Jennifer Ashley - The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Beth jumped and looked up past a watered silk waistcoat and a carelessly tied cravat to harsh eyes very much like Ian’s. The difference was that Mac’s gaze fully met hers instead of shifting away like an elusive sunbeam.

“You’re holding the pencil wrong.” Lord Mac put a large gloved hand over hers and turned her wrist upward.

 “That feels awkward.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Mac sat himself down next to her, taking up every spare inch of the bench. “Let me show you.”

He guided her hand over the paper, shading the line she’d already drawn until it looked like a curve of the tree in front of her.

“Amazing,” she said. “I’ve never taken drawing lessons, you see.”

“Then what are you doing out here with an easel?”

“I thought I’d give it a try.”

Mac arched his brows, but he kept his hand on hers and helped her draw another line.

He was flirting with her, she realized. She was alone with only a female companion, she’d been blatantly staring at him, and this was Paris. He must have thought she wanted a liaison.  The last thing she needed was to be propositioned by yet another Mackenzie. Perhaps the newspapers would print reports of Ian and Mac fighting over her.  But the hand cupping hers didn’t give her the same frisson of warmth that Ian’s had. She dreamed about Ian’s slow, sensual lips on hers every night, and then she’d jump awake, sweating and tangled in the sheets, her body aching.  She glanced sideways at Mac. “I met your brother Lord Ian at Covent Garden last week.”

Mac’s gaze snapped to her. His eyes were not quite so golden as Ian’s, more copper-colored with flecks of brown.  “You met Ian?”

“Yes, he did me a kindness. I met Lord Cameron as well, but only briefly.”

Mac’s eyes narrowed. “Ian did you a kindness?”

“He saved me from making a grave mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“Nothing I wish to discuss on top of Montmartre.”

 “Why not? Who the devil are you?”

Katie leaned around from Beth’s other side. “Well, that’s a bloody cheek.”

“Hush, Katie. My name is Mrs. Ackerley.” Mac scowled. “I’ve never heard of you. How did you manage to scrape an acquaintance with my brother?” Katie glared at Mac with Irish frankness. “She’s a bloody heiress, that’s who she is. And a kind lady what doesn’t have to take rudeness from the likes of forward gentlemen in a French park.”

“Katie,” Beth admonished her quietly. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

Mac’s sharp gaze flicked to Katie, then back to Beth. “Are you certain it was Ian?”

“He was introduced to me as Lord Ian Mackenzie,” Beth said. “I suppose he could have been an impostor in an excellent disguise, but that never occurred to me.” Mac didn’t look impressed with her humor. “He never would look directly at me.”

Mac released her hand, tension draining. “That was my brother.”

“Didn’t she just say so?” Katie demanded.  Mac looked away, studying the passersby and the would be artists struggling to make sense of what they saw. When he switched his gaze back to Beth, she was startled to see moisture on his lashes.

“Put your terrier on a lead, Mrs. Ackerley. You say you don’t draw. Would you like me to give you lessons?” “As a reward for my rudeness?”

“It would entertain me.”

She stared in surprise. “People demand your paintings left and right. Why would you give a novice like me drawing lessons?”

“For the novelty of it. Paris bores me.”

 “I find it quite exciting. If it bores you, why are you here?”

Mac shrugged, the gesture so much like Ian’s. “When one is an artist, one comes to Paris.”

“One does, does one?”

A muscle moved in his jaw. “I find people of true talent here and try to give them a leg up.”

“I have no talent at all.”

“Even so.”

“It will also give you a chance to discover why Lord Ian would bother with someone like me,” she suggested.  A smile spread over Mac’s face, one so dazzling Beth imagined most women who saw it fell at his feet. “Would I do such a thing, Mrs. Ackerley?”

“I do believe you would, my lord. Very well, then. I accept.” Mac stood up and retrieved his hat from where he’d set it on the ground. “Be here tomorrow at two o’clock, if it’s not raining.” He tipped the hat to Beth and made a slight bow. “Good day, Mrs. Ackerley. And terrier.” He placed the hat on his head and swung away, his coat moving with his stride. Every female head turned to watch him as he passed.

Katie fanned herself with Beth’s sketchbook. “He’s a good-looking man, no doubt. Even if he is rude.” “I admit he is interesting,” Beth said.

Why the man wanted to find out all about her, she didn’t know, but she intended to use him to learn all about Lord Ian.

You are entirely too curious, Beth my girl, Mrs. Barrington had said to her often. A very unattractive trait in a young lady. Beth agreed with her. She’d vowed to have nothing more to do with the Mackenzie family, and here she was accepting an appointment with Lord Mac in hopes of gaining more knowledge about his younger brother. She smiled to herself, knowing she looked forward to the next afternoon with too much interest.

But when Beth turned up at Montmartre again on the morrow, the sun sailed brightly in the sky, the clocks struck two, and Lord Mac was nowhere to be seen.

“See what I mean?” Katie said after a quarter of an hour had gone by. “Rude.”

Beth fought down her disappointment. She wanted to wholeheartedly agree with Katie and say a few choice phrases she’d learned in the workhouse, but she restrained herself.  “We can hardly expect him to remember such a thing. Giving me lessons must be a trivial matter to him.” Katie snorted. “You’re a lady of consequence now. He has no call to treat us like this.”

Beth forced a laugh. “If Mrs. Barrington had left me only ten shillings, you wouldn’t consider me a lady of consequence.” Katie waved that aside. “Anyway, me father wasn’t as rude as this lordship, and he were drunk as a lord all the time.” Beth, familiar with drunken fathers, didn’t answer. As she gazed across the square again, she noticed the lovely young woman she and Katie had speculated about yesterday staring at them.

