Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage hp-2

by Jennifer Ashley

  “And how do you know this isn’t someone who simply happened to look like me walking down the Strand at the wrong time?”

  Fellows’s smile warmed as he grew enthusiastic about his quarry. “The solicitor had a photograph of him. I showed it to Crane’s assistant, who agreed it was the same man. He resembles you greatly, but not exactly. The solicitor told me that his hair was black, but with a little dye, some theatrical makeup to make his cheeks fuller, and he’d be the spitting image of you.”

  Mac felt a chill. “Please don’t tell me he’s really a Mackenzie. That my overly promiscuous father is responsible for this monster.”

  “Fear not. I traced him to Sheffield—mother was a baker’s daughter, father was a coachman then retired to run a pub. They’re his parents, all right. They said that little Samson always liked to draw, was quite good at it and begged for art lessons, but they couldn’t afford to give them to him. They’d had a letter from him when he returned to London not long ago, saying he’d learned painting and would remain in London to seek his fortune.”

  “And you have no idea where he is now?” Mac asked. “Other than lurking about waiting to accost my wife or set fire to my house?”

  “I’m afraid not. Not yet.”

  “Or why the devil he’s pretending to be me?”

  Fellows shrugged. “He wanted to be an artist. Perhaps he didn’t have the money or connections to sell his work or even be recognized for it. Perhaps one day someone mistook him for you, and he thought he could make some money that way.”

  “That explains the forgery and tricking Crane to sell the paintings. Not burning me out of my attics and trying to abduct Isabella.”

  Fellows shrugged again. “People can become fixated. Perhaps he is trying to eliminate you so he can take your place.”

  “Then why hurt Isabella? She has nothing to do with this—she’d have nothing to do with me if I hadn’t chased her to London. She left me, washed her hands of me.”

  Fellows looked uncomfortable, as though not wanting to stray into the territory of Mac’s private life. “My sergeant is keeping an eye on the rooms he let, in case he returns, as well as watching the surrounding areas. This is an official inquiry now.”

  “I want him, Fellows.”

  Fellows nodded, meeting Mac’s gaze with mirrored determination. “We’ll get him. Don’t you worry.”

  As soon as Evans stopped clucking around Isabella like a distressed hen and left the bedroom, Isabella was up and at her writing desk. She scribbled a letter to Ainsley, telling her she’d been taken ill suddenly but was recovering. The excuse sounded feeble even as it came out of her pen, but Isabella hardly wanted to distress Louisa with the truth. What Ainsley would make of it, Isabella didn’t know, but she trusted her friend to come up with another plan.

  Isabella finished the letter, blotted it, tucked it into an envelope, and set it aside to be posted.

  Mac still hadn’t returned, so Isabella went upstairs to check on Aimee. Miss Westlock examined Isabella’s bruised mouth and suggested an herbal poultice, which she then prepared. Isabella admitted that the poultice made her feel better. The swelling had almost completely gone by the time one of the maids brought up tea.

  It had been a long time since Isabella had partaken of nursery tea. There was bread and jam, weak tea with sugar and plenty of milk, and a small portion of seedcake. Aimee ate heartily, and Miss Westlock made certain that Isabella ate as well.

  Mac still hadn’t returned by eight o’clock, and Isabella, weary, climbed into bed.

  She woke hours later to find Mac sliding under the sheets with her, wearing, as was his habit, nothing at all.

  She sat up. “What are you doing?”

  Mac yawned. “Coming to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  “You have a bedroom of your own.”

  “Do I? I must have wandered into this one by mistake. Indulge me, my dear, I’m far too tired to get up and move.”

  “Then I’ll go.” Isabella was halfway out of bed before Mac’s strong arm hauled her back.

  “Far too late to be wandering about the house, love. You’ll disturb the servants, and they deserve their sleep.”

  Isabella sank down under the covers, resigned, and Mac lay back and laced his hands behind his head. Isabella had to admit two things—that she was far too comfortable to leave the warm bed, and that Mac lying next to her was a splendid sight.

