabella further contact with the family. Scranton had never lifted the ban, not even when Isabella had ceased living with Mac.

  Mac handed the letter back to Isabella. She slid it into her jacket, nestling it over her heart.

  “This Mrs. Douglas is your old school chum?” he asked, striving for something light to say. “The one who could scramble down a trellis in her nightdress?”

  Isabella nodded. “She offered to send my love to Louisa for me when she saw her again. Apparently she coaxed a note from Louisa to give me in return.”

  Mac leaned uncomfortably into the corner of the small sofa, few pieces of furniture able to accommodate his large body. “Good for Mrs. Douglas.”

  “She’s rather sorry for me.” Isabella gave him a faint smile. “But I’m grateful for
her help.”

  “I am too.” Mac fell silent, and Isabella looked out the window again.

  Earl Scranton was the same kind of unforgiving terror Mac’s own father had been, though in different ways. Mac’s father had been volatile, hot-blooded, and violent, whereas Isabella’s father was ice-cold and never raised his voice.

  The litany of the many ways in which marriage to Mac had ruined Isabella’s life paraded through his head. That she’d stuck with him for three years said much about her fortitude.

  “We leave for Doncaster tomorrow,” Isabella said without turning from the window. “You will not share a hotel suite with me there, so put the idea out of your head.”

  Mac stretched his arm across the back of the sofa. “You won’t be staying in a hotel, love. Hart has hired a house for all of us, you and your servants included. Ian insists that Beth will be more comfortable in our own accommodations, and I agree with him.” He propped his feet on the tea table, still seeking a comfortable position. “Beth will want you with her.”

  Isabella threw him an exasperated look. “Mac, we are separated. That is the end of it.”

  “No, it is not.”

  She frowned at him, green eyes filled with anger. He was glad to see the fury; anything to erase her heartbroken look.

  “I left you to save my sanity, Mac,” she said. “I’ll hardly return to it if you continue to drive me mad.”

  “You like me driving you mad.” Mac let his grin blossom. “Your life is empty when I’m not giving you hell.” He broke off as Bellamy pushed open the door to allow Evans to carry in a tea tray. “Tea, excellent. I’m famished.”

  Isabella regarded the setup of two cups and saucers with annoyance. The servants seemed elated to have Mac in the house and had settled into the habit of preparing all meals for two. Which delighted Mac.

  Evans and Bellamy retreated, and Mac brought his feet down. “Now, then, Isabella, a courting couple would take tea together, would they not? A gentleman would call on the lady, and she’d serve him tea.”