“I believe so.” Isabella sat down at her place, fingering the card, which she’d slipped into her pocket. “He has invited me to go walking with him this afternoon.”
Mac folded down one corner of the paper, giving her a stern look. “And what have you decided?”
“I will accept. Going for a walk in a public place will be most proper. And agreeable.”
“Be careful of his intentions. I’ve heard of this Lord Roland’s bad reputation.”
“I believe he’s reformed,” Isabella said. “So he tells me.”
Mac tsk-tsked. “Be on your guard, my dear. Be on your guard. I believe he paints women—with their clothes off.”
“Don’t overplay it, Mac.”
Mac grinned and raised the paper again. His smile could make a lady’s good intentions fly out the window. Mac had slept in his own room last night, and Isabella had lain awake for a long while trying to banish her disappointment.
At three o’clock that afternoon, the doorbell rang, and Morton glided up from the back stairs to open it. Mac, dressed in a fine afternoon walking suit, complete with hat and walking stick, stood on the threshold. “I have come to call upon the lady of the house,” he announced in grave tones.
Isabella stifled a laugh as she peered down from the landing. Morton disliked games, and Mac had to more or less insist before Morton would show him into the drawing room.
Morton came out again and looked up at her, aggrieved. “My lady . . .”
“Thank you, Morton.” Isabella gathered her skirts and glided down the stairs. “Indulge his lordship. He likes his bit of fun.”
“Yes, my lady,” Morton said mournfully and disappeared to the back of the house.
When Isabella entered the drawing room, Mac stood up, hat in hand. “My lady. I hope you are well.”
“Indeed. I am in good health and spirits.”
“I am pleased to hear it. Would you indulge me with your company in the park?”
“Why certainly, my lord. And thank you for the flowers. You were most kind.”
Mac waved his hand dismissively. “It was nothing. I heard you liked yellow roses. I hope they suited.”
“They suited me very well.” Isabella heard Aimee’s little voice in the hall, and she added, “Do you mind? Nanny Westlock says that Aimee needs to take some air, and I thought they could join us.”
A startled look flashed through Mac’s copper-colored eyes, but he covered it with another cool bow.
“Chaperoned by a nanny and a baby,” he muttered. “Ah, well.”
The weather was so fine that Hyde Park teemed with people. Mac dropped the pretense of being the proper suitor, tilted back his hat, and insisted on pushing the pram. Isabella strolled beside him, enjoying the sight of her broad-shouldered, kilted husband pushing a baby carriage. Miss Westlock dropped behind, a nanny indulging the master and mistress.
The Rotten Row flowed with horses and carriages, and the other paths carried families, walking couples, and nannies with children. Aimee sat up in her pram, holding onto the sides and looking about with interest. She was a robust child—hearty, Miss Westlock called her—and enjoyed peering at the world.
What Aimee felt about losing her mother, Isabella couldn’t fathom. Perhaps the child was too young to understand what had happened, but all in all, she seemed to accept with her change in fortune. She was happy to bestow loving kisses on both Mac and Isabella, and though she made it clear that she preferred Mac, she was now content to be left alone with either Isabella or Nanny Westlock.
Isabella wondered whether Payne, her true father, would attempt to wrest Aimee back from them. Isabella didn’t understand whatever strings Mr. Gordon had pulled to make the adoption legal, but he’d assured them that all would be well. Isabella still worried, though. Aimee did not need to be taken by a lunatic who set fires to houses and stalked women in parks.
“Mac, old thing!” A man’s voice rang out and Isabella looked up to see four gentlemen bearing down on them.
She stifled a sigh. They were Mac’s friends from Harrow and Cambridge, the boys who had worshipped Mac as their leader-in-crime during their school days. They were grown men now, but they’d collectively remained the wild tears who’d done anything to gain Mac’s approval.
