Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage (20 page)

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t laugh and look so beautiful.”

Isabella laughed still more.

“Hell.”

Mac stood and lifted her into his arms. “This chaise is a damned bloody nuisance.”

Isabella noticed he didn’t ask her to go downstairs with him to his bed or hers—she knew that by the time they rose and adjusted their clothing and descended the stairs, they might come to their senses.

Isabella didn’t want to come to her senses. Not yet.

Mac laid himself on the backless chaise and pulled Isabella onto his lap. Holding her in his strong arms, Mac brushed warm kisses to her throat, moving his skilled mouth between her breasts. His hair tickled her chin, and she pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

He held her securely across his thighs, the blunt hardness of his erection pressing her bottom. As he kissed her, Mac slid his fingers between her legs and smiled broadly when his thumb sank into wetness.

“You’re ready, Isabella, never doubt that.”

“I know.”

“I might die on the spot if I don’t have you,” he said.

Isabella turned in his arms, moving to straddle him, her legs spreading wide over the chaise. “I don’t know if I can,” she said worriedly. “It’s been a long time.”

“It is not something you forget, love.”

Her sudden panic dismayed her. She’d thought she’d moved beyond this. But Mac hadn’t touched her since she’d pushed him away after her miscarriage nearly four years ago now. He’d never insisted, never cajoled, but as the months had drifted by, she’d watched the anger build in his eyes. Isabella had longed to go to him, to comfort both of them, but her fear had not let her.

Now Mac held her gaze. “If you want to stop . . .”

Those were the most generous words he’d ever given her. Isabella knew Mac could barely contain himself, but even now, he was willing to not press her, to walk away if she wanted it.

She lay her hands against his cheeks and gave him a long kiss. “I don’t wish to stop,” she said. “I want this.”

Mac’s eyes darkened, black spreading through copper. He kissed her as he pressed fingers to her opening again, and then she felt the hard bluntness of his tip.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She nodded, still nervous. Mac kissed her as he slowly eased her onto him, holding her hips as he entered her. Her eyes widened, the feeling of him inside her at once strange and wonderfully familiar.

“You’re so tight,” Mac whispered. “Why are you so damn tight?”

“Because I’ve been living like a nun.”

“I’ve been living like a monk. I think we just broke all our vows.”

Isabella laughed, then drew in a sharp breath as she settled onto his full length.

It did not hurt at all. Isabella smiled in joy and relief. He was a tight fit, but she was so slippery he slid in without strain. It was beautiful.

So long since they’d joined, and yet Isabella remembered the exact way he felt inside her, as she had from the very first night. He’d imprinted himself on her that long-ago night, and her body had never forgotten.

Mac raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it from the knot until it flowed loose down her back. “I belong here,” he murmured.

Mac stroked her with gentle hands, and she began to rock on him, the feeling of him inside her blotting out all other thought.

“I love you,” Isabella heard herself say.

“I love
you
, my Isabella. I’ve never stopped loving you, not for one single second.”

The room quieted but for the sound of their breathing as they moved against each other, noises of pleasure, the chaise creaking a little.

Mac was right; he belonged inside her. They fit together so well, each having learned the other by heart. Memories of so many nights with him rose in her mind—Mac’s firm body pushing her into the mattress, his hands all over her, his hot mouth arousing her again and again. Loving with Mac could be turbulent and exciting, and then it could be slow and hot, as it was this sunny morning in his studio.

Her skin was warm all over, from the stove and Mac’s hands. He studied her with half-closed eyes, his face relaxed in pleasure, a sinful smile on his mouth.

“Scandalous debutante,” he said. “With her legs around a wicked lord.”

“A loving lord.”

“Never doubt that,” he said. “But still a wicked lord, very wicked. Wanton minx.”

“I was seduced.”

“A likely excuse. You were seduced by
this
?” He pushed into her a little harder. Isabella gasped with pleasure. “What about this?” Another thrust, this one harder, as he grasped her hips and expertly drove up into her.

“Yes. Mac,
yes
.”

He broke off, his face twisting. “Ah, damn it, not
yet
.”