The lady looked at her for a long while from under her parasol, her gaze pensive. Beth returned the look with lifted brows.

The lady gave a determined nod and started for them.

“May I give you a bit of advice, my dear?” she asked when she reached Beth. Her voice was English and very well-bred, no trace of the Continent about her. She had a pale, pointed face, finely curled red hair under a tip-tilted hat, and wide green eyes. Again, Beth was aware of her arresting quality, the indefinable something that drew all eyes to her.  The lady went on. “If you are waiting for his lordship Mac Mackenzie, I must tell you that he is extremely unreliable. He might be lying in a meadow studying the way a horse gallops, or he might have climbed to the top of a church tower to paint the view. I imagine he’s forgotten all about his assignation with you, but that is Mac all over.”

“Absentminded, is he?” Beth asked.

“Not so much absentminded as bloody-minded. Mac does as he pleases, and I thought it only fair that you know right away.”

The lady’s diamond earrings shimmered as she trembled, and she grasped her parasol so tightly Beth feared the delicate handle would break.

“Are you his model?” Beth didn’t really think so, but this was Paris. Even the most respectable Englishwomen were known to throw propriety to the wind once they set foot on its avenues.

The lady glanced around and sat down next to Beth in the very spot Lord Mac had occupied yesterday. “No, my dear, I am not his model. I am very unfortunately his wife.” Now this was much more interesting. Lord Mac and Lady Isabella were separated, estranged, and their very public breakup had been a ninety-days scandal. Mrs. Barrington had savored every drop of the newspaper reports with malicious glee.

That had been three years ago. Yet Lady Isabella sat in agitated anger as she confronted a woman she thought had made a tryst with her husband.

“You misunderstand,” Beth said. “His lordship offered to give me a drawing lesson because he saw how ignorantly I did it. But he became interested in me only when I told him I was a friend of Lord Ian’s.”

Isabella looked at her sharply. “Ian?”

Everyone seemed surprised Beth had even spoken to him. “I met him at the opera.”

“Did you?”

“He was very kind to me.”

Her brows arched. “Ian was? You do know, my dear, that he is here.”

Beth quickly scanned the green but saw no tall man with dark red hair and unusual eyes. “Where?” “I mean here in Paris. He arrived this morning, which is likely why Mac didn’t come. Or possibly why. One never knows with Mac.” Isabella peered at Beth with new interest.  “I mean no offense, my dear, but I can’t place you. I’m sure Ian has never spoken of you.”

“My name is Mrs. Ackerley, but that will mean nothing to you.”

“She’s an heiress,” Katie broke in. “Mrs. Barrington of Belgrave Square left her one hundred thousand guineas and an enormous house.”

Isabella smiled, radiating beauty. “Oh, you’re that Mrs.  Ackerley. How delightful.” Isabella ran a critical eye over Beth. “You’ve come to Paris on your own? Oh, darling, that will never do. You must let me take you under my wing. Granted, my set is a bit out of the ordinary, but I’m sure they will be enchanted with you.”

“You’re very kind, but—“

“Now, don’t be shy, Mrs. Ackerley. You must let me help you. You come home with me now, and we shall chat and know all about each other.”

Beth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again.  The Mackenzies had stirred her curiosity, and what better way to learn about Lord Ian than from his own sister-in-law?  “Certainly,” she amended. “I shall be delighted.”

 “So, Ian, who is this Mrs. Ackerley?”

Mac leaned across the table and spoke over the strains of the orchestra scraping out a raucous tune. On the stage above Ian and Mac, two women in corsets and petticoats showed their knickers and patted each other’s bottoms to the lively music.

Ian drew a long drag of his cigar and followed it with a sip of brandy, enjoying the acrid bite of smoke and the smoothness of the liquor. Mac had a brandy as well, but he only pretended to drink it. Since the day Isabella had left him, Mac hadn’t touched a drop of spirits.

“Widow of an East End parish vicar,” Ian answered.  Mac stared at him, his copper-colored eyes still. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

Mac watched him a moment longer before he shook his head and took a pull of his cigar. “She certainly seems interested in you. I’m giving her drawing lessons—or I will be once I finish with this damned painting. My model finally turned up out of the blue this morning, gushing about some artist she’s been holed up with. I’d use someone eke, but Cybele is perfect.”

Ian didn’t answer. He could easily contrive to be in the studio when Bern’s drawing lessons commenced. He would sit next to her and breathe her scent, watch the pulse flutter in her throat and perspiration dampen her skin.  “I asked her to marry me,” he said.

Mac choked on cigar smoke. He pulled the cheroot out of his mouth. “Damn it, Ian.”

“She refused.”

“Good Lord.” Mac blinked. “Hart would have apoplexy.” Ian thought of Beth’s quick smile and bright way of speaking. Her voice was like music. “Hart will like her.”

Mac gave him a dark look. “You recall what happened when I married without Hart’s royal blessing? He’d thrash you within an inch of your life.”

Ian took another sip of brandy. “Why should he care if I marry?”

“How can you ask that? Thank God he’s in Italy.” Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I am surprised he didn’t take you with him.” “He didn’t need me.”

Hart often took Ian on his expeditions to Rome or Spain, because Ian was not only a genius at languages, but he could remember every single word of every single conversation that went on during negotiations. If there were any dispute, Ian could recall the transaction word for word.  “That means he’s gone to see a woman,” Mac predicted.  “Or on some political venture he doesn’t want the rest of us to know about.”

“Possibly.” Ian never pried too closely into Hart’s affairs, knowing he might not be comfortable with what he found.  Ian’s thoughts strayed to Lily lying dead in her sitting room, her scissors through her heart. Curry had remained in London at Ian’s request, and Ian expected his report any moment.