The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 55
Hart stared at Ian, then at Beth. Beth tried to keep her chin up, but her heart raced, and the urge to run away from that predatory stare was strong.
Strange, when Ian had informed Beth they were marrying, she’d argued with him. Now that Hart looked grimly determined to part them, she knew she’d do anything to stay wedded.
“I am Ian’s wife because I choose to be,” she said. “Whether we live in a grand mansion or a tiny boardinghouse, it makes no difference.”
“Or a vicarage?” Hart countered, scowling.
“A vicarage in the slums served me very well, Your Grace.”
“It had rats in it,” Ian said.
Beth looked at him in surprise. Curry’s notes must have been thorough.
“Indeed, there was a family of them,” she said. “Nebuchadnezzar and his wife, and their three children, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”
Both men merely stared at her, the double golden gaze unnerving even if Ian’s didn’t touch her fully. “It was our little joke, you see,” she stammered. “Made having rats a bit more bearable if they had names.” “There are no rats here,” Ian said. “You never have to worry about rate again.”
“Not the four-legged kind, anyway,” Beth went on. “Inspector Fellows reminds me a bit of Meshach—his eyes would glow and his nose would twitch when he set his sights on a particularly tasty bit of cheese.”
Ian frowned, and Hart clearly didn’t know what to make of her.
“I imagine you have snakes, though,” she said, her tongue tripping. “This is the countryside, after all. And field mice and other creatures. I must confess I’m not used to the country. My mother was country born, but I lived in London from an early age and strayed outside the metropolis only when Mrs. Barrington saw fit to go to Brighton and pretend she liked the sea.”
Ian half closed his eyes, taking on the expression he did when he’d stopped hearing her. She knew he wasn’t listening, but a week from now he’d be able to come back to a particular phrase and drill her on it.
She closed her mouth with effort. Hart looked at her as though he’d fetch a lunacy commission up here on the morrow to grill her.
Ian came out of his trance and reached for her. “Tomorrow I will show you everything about Kilmorgan. Tonight we sleep in our chamber.”
“Have we got a chamber?”
“Curry fixed it up while we were at supper.”
“The ten-times-resourceful Curry. Whatever would we do without him?”
Hart looked at Beth sharply, as though she’d said something significant. Ian slid his arm around her waist and turned her around to lead her to the house. His warmth cut the coolness of the evening and blocked her from the wind.
A safe harbor. In the turmoil of her life, she’d known so few of them. Now Ian drew her close, protecting her, but Beth felt the edge of Hart’s gaze on her back all the way to the house.
The house swallowed Beth. Ian led her up the vast, ornate staircase, deeper and deeper into its maw.
There were so many pictures on the walls of the staircase hall that they obscured the wallpaper beneath them. Beth glimpsed the signatures on them as Ian rushed her up the stairs—Stubbs, Ramsay, Reynolds. A few paintings of horses and dogs were by Mac Mackenzie. Dominating the first landing was a portrait of the current duke, Hart, his eyes as golden and formidable in the picture as in person.
On the second landing hung the portrait of an older man who glared as haughtily as Hart did. He fiercely clutched a fold of Mackenzie plaid and sported a full beard, mustache, and side-whiskers.
Beth had noted him on their rush downstairs to dinner, but now she stopped. “Who is that?”
Ian didn’t even glance at the painting. “Our father.”
“Oh. He is quite . . . hairy.”
“Which is why we all like to be clean shaven.” Beth frowned at the man who’d caused Ian so much pain. “If he was so awful, why does he have pride of place? Hide him in the attic and be done with him.”
“It’s tradition. The current duke at the first landing, the previous duke at the second. Grandfather is up there.” He pointed to the top of the next flight. “Great-grandfather after that, and so on. Hart won’t break the rules.”
“So every time you go upstairs, Dukes of Kilmorgan glower at you at every turn.”
Ian led her on up toward Grandfather Mackenzie. “It is one reason we all have our own houses. At Kilmorgan, I have a suite of ten rooms, but we’ll want more privacy.”
“A suite of ten?” Beth asked faintly. “Is that all?” “Each of us has a wing of the house. If we invite guests we put them in our wing and take care of them.” “Do you often have guests?”
“No.” Ian led Beth back to the dressing room in which she’d changed for dinner. She’d thought the little room grand, but Ian now showed her that on its other side lay a bedroom the size of Mrs. Barrington’s entire downstairs. “You are my first.”
Beth gazed at the high ceiling, the enormous bed, the three windows with deep window seats. “If a person must marry you to get an invitation, I’m not surprised you haven’t had more guests.”
Ian’s golden gaze swept over her and back to the bed.
“Are you joking again?”
“Yes. Don’t mind me.”
