The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 53
He’d wanted to linger in the dressing room with her and help her dress for dinner, but Curry had arrived and insisted he bathe and shave Ian and get him sorted. Ian’s Mackenzie kilt had been draped over Curry’s arm. When Ian and Beth retired tonight, Ian would dismiss the overly helpful staff and undress her himself. He was determined to fall asleep in her arms and wake up in them as well.
“Did you hear me?” Hart said sharply.
Ian dissected the sole on his plate and ran through the words Hart had poured out while Ian had focused on Beth. “The treaty you had drafted in Rome. You want me to read it and commit it to memory. I’ll do that after dinner.” “Are many treaties with foreign nations stored in Ian’s head?” Beth asked. Her voice was innocent, but her blue eyes danced.
Hart gave her a hard look. “Treaties have a way of reading a bit differently once committees get hold of them. But Ian will remember every word of the original.” Beth winked at Ian. “I’m certain it makes for fascinating teatime conversation.”
Ian couldn’t resist a grin. He’d not seen Hart this annoyed in a long time.
Hart bathed Ian in a cold stare, but Beth blithely ignored him. “Did your bowls survive the journey intact?” she asked Ian.
Ian’s pulse quickened as he remembered the cool brush of porcelain against his fingers, the satisfaction of Mather’s bewildered face. “I unpacked them and put them in their places. They fit well.”
Hart interrupted. “You bought more bowls?” Beth nodded after Ian had remained silent a moment, “They are both quite lovely. One is a white bowl with a blue flush and interlinked flowers. The other is red flowers and thinner porcelain. The wash and fineness of the porcelain indicate it might be Imperial Ware. Have I got that right?”
“Exactly right,” Ian said.
“I found a book in Paris,” she said with a cheeky smile.
Ian looked at her and forgot everything else in the room. He was aware of Hart’s stare but only peripherally, as though an insect buzzed on the edges of his hearing.
How did Beth always know what words he needed and precisely when to say them? Even Curry didn’t anticipate him like that.
She was taking everything in, the lavish room, the long table, the gleaming silver serving dishes. The paintings of Mackenzie men, Mackenzie lands, and Mackenzie dogs, and the white-gloved footmen hovering to wait on them. “I was surprised you had no piper,” she said to Hart. “I imagined we’d be escorted to dinner to the drone of bagpipes.” Hart gave Beth a deprecating look. “We don’t have the pipes inside. Too loud.”
“Father used to,” Ian said. “Gave me raging headaches.” “Hence the ban,” Hart returned. “We’re not a storybook Scottish family with everyone wearing claymores and longing for the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie. The queen may build a castle at Balmoral and put on plaid, but that doesn’t make her Scottish.”
“What does make one Scottish?”
“The heart,” the Duke of Kilmorgan said. “Being born to a Scottish clan and remaining part of the clan inside yourself.”
“Having a taste for porridge doesn’t hurt,” Ian said. He’d spoken seriously, wanting only to stop Hart from going on and on about what it meant to be Scottish, but he liked the reward of Beth’s beautiful smile. Though Hart could speak English with no trace of a Scots accent, had been educated at Cambridge, and sat in the English House of Lords, he had firm ideas about Scotland and what he wanted to accomplish for his country. He could expound on it for hours.
Hart shot Ian a formidable frown and fixed his attention onto his food. Beth gave Ian another smile, which sent Ian’s imagination dancing.
They continued the meal in silence, the only sound the click of silver on porcelain. Beth was beautiful in the candlelight, her diamonds sparkling as much as her eyes.
When they finally rose, Hart rumbled something about his damned treaty.
“It’s all right,” Beth said quickly. “I’d love a turn in the garden before bed. I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” Ian walked her to the terrace door. The dogs sprang to their feet, tails wagging. Ian would prefer to have Beth join him in the billiards room, his imagination ripe with things he could teach her about billiards. But if she wanted a walk, he wouldn’t stop her. The garden could be just as entertaining. Beth pressed Ian’s arm before he could form the words, and disappeared out the back door. The five dogs milled back and forth in front of her as she strolled down the walk. Ian took the treaty from Hart and stalked with it into the billiards room, hoping the damn thing was short.
“You’re a very clever young woman,”
Beth turned at Hart’s voice. She’d walked, escorted by the dogs, down a well-tended path to a fountain that sprinkled merrily into a marble bowl. Plenty of light lingered in the sky, though it was already half past nine—Beth had never been this far north before, and she understood the sun barely dipped below the horizon here during the summer months. She’d spent some rime figuring out which dog was which. Ruby and Ben were the hounds, Achilles was the black setter with one white foot, McNab was the long-haired spaniel, Fergus the tiny terrier.
Hart stopped by the fountain, the end of his cigar glowing orange as he took in smoke. The dogs swarmed to him, tails moving furiously. When he didn’t respond, they moved off to explore the garden.