He started shuddering, and sweat filmed his skin. Mac thrust his fingers to where they joined, playing, rubbing, teasing her toward climax. Isabella already felt stretched and hot, but his touch sent her into a frenzy. The friction rippled joy through her body, and her voice rang in the big, bright room.

Mac’s breathing was hoarse, his arms supporting her with a firm strength. He thrust into her and she arched back, pulling him deeper, deeper.

Her climax swept her into a river of darkness, and when she opened her eyes, Mac was watching her, his face soft, laughing.

“You are beautiful,” he rasped. “My love, my joy. You are so beautiful.”

Isabella kissed his hot mouth as he pulled her down to him. He lay back on the chaise and gathered her on top of him. They were still joined, Mac as hard as he’d been when they started. And he kept laughing.

They wound down together, the coals in the stove hissing as they burned, warming the room like summer sunshine. It was doubly warm on top of Mac, who was finer than any mattress she’d ever lay on.

Mac drew his finger across her cheekbone. “I’ve rubbed charcoal pencil all over you. It must have been on my fingers.”

Isabella gave him a smile. “I’m used to it.”

“I always adored seeing you covered in charcoal pencil.”

“Or smeared with paint?” Sometime Mac would turn a wild session of painting into a fury of lovemaking if he and Isabella happened to be alone in the studio.

“I liked that best of all,” she said.

She hadn’t felt this contented, this eased, in a long, long time. The love was there; it rose up out of him and embraced her.

“We’re good together,” Mac rumbled beneath her ear. “Every gossip sheet in the country talked about our marriage, but they never knew how truly good it was.”

“The newspapers printed such rubbish.” Isabella kissed his cheek, loving the taste of his whiskers.

He chuckled. “I especially liked the one that speculated that I took a wrong turn and ended up in Rome instead of at our soiree.”

“That was my fault. When I was constantly pestered about where you’d got to that night, I told all and sundry you must have lost your way home. I remember being quite annoyed.”

“At me?”

“At them. It was none of their bloody business where you were. Only yours and mine.”

“Well, I’m here now,” he said softly.

Isabella wriggled her hips, feeling Mac rock-hard inside her. “You certainly are.”

A warm sound issued from his throat. “Here to stay. For always.”

“That would grow uncomfortable in this position, even for you.”

“I don’t know.” Mac kissed her lips. “I like it here.”

Isabella started to answer, but Mac pushed one slow thrust inside her, and Isabella’s words died into pleasure. He had always done that, made her pliant and sleepy, then surprised her with a burst of lovemaking so wild they ended up exhausted and sore. He’d leave her breathless, hot, laughing, and well pleasured.

He did it again. By the time they climaxed together a second time, they were on the floor, Isabella still on Mac, the red brocade drape ripped from its hanging and tumbling around them. Mac laughed, his voice low, and then his eyes grew dark, as they did when he was about to release. Mac’s hands roved Isabella’s sweat-slick body, the odors of lovemaking mingling with that of paint. Oil paint was Mac’s smell—she couldn’t catch a whiff of it without being plunged into memories of him.

Mac gathered her against him as they quieted, both trying to catch their breath. They lay without talking for a long time, while the sun rose higher outside the long windows.

“Mac,” Isabella murmured. “What happened to us?”

Mac smoothed her hair with his palm. “You married a Mackenzie. You must have been mad to do that.”

“But I wasn’t.” Isabella raised her head, looked down at his strong face. “I knew it was the right thing to do. I’ve never doubted that.”

“It was a damn fool thing for me to do. I couldn’t resist teasing the little debutante in white, but should have left you the hell alone.”

“But I am glad you did not. I knew what sort of man my parents wanted me to marry—my father had picked out three likely gentlemen already. They thought I didn’t know, but I did. When you whispered to me on the terrace that you didn’t think I’d have the courage to elope with you, I saw my escape, and I took it.”

“Escape?” Mac’s brows drew together. “I was your escape? Isabella, you wound me.”

“I chose
you,
Mac. Not for your riches—Miss Pringle emphasized that money is no reason for a lady to marry; the richest husband can be stingy and make you miserable.”

Mac’s scowl deepened. “Miss Pringle ought to have been a preacher.”