  His broad shoulders stretched across the pillow, his bent arms taking up even more room, a tuft of dark red hair dusting each armpit. A shadow of whiskers the same color lined his jaw, and his eyes gleamed like warm copper from under half-closed lids.

  Isabella remembered the night Mac had first brought her home, how she’d sat on the edge of the bed, entranced, while he’d shed his clothes. The engrossing wonder of his body as it emerged, a section at a time, had made her almost forget her own shyness. She’d never seen a man unclothed before, had never seen one anything other than fully dressed, not even her own father. Shirtsleeves were frowned on in Earl Scranton’s house.

  And then Isabella had beheld Mac, astonishing and naked. His body had been hard, his need for her apparent. He’d put his hands on his hips and laughed at her, not even embarrassed.

  That was when she’d realized, as she sat demurely on his bed wrapped in his borrowed dressing gown, that Mac’s goal since he’d first seen her had been to bring Isabella here, to his bedchamber. It had not been to flirt, or to finagle a dance, or to steal a kiss. Even their hasty marriage had not been his ultimate intent. Mac had wanted all along to bring her to his bedroom, to smile at her while she sat on his bed. The flirting, dancing, kissing, and marrying had simply been the means to get her here.

  And, silly girl, Isabella readily succumbed.

  Lying next to him now, propped on her elbow so she could study him, Isabella decided that the silly girl had never left her. She was still entranced by Mac’s body.

  Mac brushed her bruised lip with gentle fingers. “That looks better.”

  “Miss Westlock made me a poultice.”

  “The excellent Miss Westlock.” Mac’s touch lingered on her face, but his eyes held anger. “I spent all afternoon and well into the night hunting for the bastard, but he’s made himself scarce.”

  Isabella pulled back in alarm. “You went looking for him? Mac, he’s obviously dangerous. Be careful.”

  “I’m dangerous, love. I plan to kill him for touching you.”

  “And then I’ll watch you hang for murder. Go to the police, and let them hunt him down.”

  “I did go to the police. Inspector Fellows knows who the man is and where he’s been, but unfortunately not where he is now. He told me he has men working on it, but so far, Mr. Payne has eluded them.”

  “Payne is the doppelganger’s name?”

  Mac nodded and told her what he’d learned.

  “Do you think he’ll return to his rooms?” she asked when he finished.

  “With a great clunking police sergeant leaning against the wall outside? He will be smarter than that.”

  “And does Fellows know why Mr. Payne is pretending to be you?”

  “The very question I asked.” Mac cradled his head in his hands again and thoughtfully studied the canopy above them. “Only a madman would pretend to be me. I’ve been wishing for three years that I wasn’t me.”

  “That would be a pity.”

  A pity to have Mac be anything but himself, a large Scottish male stretched out in her bed. He took up most of the room, but on the other hand, she couldn’t think of a better bed warmer. Little in her life had been more agreeable than lying against his long body on a winter’s night. His voice would soothe her, as would his touch, which could change from gentle to powerfully seductive in an instant.

  She expected Mac to make a quip at her statement, but his eyes held wariness. “Do you truly mean that, love?”

  “Of course I do.”

  She’d told Mac once that he never did anything by halves. He tended
toward extremes, which made him interesting but highly uncomfortable to live with.

  The entire Mackenzie family tended toward extremes. Hart with his focus on politics and his rumored dark appetites; Cameron with his fixation on horses; Ian being able to remember every word of a conversation years after it took place yet unable to understand the subtleties of it, let alone participate in it.

  If Mac hadn’t been exactly who he was—charming, outrageous, funny, seductive, sensual, and unpredictable—Isabella would never have fallen in love with him. She edged a little closer to him and rested her hand on the warm expanse of his chest.

  Mac’s eyes darkened. “Isabella, don’t play with fire.”

  Isabella moved closer, leaned down, and kissed him.

