The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie hp-1

by Jennifer Ashley

  “I planned to bed you more than once.”

  It sounded so logical when he said it. His deep voice slid through her senses, tempting her, finding the passionate woman who’d discovered how much she loved touching a man’s body and having that man touch her. Ladies were not supposed to enjoy the marriage bed, so she’d been told. Thomas had said that was nonsense, and he’d taught her what a woman could feel. If he’d not taught her so well, she reflected, she’d not be sitting here boiling with need for Lord Ian Mackenzie.

  “You do realize, my lord, that I am engaged to another man? I have only your word that he is a philanderer.” “I will give you time to make inquiries about Mather and put your affairs in order. Would you prefer to live in London or my estate in Scotland?”

  Beth wanted to lay her head back on her chair and laugh and laugh. This was too absurd, and at the same time dismayingly tempting. Ian was attractive; she was alone. He was rich enough not to care about her little fortune, and he made no secret that he wanted to enjoy carnal knowledge of her. But if she truly knew so little about Lyndon Mather, she knew nothing at all about Ian Mackenzie.

  “I’m still puzzled,” she managed to say. “A friendly warning about Sir Lyndon is one thing, but to warn me and then offer me marriage in the space of minutes another. Do you always make up your mind so quickly?”

  “Yes.”

  “ ‘If it were done when ‘tis done, then ‘twere well it were done quickly’? That sort of thing?”

  “You can refuse.”

  “I think I should.”

  “Because I’m a madman?”

  She gave another breathless laugh. “No, because it is too enticing, and because I’ve drunk whiskey, and I should return to Sir Lyndon and his aunt.”

  She rose, skirts rustling, but Lord Ian grasped her hand.

  “Don’t go”

  The words were harsh, not a plea. The strength left Beth’s limbs and she sat down again. It was warm here, and the chair was oh, so comfortable. “I shouldn’t stay.”

  His hand closed over hers. “Watch the opera.” Beth forced her gaze to the stage, where the soprano was singing passionately about a lost lover. Tears gleamed on the singer’s face, and Beth wondered if she were thinking about Lord Cameron Mackenzie.

  Whoever the woman thought of, the notes of the aria throbbed. “It’s beautiful,” Beth whispered.

  “I can play this piece note for note,” Ian said, his breath warm in her ear. “But I cannot capture its soul.” “Oh.” She squeezed his hand, hurt for him welling up inside her.

  Ian almost said, Teach me to hear it as you do, but he knew that was impossible.

  She was like rare porcelain, he thought, delicate beauty with a core of steel. Cheap porcelain crumbled to dust or shattered, but the best pieces survived until they reached the hands of a collector who would care for them. Beth closed her eyes to listen, her enticing curls trembling at her forehead. He liked how her hair unraveled, like silk from a tapestry.

  The soprano ended the piece on another long, clear note.

  Beth clapped spontaneously, smiling, eyes glowing with appreciation. Ian had learned, under Mac’s and Cameron’s tutoring, how to applaud when a piece stopped, but he never understood why. Beth seemed to have no trouble understanding, and responding to, the joy of the music.

  When she looked up at him with tears in her blue eyes, he leaned down and kissed her.

  She started, her hands coming up to push him away. But she rested her hands on his shoulders instead and made a soft noise of surrender.

  He needed her body under his tonight. He wanted to watch her eyes soften with desire, her cheeks flush with pleasure. He wanted to rub the sweet berry between her legs and make her wet, he wanted to drive into her until he released, and then he wanted to do it all over again.

  He’d wake with her head on his pillow and kiss her until she opened her eyes. He’d feed her breakfast and watch her smile as she took food from his hand.

  He drew his tongue across her lower lip. She tasted of honey and whiskey, sweet spice. He felt her pulse pounding beneath his fingertips, her breath scalding his skin. He wanted that hot breath on his arousal, which was already hard and aching for her. He wanted her to touch her lips to it like she touched them to his mouth.

  She wanted this—no maidenly vapors, no shrinking away from him. Beth Ackerley knew what it was to be with a man, and she liked it. His body throbbed with possibilities. “We should stop,” she whispered.

  “Do you want to stop?”

  “Now that you mention it, not really.”