“She did sermonize, rather. But she wasn’t wrong.”

“Were you thinking of the moral Miss Pringle when you decided to run away from your family and live in scandal with me?”

“We didn’t live in scandal; we married.” Isabella traced his lips. “If a bit improperly.”

“Nothing improper about it. I made damn sure it was a legal marriage, because I knew your father would come sniffing around, trying to annul it.”

“Poor Papa. I dashed all his hopes. It made me unhappy to do it, but if I had to choose all over again . . .” She looked straight into Mac’s eyes. “I would do the same.”

Isabella saw his confusion, his hope, his sadness. “I ruined your life.”

“Do not be such a martyr. Do you know why I agreed to marry you, Mac Mackenzie? I’d never met you, but I did know about you—everyone talks about your family. I’d heard all about Ian in that horrid asylum and about Cam and Hart and their unhappy marriages, and about you painting naked women in Paris.”

Mac’s eyes widened, copper outlined with black. “Gracious, such scandal to touch a maiden’s ears.”

“I’d have to have been buried in a hole to not hear the gossip, scandalous or no.”

“Hart’s and Cam’s marriages were unfortunate, I grant, but why on earth would that make you want to marry their brother?”

“Because their wives were cared for. Elizabeth was cruel to Cameron, I know she was, but he never says a word against her. And Sarah frustrated Hart by being so timid, but he, too, never said a word. He gave up his longtime mistress to be faithful to her, no matter that Sarah was clearly afraid of him. But he took care of her to the end. Not just to hide the dirty linen, but because he cared. I saw Hart when she and the child died. He was grief-stricken, not relieved as some malicious people put about. Mrs. Palmer’s death was the last nail in the coffin. Hart is so lonely.”

Mac groaned. “Isabella, if you start making Hart barley tea and knitting him slippers, I will become ill.”

“Selfish of you. He needs looking after.”

“He is the great Duke of Kilmorgan.
I
need looking after.” Mac closed strong arms around her. “I am the man who had all the happiness he could handle before he went and lost it. You need to knit
me
slippers.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous.” Isabella kissed the tip of his nose. He caught her by the back of her neck and pulled her down for a serious, long kiss. The discussion, she realized, was over.

Mac had rolled her over onto the fallen curtain, his body positioned between her legs, when someone thumped on the door. Bellamy’s gruff voice sounded through it.

“My lord?”

“Bloody hell,” Mac growled. “Go away.”

“Ye said if it were urgent . . .”

“Is the building falling down?”

“Not yet, my lord. His Grace wishes to see you.”

“Tell His Grace to lose himself, Bellamy. In a land far, far away.”

Bellamy paused, clearly unhappy. “I think ye should speak to him, my lord.”

“Blast you, man, you work for
me
, not my interfering brother.”

“In that case, my lord, I wish to give notice.”

Mac heaved an exasperated sigh. The brothers were used to Hart summoning them peremptorily, but Isabella saw that this time, Hart might have gone too far.

“It’s all right,” she said. She ran her fingertip down Mac’s nose to his lips. “It might be important. I won’t run away.”

Mac gave her a long, intense kiss. The heat of it made her close her arms around him and nestle against him. She somehow knew that when this moment was gone, she’d never have another like it. She wasn’t certain how she knew, but the feeling gripped her and made her hold hard to Mac.

Mac himself would have stayed there, she knew, but Bellamy knocked on the door again and coughed.

“This had better be damned important,” Mac muttered as he rose from Isabella, snatched up his kilt, and made his way to the door, giving Isabella a fine view of his still-trim derriere.

Urgent, Bellamy had said.
Damned disaster,
Mac thought as he stepped off the stairs.

Hart stood in the ground floor hall with Ian and a woman Mac had never seen before. The grand hall of the Palladian-style house traversed its entire length and was filled with polished wood, oil paintings, and tall windows. The very center of the hall sported a round table with a massive flower arrangement that the staff changed daily. It used to sport a marble statue of an entwined Greek god and goddess by Bernini, but as beautiful as it was, Beth had decided that flowers would be less shocking to ladies who might pay calls there. The Bernini now resided in Hart’s private suite upstairs.