Ian broke his obsessive gaze and glanced briefly at Mac. “Simple? Of course it’s simple. Just get on with it.”
Ian strode away and out the doors, pulled by an invisible tether to the woman he loved.
Chapter 9
Clan Mackenzie were seen at Doncaster, their box graced by the radiant beauty of the Lady from Mount Street. The others danced attendance on their lovely Sister, but despite the return of her Lord and their apparent reconciliation, no rumor has yet reached our ears of another impending heir to the Mackenzie throne. —September 1876
Mac remembered Ian’s words the next day as they gathered at the Doncaster racetrack to watch the opening races. Cameron and Daniel disappeared to the stables as soon as they reached the track, Cam muttering something about having been away from the horses too long.
Hart also disappeared on whatever business he hoped to accomplish. Hart used any opportunity to push his political agendas, which meant wandering about every social occasion talking to people—bullying them into seeing things his way, Mac thought, half in irritation. Hart liked people to dance to his tune.
Hart had been rather short-tempered during the drive to the race, and Mac had sensed tension between him and Ian since arriving at the Doncaster house. Isabella and Beth talking nonstop covered things nicely, but the underlying strain was obvious.
Beth explained the problem as she and Ian, Isabella and Mac settled themselves into the Mackenzie box high above the track. It seemed that Hart had requested Beth to act as hostess for him at upcoming social functions at Kilmorgan Castle. Hart wanted to woo various members of Parliament in his capacity as duke and needed a lovely woman to smile at them and soften them up. Ian had grown protective and annoyed and told Hart to find his own damned wife.
Mac laughed out loud. “I wish I had witnessed that. I love it when you tell Hart to stuff himself, Ian. Though I’m sorry you had to be caught in it, Beth. No one deserves to be squeezed inside a Mackenzie argument.”
Isabella rolled her eyes under her ostentatious hat. “That is an understatement.”
“I don’t mind,” Beth said quickly. “I agreed to help a bit, but it’s good for Hart learn too that he can’t always have things his own way. And Ian is right; Hart does need to marry again. Cameron is worried to death that Hart will fall off a horse and pass the title to him.”
An ongoing conundrum. Mac had always felt himself happily removed from the dukedom—he had Cameron and Daniel safely between him and the coronet. If Hart would just pick out a woman and get on with it, Mac could find even more distance between himself and the title. But after the death of Hart’s young wife and child, the damn man had stayed stubbornly off the marriage mart. The family had speculated whether he’d again try to win Eleanor Ramsay, who’d previously jilted him but was still unmarried, but Hart had made no move to do so.
Hart entered the box as horses were led out for the first race, his annoyed glance telling Mac he’d guessed what they’d been discussing. He settled in a chair a little way away from them and fixed his opera glasses on the horses below.
Next to Mac, Isabella and Beth chattered about whatever they could think of. Ladies’ Day at the races was an invitation for wives and daughters and sisters to show off their best hats and frocks, and Beth and Isabella had entered the fray with enthusiasm. Beth’s high-crowned hat was adorned with ostrich feathers that drooped down her back. Isabella’s hat was trimmed with a swirl of ostrich feathers and yellow roses. Its precarious angle gave her a coy look, one that made Mac want to pull off the hat and cover her with kisses.
“There’s Cam.” Isabella peered through her opera glasses, pointing out a large black-coated and kilted man. Daniel, also black-coated and kilted, followed him at a brisk trot. Daniel looked up at the box and waved.
Isabella waved back. “Mac, you must go down and make our wagers for us. On all of Cam’s horses, of course.”
“All?” Beth asked her. This was Beth’s first racing season with the horse-mad Mackenzies, and she looked a bit uncertain.
“Of course, darling. Everyone knows that Cameron raises the best horses in Britain. I think a tenner each way on the first race? We might risk more as the day goes on. It’s such fun.”
“Cam scratched his filly from the first race,” Hart said from beyond Mac. “She came up lame not an hour ago, he told me downstairs.”
Isabella lifted her glasses and watched Cameron take the bridle of a horse and lead it away. “Oh, the poor thing.”
“She’ll live,” Hart said. “But she won’t race today.”
Isabella bit her lip. Unfriendly people might think her fretting about her wagers, but Mac knew that Isabella worried about the horse. The horses were like Cam’s children, each one a member of the family, and Isabella had a kind heart.
Beth scanned the racing sheet. “Should we wager on another then?”
Isabella looked over Beth’s shoulder. “How about this one? Lady Day. I like that name.”
“Wrong color,” Ian said.
Isabella threw him a perplexed look. “Ian, the horse won’t win the race because she’s bay instead of chestnut.”
“I mean her jockey. Colors aren’t right.”
Lady Day’s jockey wore blue with green stripes. Mac himself had no clue what Ian was talking about, but when Ian made a pronouncement, Mac knew better than to waste breath arguing with him. Ian was usually correct.
“He’s convinced me,” Mac said. “Choose another.”
“I think you’re both mad,” Isabella said. “Lady Day to win. Beth?”
Beth shrugged. “Unless my husband has another choice?” She waited for Ian’s reaction, but he was staring stoically down at the paddocks, no longer paying attention. Mac grinned, touched his hat to them, and left the box.
“Back again, my lord?” the bookmaker asked him when Mac reached the stand.
“Again? What are you talking about?”
The bookmaker, a little man everyone called Steady Ron, narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you come to place a bet with Gabe over there?” He jerked his chin at the next booth. “Not a half hour ago? I was that hurt. Mackenzies always do business with Steady Ron.”