  “Then why?” His lips brushed her mouth as he spoke. She tasted whiskey on his tongue, felt the firm brush of his lips, the roughness of his chin. He had a man’s mouth, a commanding mouth.

  “I’m sure there are a dozen reasons why we should stop. I confess I can’t think of any good ones at the moment.”

  His fingers were strong. “Come home with me tonight.” Beth wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. Joy shot through her entire body, a painful ache she’d thought she’d never feel again.

  “I can’t,” she almost moaned.

  “You can.”

  “I wish . . . “ She imagined the newspapers blazing the gossip all over London tomorrow. Heiress Abandons Fiance for Sordid Affair with Lord Ian Mackenzie. Her origins were murky—would anyone be surprised? Blood will out, they’d say. Wasn’t her mother no better than she ought to be?

  “You can,” Ian repeated firmly. Beth closed her eyes, trying to press aside sweet temptation.

  “Stop asking me.. ..”

  The door of the box banged open, and harsh, gravelly tones cut through the audience’s thunderous applause. “Ian, damn it, you were supposed to be watching Daniel. He’d down dicing with the coachmen again, and you know he always loses.”

  Chapter Three

  The giant walked into the box. He was bigger than Ian, and had the same dark red hair and eyes like chips of topaz. His right cheek bore a deep, angry scar, a gash made long ago. It was easy to imagine this man fighting with fists or knives, like a thug.

  He had no trouble pinning Beth with his gaze. “Ian, who the devil is she?”

  “Lyndon Mather’s fiancee,” Lord Ian answered. The man stared at Beth in amazement, then burst out laughing. The laugh was large, like he was, deep and booming. Some of the audience looked up in annoyance. “Good on you, Ian.” The man clapped his brother on the back. “Absconding with Mather’s fiancee. You do the lass a favor.” He looked Beth over with bold eyes. “You don’t want to marry Mather, love,” he said to Beth. “The man’s disgusting.” “It seems everyone knows that but me,” Beth said faintly.

  “He’s a slimy bastard, desperate to get into Hart’s circle. Thinks we’ll like him if he tells us he enjoys reliving his days of schoolboy punishments. You’re well rid of him, lass.” Beth could hardly breathe. She should leave in a huff, not listen to things no ladies should listen to, but Ian’s hand was still laced firmly through hers. Besides, they didn’t try to comfort her with banalities, tell her pretty lies. They could be making up all this to part her from Mather, but why the devil should they?

  “Ian will never remember to introduce us,” the giant said. “I’m Cameron. And you are?”

  “Mrs. Ackerley” Beth stammered.

  “You don’t sound certain of that.”

  Beth fanned herself. “I was when I came in here.” “If you’re Mather’s fiancee, why are you in here kissing Ian?”

  “I was just asking myself that same question.” “Cam,” Ian said. The quiet word cut through the noise as the crowd waited for the next act. There was no drama on the stage now, but plenty in Ian Mackenzie’s box. “Shut up.” Cameron stared at his brother. Then his brows rose and he dropped into a chair on Beth’s other side. He pulled a cigar from the box next to him and struck a match.

  A gentleman should ask a lady’s leave before he smokes. Mrs. Barrington’s tones rang in her head. Neither Cameron nor Ian seemed worried about Mrs. Barri
ngton’s rules. “Didn’t you say someone called Daniel was dicing with coachmen?” Beth asked him.

  Cameron touched the flame to the end of the cigar and puffed smoke. “Daniel, my son. He’ll be all right if he doesn’t cheat.”

  “I should go home.” Beth started to rise again, but Ian’s hand on her arm stopped her.

  “Not with Mather.”

  “No. Heavens, no. I never want to see the man again.” Cameron chuckled. “She’s a wise woman, Ian. She can go home in my coach.”

  “No,” Beth said quickly. “I’ll have the porter fetch me a hansom cab.”

  Ian’s fingers clamped down. “Not in a hansom. Not alone.”

  “Me climbing into a coach with the pair of you would be the scandal of the year. Even if you two were the archbishops of Canterbury and York.”

  Ian’s gaze fixed on her as though he had no idea what she was talking about. Cameron threw back his head and laughed.