“I never mind you.”
Beth’s heart thumped. “Is this your bedchamber?”
Strange, when Ian had informed Beth they were marrying, she’d argued with him. Now that Hart looked grimly determined to part them, she knew she’d do anything to stay wedded.
“I am Ian’s wife because I choose to be,” she said. “Whether we live in a grand mansion or a tiny boardinghouse, it makes no difference.”
“Or a vicarage?” Hart countered, scowling.
“A vicarage in the slums served me very well, Your Grace.”
“It had rats in it,” Ian said.
Beth looked at him in surprise. Curry’s notes must have been thorough.
“Indeed, there was a family of them,” she said. “Nebuchadnezzar and his wife, and their three children, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”
Both men merely stared at her, the double golden gaze unnerving even if Ian’s didn’t touch her fully. “It was our little joke, you see,” she stammered. “Made having rats a bit more bearable if they had names.” “There are no rats here,” Ian said. “You never have to worry about rate again.”
“Not the four-legged kind, anyway,” Beth went on. “Inspector Fellows reminds me a bit of Meshach—his eyes would glow and his nose would twitch when he set his sights on a particularly tasty bit of cheese.”
Ian frowned, and Hart clearly didn’t know what to make of her.
“I imagine you have snakes, though,” she said, her tongue tripping. “This is the countryside, after all. And field mice and other creatures. I must confess I’m not used to the country. My mother was country born, but I lived in London from an early age and strayed outside the metropolis only when Mrs. Barrington saw fit to go to Brighton and pretend she liked the sea.”
Ian half closed his eyes, taking on the expression he did when he’d stopped hearing her. She knew he wasn’t listening, but a week from now he’d be able to come back to a particular phrase and drill her on it.
She closed her mouth with effort. Hart looked at her as though he’d fetch a lunacy commission up here on the morrow to grill her.
Ian came out of his trance and reached for her. “Tomorrow I will show you everything about Kilmorgan. Tonight we sleep in our chamber.”
“Have we got a chamber?”
“Curry fixed it up while we were at supper.”
“The ten-times-resourceful Curry. Whatever would we do without him?”
Hart looked at Beth sharply, as though she’d said something significant. Ian slid his arm around her waist and turned her around to lead her to the house. His warmth cut the coolness of the evening and blocked her from the wind.
A safe harbor. In the turmoil of her life, she’d known so few of them. Now Ian drew her close, protecting her, but Beth felt the edge of Hart’s gaze on her back all the way to the house.
The house swallowed Beth. Ian led her up the vast, ornate staircase, deeper and deeper into its maw.
There were so many pictures on the walls of the staircase hall that they obscured the wallpaper beneath them. Beth glimpsed the signatures on them as Ian rushed her up the stairs—Stubbs, Ramsay, Reynolds. A few paintings of horses and dogs were by Mac Mackenzie. Dominating the first landing was a portrait of the current duke, Hart, his eyes as golden and formidable in the picture as in person.
On the second landing hung the portrait of an older man who glared as haughtily as Hart did. He fiercely clutched a fold of Mackenzie plaid and sported a full beard, mustache, and side-whiskers.
Beth had noted him on their rush downstairs to dinner, but now she stopped. “Who is that?”
Ian didn’t even glance at the painting. “Our father.”
“Oh. He is quite . . . hairy.”
“Which is why we all like to be clean shaven.” Beth frowned at the man who’d caused Ian so much pain. “If he was so awful, why does he have pride of place? Hide him in the attic and be done with him.”
“It’s tradition. The current duke at the first landing, the previous duke at the second. Grandfather is up there.” He pointed to the top of the next flight. “Great-grandfather after that, and so on. Hart won’t break the rules.”
“So every time you go upstairs, Dukes of Kilmorgan glower at you at every turn.”
Ian led her on up toward Grandfather Mackenzie. “It is one reason we all have our own houses. At Kilmorgan, I have a suite of ten rooms, but we’ll want more privacy.”
“A suite of ten?” Beth asked faintly. “Is that all?” “Each of us has a wing of the house. If we invite guests we put them in our wing and take care of them.” “Do you often have guests?”
“No.” Ian led Beth back to the dressing room in which she’d changed for dinner. She’d thought the little room grand, but Ian now showed her that on its other side lay a bedroom the size of Mrs. Barrington’s entire downstairs. “You are my first.”
Beth gazed at the high ceiling, the enormous bed, the three windows with deep window seats. “If a person must marry you to get an invitation, I’m not surprised you haven’t had more guests.”
Ian’s golden gaze swept over her and back to the bed.
“Are you joking again?”
“Yes. Don’t mind me.”
“I never mind you.”
Beth’s heart thumped. “Is this your bedchamber?”