  Chapter 16

  The Marquis of Dunstan showed several pictures in his drawing room on Thursday last, paintings of Venice so vivid that the viewer was certain to hear the splashing of water and the songs of the gondoliers. These exquisite paintings are the work of Lord Mac Mackenzie, although his lordship has retired to the country in Scotland, and it is assumed that he has finished with painting pictures of Venetian canals. —September 1878

  Mac’s heart beat swiftly as he slid his hand behind Isabella’s heavy braid and pulled her into the kiss. My dearest darling, don’t do this to me.

  Her mouth tasted of sweet tea, and her body was wonderfully bare under her prim-looking nightdress. The little ruffle at her throat scratched his chin, and he wormed his fingers in to undo the buttons.

  Isabella’s kiss was desperate, her lips parting his, her tongue sweeping into his mouth. The idiot Payne had scared her out of her senses, although Isabella would never admit it. She was strong, his beautiful lady, but she felt things deeply. She was kissing him to seek solace.

  Mac wasn’t too proud to give her that solace. He gathered her to him, chilled to think how close he’d come to losing her today. If he hadn’t been following her . . .

  But he had, and he’d stopped Payne, and now he had Isabella in his arms. And damned if he would ever let her out of his sight again.

  Isabella started to pull away, as though coming to her senses.

  “Don’t,” Mac said. “Stay with me.”

  Isabella’s throat moved behind the buttons he’d parted. “I’m very tired.”

  “So am I.” He broke off, touched the bruise on the side of her mouth again. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Isabella.”

  She smiled suddenly, the abrasion pulling her mouth into a crooked line. “Afraid of you? I’ll never be afraid of you, Mac Mackenzie.”

  Mac didn’t laugh. “I meant that I don’t want you thinking that I’m anything like him.”

  “Like this Payne fellow?” Isabella shook her head, the end of her braid brushing his chest. “Of course I don’t.”

  “He looks like me, and he’s decided to try to steal my life. But I won’t let him have it, any part of it.” He tightened his arms around her. “Especially not this part.”

  Isabella’s eyes softened, becoming the shade of a misty Scottish meadow. “If I do decide to throw you out of my house, Mac, it will be because I want to, not because Payne has upset me.”

  “That’s my Isabella.”

  He tugged her to him and swiftly undid the rest of the buttons on her nightdress.

  Warm, supple woman waited for him inside. Mac kissed her lips, fingered the weight of her breasts, eased her on top of him. On their wedding night, he’d pulled her under the covers while she still wore the dressing gown he’d lent her. He’d wanted to spare her the discomfiture of baring herself the middle of the room—he suspected she’d never been naked in front of another human being in her life. She’d probably been taught to bathe in her undergarments. Prudery at its most ridiculous.

  Then, as now, he’d unbuttoned her once she was on top of him under the blankets and tugged off the dressing gown. That night, Isabella had kissed him clumsily; tonight, her kisses held the skill of experience.

  Darling, darling Isabella. Men were fools not to make mistresses of their wives. What need did Mac have for courtesans when he had beautiful Isabella? What’s more, he could fall asleep with her and wake up with her, spend the day with her, go to bed with her, and begin the wonderful ritual all over again.

  His thoughts broke off as she glided one hand around his very aroused cock.

  “Don’t tease me, sweet,” Mac whispered, voice grating. “I need you too much to hold back.”

  Isabella’s answering smile was hot. She stroked him once. “I need you, Mac,” she said.

  All thoughts of his foolish game, of resisting Isabella until their reconciliation was complete, fled his head. To hell with that. Mac caught her hips and half-lifted her to straddle him. She guided Mac to her very wet opening, and closed her eyes as he slid into her.

  Oh, yes. Isabella’s sheath closed around him like a tight fist. My beautiful, beautiful darling. Nothing else mattered when Isabella’s scent and lovely slick opening surrounded him, nothing. The first night making love to her had shattered him, and Mac still hadn’t found all the pieces.

  “It’s like heaven inside you,” he whispered.

