The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 26
Beth stood upright in the middle of the room, where he’d found her when he’d first stormed in. Now her dress gaped to her throat to expose the dull red mark he’d left on her skin. Her eyelids were heavy, her lips swollen with his kisses. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.
“Good night,” she whispered.
He made himself turn away and thrust open the doors, ignoring the footman and Katie, who suddenly scuttled away down the hall. He snatched hat, gloves, and scarf from hooks in the foyer and banged out of the house before he could give in to temptation and stay.
He would soon arrange it so he never had to leave. He’d marry her for a very basic reason: to have her with him every night, every day, every afternoon, and every time in between. He walked down the boulevard, something in him awakening and breaking free.
The night had turned foggy, which only enhanced Ian’s ability to hear the footsteps that turned and followed him as he moved off down the avenue.
Sleep was impossible. Beth paced her bedchamber far into the night, wrapped in a dressing gown. She found herself unable to return to her journal or to go to bed. The events were too fresh to write about, and anytime she tried, her trembling hand spilled ink all over her journal pages. She kept her dressing gown closed to her throat, though every so often, she’d stop in front of the mirror and ease it open. The red mark Ian had left stood out stark against her skin, almost a bruise, though not quite. Some of the game girls who’d come to the workhouse had had such marks, had laughed at Beth when she asked about them in concern. Beth pressed her hand against the love bite. She’d had no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing. Now she remembered the warm tingle in her veins when his breath touched her throat, the throbbing of her opening when his teeth closed on her neck. His hair had touched her chin, warm and soft and smelling of soap.
She heard Isabella come home and hoped her friend wouldn’t race in for a late-night chat. Beth had come to like Isabella, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide her agitation, her excitement. Isabella would crack Beth open like an egg.
Isabella was uncharacteristically quiet as she came down the hall and soon closed her door. Through the wall, Beth heard the low voice of her maid, readying Isabella for bed.
Then the maid departed and all was silence. Beth still couldn’t settle down. Her body was keyed up, angry at her for not completing what she’d started with Ian. She had feared he’d laugh at her suggestion that they have a liaison—she’d shared a man’s bed and knew of orgasm, but Ian Mackenzie was decadence itself. A completely different thing.
He’d given her his slow half smile, had met her gaze for the briefest instant, and said yes. He’d not been amused, bored, indifferent, embarrassed. The smile had set her body aflame.
As Beth turned to make another agitated pass through her room, she heard a muffled sound through the walls. She knew the sound, had heard it often from herself after Thomas had died. She’d lain alone in her plain bedroom in Mrs. Barrington’s house and wept.
Drawing her wrapper around her, Beth hurried next door to Isabella’s room. Tapping on the door brought no response, so she pushed her way in.
The gaslights had been turned low, and a weak yellow glow filtered through the room. Depressing. Beth turned up a light to reveal Isabella on a chaise longue, her head in her hands. Isabella’s long hair poured over her back like a scarlet curtain, and she wept in choked, heaving sobs. Beth slid next to her, her hand on Isabella’s satiny hair.
“Darling, what is it?”
Isabella jerked her head up. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. “Go away.”
“No.” Beth lifted a curl from Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve cried alone like this before. It’s a terrible thing.” Isabella regarded her with streaming green eyes before she flung her arms around Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, stroking her hair.
“Mac was at the ball tonight,” Isabella sobbed.
“Oh, dear.”
“The comtesse invited us both to see what would happen when we saw each other. The bitch.”
Beth agreed. “What did happen?”
Isabella raised her head. “He utterly ignored me. Pretended he didn’t see me, and I pretended I didn’t see him.” She made a sound of anguish. “But, oh, Beth, I love him so much.”
“I know, dearest.”
“I want to hate him. I wish I could hate him. I try so hard, but I can’t. I’m usually brave about it. But when I saw him tonight. . .”
Beth rocked her a little. “I know.”
“You can’t know. Your husband died, but it’s not the same. You know he loved you, and he’s always in your heart. But whenever I see Mac, the knife twists so hard. He loved me once, before it all went wrong.” The last word elongated into a sob. Beth held her close, resting her cheek against Isabella’s hair. Beth’s heart ached. She’d seen the strain in Isabella’s eyes, and she’d seen the hard weariness in Mac’s. It was none of her business, but she wished she could put it right.
Isabella raised her head again and wiped her eyes. “I want to show you something.”
“Later, Isabella. You should rest.”
“No. I want you to understand.”
Isabella rose, pushing back her hair, and padded across the room to her wardrobe. She opened it and extracted a small picture wrapped in cloth. Isabella carried it to her bed, laid it reverently on the mattress, and stripped off the cloths.
