The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 7
Ian reached for the curl again as though he couldn’t stop himself. “Because I want to bed you.”
Beth knew in that instant that she was not a true lady, and never would be. A true lady would have fallen out of her chair in a gentle swoon or screamed down the opera house. Instead, Beth leaned into Ian’s touch, liking it. “Do you?” His hand loosened more curls, rendering the maid’s work useless. “You were a vicar’s wife, respectable, the sort to be married. Otherwise, I would offer a liaison.” Beth resisted rubbing her face against his glove. “Have I got this right? You want me to come to your bed, but because I was once a respectable married lady, you must marry me in order to get me there?”
“Yes.”
She gave a half-hysterical laugh. “My dear Lord Ian, don’t you think that a bit extreme? Once you’d had me in your bed, you’d still be married to me.”
“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.”
Beth knew in that instant that she was not a true lady, and never would be. A true lady would have fallen out of her chair in a gentle swoon or screamed down the opera house. Instead, Beth leaned into Ian’s touch, liking it. “Do you?” His hand loosened more curls, rendering the maid’s work useless. “You were a vicar’s wife, respectable, the sort to be married. Otherwise, I would offer a liaison.” Beth resisted rubbing her face against his glove. “Have I got this right? You want me to come to your bed, but because I was once a respectable married lady, you must marry me in order to get me there?”
“Yes.”
She gave a half-hysterical laugh. “My dear Lord Ian, don’t you think that a bit extreme? Once you’d had me in your bed, you’d still be married to me.”
“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.”