  Isabella kissed his lips, the bridge of his nose. “You once said you married me because you thought I was an angel.” Her lips curved into the wickedest smile he’d ever seen as she wriggled her hips.

  “Little devil,” he growled.

  She splayed her hot hands on his chest, tilting her head back as she rode him. He was going to die of this. Firelight touched her slim body, her nipples dark against cream-colored skin. Her hair trickled over her body, loose now, like a gossamer cloak of fiery red.

  Isabella’s face softened, her eyes dark as her moist lips parted. The sight excited him. He thrust high inside her, and they swayed together for a long time, this coupling driving away all fear, all anger, all grief. Nothing mattered but the two of them joining, no longer two but one.

  Isabella crooked one arm across her breasts, resting her hand on own shoulder as she lost herself in the pleasure. He knew she was thinking nothing, hearing nothing, only feeling Mac inside her.

  He knew when she was drawing to climax, and that excited him even more. He rocked up into her, his own cry of joy ringing with hers as they peaked together.

  Isabella collapsed to his chest, her loose hair covering him like a river of red. “It feels so good. I’ve never felt it like this. It’s so . . .” She trailed off, incoherent.

  “Good?” Mac wanted to laugh, but his body shuddered with release, and his laughter came out a groan.

  They fell silent, Mac burying his fingers in the warmth of her long, silken hair. Mac loved this part, stillness settling between them while his body went heavy, every muscle loose. He’d missed the afterward almost as much as he’d missed being inside her.

  “We did this in Scotland,” said Isabella after a time, her voice sleepy. “It was glorious then. But this is better. I wonder why.”

  Mac didn’t give a damn why this time seemed even more intense than it had been in his studio, but Isabella wanted an answer. Mac simply wanted to close his eyes and hold her.

  “Comfy bed,” he murmured. “Difficult day.”

  “I thought I’d never see you again,” Isabella whispered, her breath hot on his cheek. “And then you were there, pulling me out of danger.”

  “That must be it. I was a hero. I swept you off your feet and made you want me.”

  “Don’t joke.” Isabella frowned. “Don’t.”

  “I’m sorry, love. No, it’s not a laughing matter.”

  He kissed the line of her hair. Mac had been in time to prevent the abduction, or whatever Payne had been planning, but it had been a close thing. It made him ill to think how close.

  No, he couldn’t go on thinking about what if. He’d brought her home, safe and sound.

  Relatively safe and sound. Mac thought of her bruised lip and rage trickled through him again. Payne would answer for that.

  Isabella lift
ed her head. “Mac.”

  “Yes, sweet angel?”

  “I don’t want to sleep yet.”

  “Fancy a game of cards, do you? Lawn tennis, perhaps?”

  “Don’t be silly. I want to do some of the things we used to do. You know.”

  Mac’s thoughts scattered as his pulse quickened. “I do know. Wicked lady.”

  Isabella kissed the tip of his nose. “I was taught by a wicked, wicked lord.”

  He grinned. “What did you have in mind?”

  Isabella showed him. They tried something they’d enjoyed before—Isabella straddling him, facing his legs instead of his face, and then leaning back until she lay full length on him, her back to his chest. Every muscle in Mac’s body tightened in pleasure, the arousal incredible.

  This position let Mac cup her where they joined. The feel of her wet heat, the sounds of pleasure she made as he stroked her there aroused him all over again. They climaxed together, their shouts mingling in the stillness of the night.

  Still hard, Mac rolled Isabella onto the bed and entered her again, face-to-face. A conventional position, but the best, he thought, where he could kiss Isabella’s lips and watch her green eyes sparkle with passion. If he could ever capture on canvas her expression as she rose to climax, he would treasure that painting above all others. And show it to no one, of course. It would be his own private, decadent pleasure.

  Mac made love to her until both of them were limp with exhaustion. Then he blearily pulled the covers over them and fell asleep in a nest with his beautiful, incredible wife.

  When Isabella came down to breakfast the next morning, a bit sore from the night’s activities, she was pleased to find a letter from Ainsley lying by her plate.