“Good night,” she whispered.
He made himself turn away and thrust open the doors, ignoring the footman and Katie, who suddenly scuttled away down the hall. He snatched hat, gloves, and scarf from hooks in the foyer and banged out of the house before he could give in to temptation and stay.
He would soon arrange it so he never had to leave. He’d marry her for a very basic reason: to have her with him every night, every day, every afternoon, and every time in between. He walked down the boulevard, something in him awakening and breaking free.
The night had turned foggy, which only enhanced Ian’s ability to hear the footsteps that turned and followed him as he moved off down the avenue.
Sleep was impossible. Beth paced her bedchamber far into the night, wrapped in a dressing gown. She found herself unable to return to her journal or to go to bed. The events were too fresh to write about, and anytime she tried, her trembling hand spilled ink all over her journal pages. She kept her dressing gown closed to her throat, though every so often, she’d stop in front of the mirror and ease it open. The red mark Ian had left stood out stark against her skin, almost a bruise, though not quite. Some of the game girls who’d come to the workhouse had had such marks, had laughed at Beth when she asked about them in concern. Beth pressed her hand against the love bite. She’d had no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing. Now she remembered the warm tingle in her veins when his breath touched her throat, the throbbing of her opening when his teeth closed on her neck. His hair had touched her chin, warm and soft and smelling of soap.
She heard Isabella come home and hoped her friend wouldn’t race in for a late-night chat. Beth had come to like Isabella, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to hide her agitation, her excitement. Isabella would crack Beth open like an egg.
Isabella was uncharacteristically quiet as she came down the hall and soon closed her door. Through the wall, Beth heard the low voice of her maid, readying Isabella for bed.
Then the maid departed and all was silence. Beth still couldn’t settle down. Her body was keyed up, angry at her for not completing what she’d started with Ian. She had feared he’d laugh at her suggestion that they have a liaison—she’d shared a man’s bed and knew of orgasm, but Ian Mackenzie was decadence itself. A completely different thing.
He’d given her his slow half smile, had met her gaze for the briefest instant, and said yes. He’d not been amused, bored, indifferent, embarrassed. The smile had set her body aflame.
As Beth turned to make another agitated pass through her room, she heard a muffled sound through the walls. She knew the sound, had heard it often from herself after Thomas had died. She’d lain alone in her plain bedroom in Mrs. Barrington’s house and wept.
Drawing her wrapper around her, Beth hurried next door to Isabella’s room. Tapping on the door brought no response, so she pushed her way in.
The gaslights had been turned low, and a weak yellow glow filtered through the room. Depressing. Beth turned up a light to reveal Isabella on a chaise longue, her head in her hands. Isabella’s long hair poured over her back like a scarlet curtain, and she wept in choked, heaving sobs. Beth slid next to her, her hand on Isabella’s satiny hair.
“Darling, what is it?”
Isabella jerked her head up. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. “Go away.”
“No.” Beth lifted a curl from Isabella’s cheek. “I’ve cried alone like this before. It’s a terrible thing.” Isabella regarded her with streaming green eyes before she flung her arms around Beth’s neck. Beth held her close, stroking her hair.
“Mac was at the ball tonight,” Isabella sobbed.
“Oh, dear.”
“The comtesse invited us both to see what would happen when we saw each other. The bitch.”
Beth agreed. “What did happen?”
Isabella raised her head. “He utterly ignored me. Pretended he didn’t see me, and I pretended I didn’t see him.” She made a sound of anguish. “But, oh, Beth, I love him so much.”
“I know, dearest.”
“I want to hate him. I wish I could hate him. I try so hard, but I can’t. I’m usually brave about it. But when I saw him tonight. . .”
Beth rocked her a little. “I know.”
“You can’t know. Your husband died, but it’s not the same. You know he loved you, and he’s always in your heart. But whenever I see Mac, the knife twists so hard. He loved me once, before it all went wrong.” The last word elongated into a sob. Beth held her close, resting her cheek against Isabella’s hair. Beth’s heart ached. She’d seen the strain in Isabella’s eyes, and she’d seen the hard weariness in Mac’s. It was none of her business, but she wished she could put it right.
Isabella raised her head again and wiped her eyes. “I want to show you something.”
“Later, Isabella. You should rest.”
“No. I want you to understand.”
Isabella rose, pushing back her hair, and padded across the room to her wardrobe. She opened it and extracted a small picture wrapped in cloth. Isabella carried it to her bed, laid it reverently on the mattress, and stripped off the cloths.