“I don’t think myself especially clever.” Beth had thought the night warm, but now she wished she’d brought a wrap. “And I’m afraid I never went to finishing school.” “Cease with the flippancy. You obviously bamboozled Mac and Isabella, but I’m not so gullible.”
“Did you hear me?” Hart said sharply.
Ian dissected the sole on his plate and ran through the words Hart had poured out while Ian had focused on Beth. “The treaty you had drafted in Rome. You want me to read it and commit it to memory. I’ll do that after dinner.” “Are many treaties with foreign nations stored in Ian’s head?” Beth asked. Her voice was innocent, but her blue eyes danced.
Hart gave her a hard look. “Treaties have a way of reading a bit differently once committees get hold of them. But Ian will remember every word of the original.” Beth winked at Ian. “I’m certain it makes for fascinating teatime conversation.”
Ian couldn’t resist a grin. He’d not seen Hart this annoyed in a long time.
Hart bathed Ian in a cold stare, but Beth blithely ignored him. “Did your bowls survive the journey intact?” she asked Ian.
Ian’s pulse quickened as he remembered the cool brush of porcelain against his fingers, the satisfaction of Mather’s bewildered face. “I unpacked them and put them in their places. They fit well.”
Hart interrupted. “You bought more bowls?” Beth nodded after Ian had remained silent a moment, “They are both quite lovely. One is a white bowl with a blue flush and interlinked flowers. The other is red flowers and thinner porcelain. The wash and fineness of the porcelain indicate it might be Imperial Ware. Have I got that right?”
“Exactly right,” Ian said.
“I found a book in Paris,” she said with a cheeky smile.
Ian looked at her and forgot everything else in the room. He was aware of Hart’s stare but only peripherally, as though an insect buzzed on the edges of his hearing.
How did Beth always know what words he needed and precisely when to say them? Even Curry didn’t anticipate him like that.
She was taking everything in, the lavish room, the long table, the gleaming silver serving dishes. The paintings of Mackenzie men, Mackenzie lands, and Mackenzie dogs, and the white-gloved footmen hovering to wait on them. “I was surprised you had no piper,” she said to Hart. “I imagined we’d be escorted to dinner to the drone of bagpipes.” Hart gave Beth a deprecating look. “We don’t have the pipes inside. Too loud.”
“Father used to,” Ian said. “Gave me raging headaches.” “Hence the ban,” Hart returned. “We’re not a storybook Scottish family with everyone wearing claymores and longing for the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie. The queen may build a castle at Balmoral and put on plaid, but that doesn’t make her Scottish.”
“What does make one Scottish?”
“The heart,” the Duke of Kilmorgan said. “Being born to a Scottish clan and remaining part of the clan inside yourself.”
“Having a taste for porridge doesn’t hurt,” Ian said. He’d spoken seriously, wanting only to stop Hart from going on and on about what it meant to be Scottish, but he liked the reward of Beth’s beautiful smile. Though Hart could speak English with no trace of a Scots accent, had been educated at Cambridge, and sat in the English House of Lords, he had firm ideas about Scotland and what he wanted to accomplish for his country. He could expound on it for hours.
Hart shot Ian a formidable frown and fixed his attention onto his food. Beth gave Ian another smile, which sent Ian’s imagination dancing.
They continued the meal in silence, the only sound the click of silver on porcelain. Beth was beautiful in the candlelight, her diamonds sparkling as much as her eyes.
When they finally rose, Hart rumbled something about his damned treaty.
“It’s all right,” Beth said quickly. “I’d love a turn in the garden before bed. I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” Ian walked her to the terrace door. The dogs sprang to their feet, tails wagging. Ian would prefer to have Beth join him in the billiards room, his imagination ripe with things he could teach her about billiards. But if she wanted a walk, he wouldn’t stop her. The garden could be just as entertaining. Beth pressed Ian’s arm before he could form the words, and disappeared out the back door. The five dogs milled back and forth in front of her as she strolled down the walk. Ian took the treaty from Hart and stalked with it into the billiards room, hoping the damn thing was short.
“You’re a very clever young woman,”
Beth turned at Hart’s voice. She’d walked, escorted by the dogs, down a well-tended path to a fountain that sprinkled merrily into a marble bowl. Plenty of light lingered in the sky, though it was already half past nine—Beth had never been this far north before, and she understood the sun barely dipped below the horizon here during the summer months. She’d spent some rime figuring out which dog was which. Ruby and Ben were the hounds, Achilles was the black setter with one white foot, McNab was the long-haired spaniel, Fergus the tiny terrier.
Hart stopped by the fountain, the end of his cigar glowing orange as he took in smoke. The dogs swarmed to him, tails moving furiously. When he didn’t respond, they moved off to explore the garden.
“I don’t think myself especially clever.” Beth had thought the night warm, but now she wished she’d brought a wrap. “And I’m afraid I never went to finishing school.” “Cease with the flippancy. You obviously bamboozled Mac and Isabella, but I’m not so gullible.”