  “She’s worth stealing, Ian,” he said around his cigar. “But she’s right. I’ll lend you the coach and my man will take care of you, if I can find him. My own fault for employing a Romany as a manservant. They’re blasted hard to tame.” Ian didn’t want her to go alone; she saw that in his eyes. She thought of how he’d played with her curls—proprietary, possessive, like Mather with his Chinese pottery. She’d check on the information in Ian’s letter. She’d send Mrs. Barrington’s wheezing, gossipy butler around to pry tales out of other gossipy servants. The Mackenzie brothers could be part of some mad and improbable conspiracy to ruin Mather, but she had the awful feeling they told the truth. Below them the next act started with a fanfare. Ian rubbed his temple as though it gave him a headache. Cameron stubbed out his cigar and noisily exited the box. “My lord? Are you all right?”

  Ian’s gaze remained remote as he continued to absently rub his forehead. Beth put her hand on his arm. Ian didn’t respond, but he stopped rubbing his temple and rested his large hand on hers.

  He didn’t follow the action on the stage, didn’t try to continue his conversation with Beth, didn’t move back to kissing her. It was as though his mind had moved somewhere she couldn’t follow. His body was very much present, though, his hand heavy and strong. She studied the sharp profile of his face, the high cheekbones, the square jaw. A woman would want to run her hands through his thick hair when she held him in bed. It would be warm, damp with sweat as he lay heavy-limbed on top of her. Beth dared to reach up and smooth his hair back from his forehead.

  Ian’s gaze snapped to her. For one instant, he pinned her with his stare. Then his eyes slid sideways. Beth stroked his hair again. He sat still under her touch, quivering with tension like a wild animal.

  They sat this way, Beth lightly smoothing his hair, Ian’s body tight, until Cameron returned with a dark-complexioned man in tow. Cameron looked at Ian in surprise, and Ian rose in silence, forcing Bern’s hand to slide away. Beth scanned the theatre before Ian led her out, followed by Cameron. In a box across the vast room, Mather sat deep in conversation with Lord and Lady Beresford. He never noticed Beth or saw her leaving the box.

  “Mackenzie! I’ll kill you. Do you hear me?” Ian scooped up warm bathwater and sloshed it over his hair and down his neck. He thought of Beth’s hand on his hair, her soothing fingers. Ian didn’t always like to be touched, but with Beth he’d stilled, willing to take her offering. He imagined her stroking his hair while she lay next to him in bed, her warm scent all over him. He wanted Beth’s lush body tangled in his sheets, her hair unwinding from its tight curls, her blue eyes half closed in pleasure. He wanted her with a deep intensity that hadn’t gone away, and even now his organ stiffened under the water.

  The annoying voice outside shattered his fantasy. The threats got louder the nearer they came until the bath chamber door burst open to reveal Lyndon Mather struggling against two of Ian’s footmen. They were Scots lads who’d come with Ian to his hired house in London and looked pleased that at last they had someone against whom to strain their muscles.

  Ian shifted his gaze over the three of them and returned it to the muscular calf he’d rested on the side of the tub. The footmen released Mather but hovered warily beside him.

  “You cheated me out of that bowl, but it wasn’t enough for you, was it, Mackenzie? Beth Ackerley is worth a hundred thousand guineas, man. One hundred thousand” Ian studied the twisting dark hairs that wound down his leg. “She’s worth a damned sight more than that.” “You mean she has more?” the idiot Mather asked. “I’ll sue you. I’ll have you for cheating me out of all that money.” Ian closed his eyes, seeking his visions of Beth. “Write to Hart’s solicitor.”

  “Don’t hide behind your brother, you coward. I’ll ruin you. London will be too hot to hold you. You’ll be running back to Inverness with your tail between your legs, you dungeating, sheep-buggering, Scots pig.”

  The footmen growled in unison. Mather yanked a small object out of his pocket and hurled it at the bathtub. Something plopped into the water and sank to the bottom with a soft clink.

  “I’ll sue you for the price of that, too.”

  Ian flicked his fingers at the footmen, sending droplets of water over the marble floor. “Throw him out.” The lads whirled on Mather, but he turned on his heel and stomped away. The two footmen followed, and when they’d gone, Curry slunk into the bathroom and closed the door.