The one who walked in front, a short, rather slender young man with blond hair, had become Marquis of Dunstan at age twenty-two. His Christian name was Cadwallader, and they called him Cauliflower or Cauli for short. The others were Lord Charles Summerville, the Honorable Bertram Clark, and Lord Randolph Manning. None of these gentlemen had passed Isabella’s father’s rigorous screening as possible suitors for her, and it had been these four gentleman who’d originally wagered that Mac would never “crash” Lord Scranton’s ball and dance with his virginal daughter.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Lord Charles Summerville screwed a monocle into his left eye and peered through it. “Good Lord, it is Mac Mackenzie walking a baby. From where did you steal the damned thing? Paying off a wager, are you?”
“This is my daughter,” Mac said coolly. “Miss Aimee Mackenzie. I’ve just adopted her. Pray watch your language in front of her as well as in front of my wife.”
Summerville guffawed while Bertram Clark bowed to Isabella. “Ah, the lovely Lady Isabella. How delightful to see you again. You dazzle mine eyes, my lady.”
Lord Randolph Manning gazed unsteadily at her. “I thought you well rid of this blackguard, Izzy. I’m devastated you’ve never sought solace in me. My door is always open, you know.”
“Randy Randolph,” Cauliflower chortled.
“Stubble it,” Mac said. “Insult my wife again, Manning, and your eye will learn the exact texture of my gloved fist.”
Manning blinked. “Good lord, what did I say?”
“Forgive my Lord Randolph,” Bertram Clark said to Isabella. Mr. Clark had the best manners of the lot but also the reputation for being the most dissipate. “He’s drunk, he’s an idiot, and he swoons at your feet. We all do, as you know.”
“It’s quite all right,” Isabella said. “I’m well used to his vulgar manners.”
The four men burst out laughing. “As erudite as ever,” Lord Charles said. “We’ve missed you, my lady. In truth, Mac, what are you doing with a baby?”
“I answered you. I adopted her.”
Manning blinked his hazy eyes. “Dropped a by-blow, did you, Mac? Your lady wife is a most forgiving woman.”
Cauliflower gaped, and Bertram Clark grabbed the back of Manning’s collar. “That’s it. Time to sober you up, old man.” He dragged Manning off, Manning spluttering and continuing to ask what he’d said wrong.
“Cauli,” Mac said in a quiet voice. Cauliflower, who was a foot shorter than Mac, turned red but gave Mac his attention. “Know this: Aimee is not my by-blow, and she will be raised as a proper young lady. Any other gossip is to be squelched. You know the truth, and I expect you to uphold it. You too, Charlie. Tell the others.”
Cauliflower touched his forehead. “Right you are, chief. You can count on us. But by the bye—since wagers were mentioned—what about the one we made before you went to Paris? You know about the . . . ?” He trailed off, making a painting motion with his hand.
“The erotic pictures?” Mac finished. “Fear not, Isabella knows all. I keep nothing from my wife, as you know. I am working on them.”
Charles shook his head. “Time’s running out, Mac, old boy. I hope you know some merry tunes to sing with the temperance band.”
“I’ve been told I have a nice baritone.” Mac’s words were light, but Isabella saw a muscle tighten in his jaw, his temper rising.
“We’ll make certain every member of the club is out to watch you and cheer you on. It will cause quite a stir.”
“I always enjoy making a stir. But I might come through with the paintings, you know.”
Cauliflower made a point of pulling out his watch and studying it. “Very well. Not much time left, you know.” He gave Mac a sorrowful
look. “Don’t let me down, old man. You’ve been my hero since I was ten years old.”
“That was a long time ago,” Mac said.
Cauli stuffed his watch back into his pocket, nodded to Isabella, and grabbed Charles by the arm. “Come on, then, Charlie. Let’s have some champagne to celebrate our certain win.”
Charles bowed to Isabella, somewhat unsteadily, and walked off with Cauli. Mac watched them go in unveiled disgust.
“To think I used to take pride in leading that gang of bullies.”
“School makes one do odd things,” Isabella agreed.
“Did you do odd things? At Miss Pringle’s Special Home?”
“Select Academy for Young Ladies,” she corrected coolly. “And yes. I was rather a tear.”
“I think that’s one reason I love you.” Mac looked thoughtful. “I’d like to win that wager and rub their faces in it, before I give them all the cut direct. Would you still be willing?”