“I’ve just arrived, and I’ve been up in my box with my wife. She says she’s a firm believer in Lady Day.”
“Good choice. Excellent horseflesh, odds seven to two. Win, place, or post?”
“To win, she says.” Mac placed the rest of the bets, taking the slips from Ron.
“Could have sworn it was you, me lord,” Ron finished. “Same face, same easy manner. Not much mistaking you.”
“Well, you were mistaken this time. Tell you what, if you see me again, make certain it’s me before you get your feelings hurt.”
Ron grinned. “Right you are, yer lordship. Enjoy the races.”
Ron’s mistake made Mac uneasy, especially in light of what Crane had told him about the man who’d brought him the paintings to sell, not to mention the fire. Mac’s footman had declared that no one but Mac had gone in and out of the house that day, but the man must have gotten in somehow. If the footman had been in the back hall, or down the road a few houses speaking to another footman—or even more distracting, a pretty maid—he might have mistaken the other man for Mac.
Then again, the crowd today was thick. A sea of men in nearly identical black coats and top hats stretched to all corners. Ron could have made a mistake. Gentlemen looked pretty much alike these days, English male fashion being rather monotonous.
Mac’s logic tried to comfort him with such thoughts, but Mac felt an itch between his shoulder blades. He didn’t like the coincidence.
Back in the box, Isabella and Beth were on their feet, waiting for the race to begin. Ian stood close to Beth, his hand straying to the small of her back. Mac felt a twinge of envy. At one time he’d had the privilege to stand so with Isabella.
A roar rose from the crowd as the horses leapt forward. Beth and Isabella bounced on their toes, peering through opera glasses, growing
more and more excited as the horses charged past the stands. The two shouted encouragement to Lady Day, who was running for all she was worth.
“She’s going to do it.” Isabella turned her laughing face to Mac. “I knew I could pick a winner.” She excitedly grabbed Mac’s hand, squeezed it, and turned back to the race.
The gesture hadn’t been a grand one. Just a little touch, a pressure of the fingers. But the imprint of Isabella’s hand lingered, the warmth of it more precious than the most treasured gem. Isabella, un-self-conscious, had touched Mac as she’d done when they’d been friends and lovers. As though nothing terrible had ever happened between them.
Mac savored the moment, memorized it, this small thing even more cherished than what they’d done in the drawing room in London. Satiation couldn’t compare to the casual, trusting touch of two people who loved each other.
Well, Mac would prefer both kinds of touching, but the fact that Isabella had turned to share her excitement with him made his heart swell.
He was so fixed on Isabella that he didn’t notice the horses pulling ahead of Lady Day. Mac only saw the light go out of Isabella’s eyes. She’d looked at Mac like that in times past, her vibrancy fading, and Mac, bloody stupid idiot that he’d been, hadn’t paused to figure out why.
Lady Day came in sixth. Her jockey patted her as she dropped from gallop to canter to trot, as though reassuring her that he didn’t love her less for losing. Mac wanted to lean into Isabella’s neck and comfort her.
Isabella turned to Ian in exasperation. “All right, Ian. How on earth did you know that Lady Day would lose based on the jockey’s colors?”
Ian didn’t answer. He was watching the horses trot along the far side of the field, lost in contemplation.
“He means that the horse was recently sold,” Hart said from behind Mac. “Lord Powell bought her a few months ago. It’s likely she hasn’t adjusted to her new surroundings, new routines, new jockey. They shouldn’t have put her in the race today. She had no heart for it.”
“You couldn’t have explained this to me earlier, Hart Mackenzie?” Isabella demanded. Then she softened. “The poor darling. They shouldn’t have made her race.” If anyone knew about the bewilderment of a young woman ripped from the bosom of her family and deposited among strangers, it was Isabella.
Hart’s stern mouth relaxed into a smile. “I didn’t want to spoil your fun. And it serves you right for not listening to Ian.”
Isabella put her tongue out at Hart then turned back to Ian. “I beg your pardon, Ian. I should know better than to doubt you.”
Ian gave her a quick look, and Mac saw Ian’s hand tighten on Beth’s waist, seeking comfort in her. Ian couldn’t always follow the teasing and banter common in his family, words flying about before Ian could catch and understand them. He’d listen with a distracted air before cutting through their gibberish with a pointed remark. It was easy to think Ian simpleminded, but Mac had come to learn that his brother was an amazingly complex man with vast intelligence. Beth had recognized that from the start, and Mac loved her for it.
Cameron’s horses did run in the next two races, winning each time. Isabella’s excitement returned, and she and Beth cheered on the family’s pride. Cameron remained down at the rail, watching like a worried father as his horses galloped to the finish line.
Daniel, on the other hand, capered and danced about, probably rubbing the noses of everyone near in the fact that Mackenzie horses were the very best. Cam would be more interested in the horses’ well-being, but Daniel loved to win.
“An excellent showing,” Isabella said happily after the third race. “Now then, Beth, let us retire to the tea tent and positively gorge ourselves.”
“Aren’t there more races?” Beth asked.
“We will return and watch later, but part of the St. Leger is to wander about and be seen by everyone. Why else would we have spent so much time on these hats?”
Beth laughed, and the two ladies left the box arm in arm. Ian opened the door for them, falling into step behind them.
Mac prepared to leave after Ian, but Hart’s hand on his arm stopped him.
“Not in the mood for a lecture right now, old man,” Mac said, impatient as he watched Beth and Isabella disappear down the stairs. “Once I have clasped Isabella to my bosom again—for good—then you can browbeat me. But not just now.”
“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 h
er 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.
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