  “Whew,” the valet said, wiping his brow. “Thought ‘e would shoot you for certain.”

  “Not here. He’d do it in a dark alley, in my back.”

  “Maybe you should leave town for a spell then, guv.” Ian didn’t answer. He thought of the short letter from Mrs. Ackerley he’d received this afternoon.

  My lord, I thank you for your kind intervention that saved me from a step that would have caused me great regret. As you may no doubt soon read in the newspapers, the betrothal between myself and the other party concerned is at an end.

  I also wish to thank you for condescending to propose marriage to me, which I now realize was to keep my reputation from ruin. I know you will understand and not be offended when I say I must I decline your generous offer. I have decided to use the fortune that fate bestowed upon me to travel. By the time you receive this letter, I will have departed for Paris with a companion, where I intend to make a study of painting, a skill I have always wished to leant. Thank you again for your kindness to me and for your advice.

  I remain yours sincerely,

  Beth Ackerley

  “We’re going to Paris,” Ian said to Curry.

  Curry blinked. “Are we, guv?”

  Ian fished out what Mather had thrown into the bathtub, a narrow gold band with tiny diamonds on it. “Mather is cheap. She should have a wide band filled with sapphires, blue like her eyes.”

  He felt the pressure of Curry’s stare. “I’ll take your word, me lord. Shall I pack?”

  “We won’t leave for a few days. I have some business to attend to first.”

  Curry waited for Ian to indicate what business, but Ian returned to studying the ring in silence. He lost himself contemplating the sparkle of every facet on each tiny diamond until the water turned cold, and Curry worriedly pulled the plug on the drain.

  Detective Inspector Lloyd Fellows paused before he rang the bell of the Park Lane home of Sir Lyndon Mather. Detective Inspector, Fellows reminded himself, recently risen from the subordinate gloom of sergeant despite the last chief’s determination to keep Fellows humble. But all good chief inspectors were called to peaceful retirement, and the incoming chief had found it incredible that Fellows had languished so long as a mere sergeant.

  So why had Fellows risked all by rushing to Park Lane to Mather’s summons? He’d read the note in rising excitement, burned it, then left the office. He’d grated his teeth at the slowness of hansom cabs until he stood on the doorstep of the palatial house.

  Fellows hadn’t bothered to mention the journey to his chief. Anything to do with the Mackenzies was verboten to Detective Fellows
, but Fellows reasoned that what his chief didn’t know would not hurt him.

  A stiff butler with his nose in the air answered the door and directed Fellows into an equally stiff reception room. Someone had crammed the room with draped tables and costly objects d’art, including photographs in silver frames of stiff people.

  The reception room said, We have money, as though living in Park Lane hadn’t already conveyed the same. Fellows knew, however, that Sir Lyndon Mather was a bit up against it. Mather’s investments had been volatile, and he needed a large infusion of cash to help him out. He’d been about to marry a widow of means, which ought to have kept him from bankruptcy. But a couple of days ago, a notice had appeared in the newspaper that the wedding was off. Mather must be feeling the pinch of that.

  The butler returned after Fellows had paced for half an hour, and led him to a lavish sitting room across the hall. More draped tables, gilded knickknacks, and people in silver frames.

  Mather, a blond and handsome man that the French might call debonair, came forward and stuck out his hand. “Well met, Inspector. I won’t invite you to sit down. I imagine that when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll want to hurry out and make arrests.”

  Fellows hid his annoyance, hating when other people told him his job. The average man obtained his knowledge of Scotland Yard from fiction or the newspapers, neither of which was very accurate.

  “Whatever you say, sir,” Fellows said.

  “Lord Ian Mackenzie’s gone to Paris. Early this morning. My butler had it from my footman, who walks out with a girl who worked in Lord Ian’s kitchen. What do you make of that?”

  Fellows tried to conceal his impatience. He knew Ian Mackenzie had gone to Paris, because he made it his business to know exactly what Lord Ian Mackenzie was doing at all times. He had no interest in servants’ gossip, but he answered, “Has he indeed?”

  “You know about the murder in Covent Garden last night?” Mather watched him carefully.