“To pose for you?” She glanced behind them, but Miss Westlock had maintained a discreet distance, pretending to study a guide to the park. “I think I might.”
Isabella’s skin tingled with the thought. Baring herself while Mac studied her with his warm eyes made her feel wanted and beloved. Her pulse quickened when she thought about what had happened the last time she’d attempted to pose for the paintings.
Mac bent his head and kissed her lips in full view of the entire park. Aimee looked on with great interest. “Good,” Mac said into her skin. “I believe I feel inspired to paint today.”
What absolute madness had persuaded Mac that painting Isabella in erotic poses was good for his health, he had no idea. He’d even fancied that his hand would be steadier now that they’d bedded each other. He must have been insane.
Bellamy helped Mac turn one of Isabella’s large rooms at the top of her house into a studio. There was light here from tall windows, and warmth, because Bellamy had installed a small parlor stove and stoked it with coal. Mac had no intention of letting Isabella catch cold.
She came upstairs fully dressed that afternoon, not wanting the servants to know that Mac was painting her unclothed. Let them believe he was doing a portrait of her, she said. Mac tried to be clinical as he tied his scarf over his hair and mixed paints, but when Isabella told him she needed him to help her undress, his sangfroid abandoned him.
Mac’s palms sweated as he pulled off the bodice she’d unbuttoned and unlaced her corset. Steady hands, not bloody likely.
He used to undress her like this when they were married, kissing her as each piece of clothing fell away. Today, Mac let his lips graze her neck as the corset came off, then her shoulder as she unfastened her chemise.
Her skin smelled of roses. He pressed kisses to her glossy hair, inhaling her perfume. Isabella loosened her skirt, and Mac unbuckled the tapes that held her small bustle in place. He stepped against her after the cage came off, liking how her backside curved into his hip.
“I can’t paint you,” he said in her ear. “I want to love you.”
“Perhaps painting instead will be a good exercise in restraint?”
“To hell with that.”
Mac knew Isabella was as nervous as he was. Her skin flushed where he kissed it, and her bare breasts rose as he slid his hand around her waist.
“Come here,” he said.
The chaise he’d chosen for her pose was not as accommodating as the one they’d used up in Scotland, a choice he’d made on purpose. He’d thought it would help him avoid temptation. Now he cursed himself. He was hard and ready and could think of nothing else but being inside her. Lessons in restraint be damned.
He pulled up his kilt, sat on a straight-backed chair, and pulled her down on top of him. Her breasts crushed against his bare chest, and she cried out softly as he pushed inside her.
The coupling was quick and hot. Too quick. Mac released before he wanted to, and he clung to her, wanting more.
Isabella smiled down at him. “I am certain I look ravished now.”
She did. Mac hardened again at the sight of her—swollen-lipped, starry-eyed, face flushed. She had no idea how beautiful she truly was.
Mac made himself set up his easel while she arranged herself on the chaise. He forced himself to draw lines, to think of them as shapes and curves, not the legs, breasts, and hips of his delectable wife.
He was sweating profusely by the time he had a good sketch. “Damn stove,” he growled.
“I think it’s pleasant.” Isabella swung her foot where it dangled from the chaise, her arm stretching languidly over her head. She might be sunning herself in a garden, except that she was naked and indoors.
“Too bloody hot.” Mac wiped his forehead. “Shall we continue tomorrow?”
“That suits me. I’m rather stiff.” Isabella put aside the sheet, which didn’t cover her at all, and rose gracefully to her feet.
Mac was stiff himself, though not in the way she meant. He resolutely didn’t look at her. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could contain himself until she left the room. He thought this until she asked, “Help me dress?”
It was another hour before they finally made it out of the studio. Isabella had to scuttle down to her own room to change her clothes and redo her hair. This, Mac thought, as he watched her go, was going to kill him.
They settled into a routine—though settled was a bad word for it, in Mac’s opinion. Each morning, they’d eat breakfast and read their correspondence, then Isabella and Mac would climb to the nursery to say good morning to Aimee and sit with her while she had her breakfast. Afterward, Nanny Westlock would begin Aimee’s activities for the day, and Mac and Isabella would retire to the attic.
Mac worked on the paintings, and while he did so, he made sketches of Isabella’s face for a portrait he wanted to complete later. They’d make love two or three times each sitting, neither of them able to keep their hands off the other. Perhaps the forbidden nature of what they did charged the air. After all, they were hiding from the rest of the household and making naughty pictures together.
After each painting session, they parted ways to write letters or take care of their own errands, although whenever Isabella needed to leave the house, Mac went with her. They’d run their errands together, he cheerfully carrying Isabella’s parcels, she looking tolerantly bored as he settled accounts at the bank or spoke with Gordon about whatever business. No more mention was made of reversing their separation.
Mac didn’t mind dawdling outside the ribbon shops or the elegant trinket stores in the Burlington Arcade while Isabella shopped. He was a man smitten with his beautiful wife, and he noted that smirks from passing gentlemen changed to looks of envy whenever Isabella emerged from a shop and took Mac’s arm.
In the afternoon, they’d walk in the park or drive in the landau, depending on the weather or on what courtship activity Mac asked Isabella to do that day. They attended museum exhibits in bad weather, gardens and parks in good, or went sightseeing to the Tower or Madame Tussauds when the fit took them.
Payne had made himself scarce after accosting Isabella in the park, and Mac hoped against hope that the man had gone back to Sheffield and ceased his masquerade. Payne had never returned to the rooms he’d let, and Fellows had to admit that he’d reached a dead end.
Mac still wanted to kill him, but what he mostly wanted was the man out of their lives. Payne could fade into obscurity, and Mac could return to pursuing life with Isabella.
They’d ceased arguing about their separation, or about why Isabella had left him, or about the pain each of them had gone through. All of that was in the past. This was now, a new beginning. Aimee, of all people, had brought stability to their life, and Mac was going to enjoy it as much as he possibly could. He knew it would come crashing down, because everything in Mac’s life crashed down sooner or later. But for now, he could admit to being happy.
By mid-October, he had finished four paintings of Isabella.
Isabella surveyed them critically as Mac
varnished the last one. “They’re very good,” she said. “Vivid. I can believe this is a lady who enjoys her lover.”
The first painting was of Isabella lolling back on the chaise. She dangled one leg from it, her foot brushing the floor; the other foot was propped up with her knee bent, fully exposing the goodness between her legs. She’d lifted one arm over her head, her breasts standing up in firm peaks.
The second painting showed her leaning over the back of the chaise, hips stuck out, head bowed, ready for her lover. In the third, she sat upright on the chaise, her hands cupping her breasts, nipples poking through her fingers. The fourth was her spread-eagled on a bed. Her right wrist and left foot were tethered to the posts with slackly tied ribbons; ribbons crumpled on the bed in the other two corners as though torn off in exuberant play. Mac and Isabella’s coupling had been enthusiastic when he’d painted that one.
A jar of yellow roses appeared in each painting, either in full bloom, or drooping with petals falling. The famous Mackenzie yellow balanced the scarlet hues of the draperies and ribbons.
None of the paintings showed Isabella’s face. Mac had painted her either in shadow or obscured by a fall of dark hair. No one viewing these pictures would realize that Mac had painted his wife.
Except Mac.
Mac tossed his brush into a glass jar filled with oil of turpentine. “They aren’t bad.”
Isabella gave him a look of surprise. “What are you talking about? They’re gloriously beautiful. I thought you said you’d lost your ability to paint.”
“I had.” Mac wiped his brush on a rag, then stood the brush upright in a jar to dry.
“An inspiring subject, perhaps. A woman ripe for play.”
“An inspiring model.”
Isabella rolled her eyes. “Please don’t pretend I’m your muse, Mac. You painted brilliantly before you ever met me.”
Mac shrugged. “All I know is that when you left me, and I ceased to be a drunken sot, I couldn’t paint a stroke. Here you are, and here’s what I’ve done.”
Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage Page 21
