Jennifer Ashley: The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

“Oh, aye? Why are we so interested in the right bastard’s fiancee?”

Ian ran his fingertips lightly over the box again. “I want to know if she’s exquisite porcelain or a fake.” Curry winked. “Right ye are, guv. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Lyndon Mather was all that was handsome and charming, and heads turned when Beth Ackerley walked by on his arm at Covent Garden Opera House.

Mather had a pure profile, a slim, athletic body, and a head of golden hair that ladies longed to run their fingers through. His manners were impeccable, and he charmed everyone he met. He had a substantial income, a lavish house on Park Lane, and he was received by the highest of the high. An excellent choice for a lady of unexpected fortune looking for a second husband.

Even a lady of unexpected fortune tires of being alone, Beth thought as she entered Mather’s luxurious box behind his elderly aunt and companion. She’d known Mather for several years, his aunt and her employer being fast friends. He wasn’t the most exciting of gentlemen, but Beth didn’t want exciting. No drama, she promised herself. She’d had enough drama to last a lifetime.

Now Beth wanted comfort; she’d learned how to run a houseful of servants, and she’d perhaps have the chance to have the children she’d always longed for. Her first marriage nine years ago had produced none, but then, poor Thomas had died barely a year after they’d taken their vows. He’d been so ill, he hadn’t even been able to say good-bye. The opera had begun by the time they settled into Sir Lyndon’s box. The young woman onstage had a beautiful soprano voice and an ample body with which to project it. Beth was soon lost in the rapture of the music. Mather left the box ten minutes after they’d entered, as he usually did. He liked to spend his nights at the theatre seeing everyone of importance and being seen with them. Beth didn’t mind.

She’d grown used to sitting with elderly matrons and preferred it to exchanging inanities with glittering society ladies. Oh, darling did you hear? Lady Marmaduke had three incites of lace on her dress instead of two. Can you imagine anything more vulgar? And her pleats were limp, my darling, absolutely limp.

Such important information.

Beth fanned herself and enjoyed the music while Mather’s aunt and her companion tried to make sense of the plot of La Traviata. Beth reflected that they thought nothing of an outing to the theatre, but to a girl growing up in the East End, it was anything but ordinary. Beth loved music, and imbibed it any way she could, though she thought herself only a mediocre musician. No matter, she could listen to others play and enjoy it just fine. Mather liked to go to the theatre, to the opera, to musicales, so Beth’s new life would have much music in it.

Her enjoyment was interrupted by Mather’s noisy return to the box. “My dear,” he said in a loud voice, “I’ve brought you my very close friend Lord Ian Mackenzie. Give him your hand, darling. His brother is the Duke of Kilmorgan, you know.”

Beth looked past Mather at the tall man who’d entered the box behind him, and her entire world stopped. Lord Ian was a big man, his body solid muscle, the hand that reached to hers huge in a kid leather glove. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, and the dim light touched his dark hair with red. His face was as hard as his body, but his eyes set Ian Mackenzie apart from every other person Beth had ever met.

She at first thought his eyes were light brown, but when Mather almost shoved him down into the chair at Beth’s side, she saw that they were golden. Not hazel, but amber like brandy, flecked with gold as though the sun danced on them. “This is my Mrs. Ackerley,” Mather was saying. “What do you think, eh? I told you she was the best-looking woman in London.”

Lord Ian ran a quick glance over Beth’s face, then fixed his gaze at a point somewhere beyond the box. He still held her hand, his grip firm, the pressure of his fingers just shy of painful.

He didn’t agree or disagree with Mather, a bit rudely, Beth thought. Even if Lord Ian didn’t clutch his breast and declare Beth the most beautiful woman since Elaine of Camelot, he ought to at least give some polite answer.

Instead he sat in stony silence. He still held Beth’s hand, and his thumb traced the pattern of stitching on the back of her glove. Over and over the thumb moved, hot, quick patterns, the pressure pulsing heat through her limbs. “If he told you I was the most beautiful woman in London, I fear you were much deceived,” Beth said rapidly. “I apologize if he misled you.”

Lord Ian’s gaze flicked over her, a small frown on his face, as though he had no idea what she was talking about. “Don’t crush the poor woman, Mackenzie,” Mather said jovially. “She’s fragile, like one of your Ming bowls.” “Oh, do you have an interest in porcelain, my lord?” Beth grasped at something to say. “Sir Lyndon has shown me his collection.”

“Mackenzie is one of the foremost authorities,” Mather said with a trace of envy.

“Are you?” Beth asked.

Lord Ian flicked another glance over her. “Yes.” He sat no closer to her than Mather did, but Beth’s awareness of him screamed at her. She could feel his hard knee against her skirts, the firm pressure of his thumb on her hand, the weight of his Mathers stare.

A woman wouldn’t be comfortable with this man, she thought with a shiver. There would be drama aplenty. She sensed that in the restlessness of his body, the large, warm hand that gripped her own, the eyes that wouldn’t quite meet hers. Should she pity the woman those eyes finally rested on? Or envy her?

Beth’s tongue tripped along. “Sir Lyndon has lovely things. When I touch a piece that an emperor held hundreds of years ago, I feel... I’m not sure. Close to him, I think. Quite privileged.”

Sparks of gold flashed as Ian looked at her a bare instant. “You must come view my collection.” He had a slight Scots accent, his voice low and gravel-rough.

“Love to, old chap,” Mather said. “I’ll see when we are free.”

Mather lifted his opera glasses to study the large-bosomed soprano, and Lord lan’s gaze moved to him. The disgust and intense dislike in Lord lan’s unguarded expression startled Beth. Before she could speak, Lord Ian leaned to her. The heat of his body touched her like a sharp wave, bringing with it the scent of shaving soap and male spice. She’d forgotten how heady was the scent of a man. Mather always covered himself with cologne.

“Read it out of his sight.”

Lord lan’s breath grazed Beth’s ear, warming things inside her that hadn’t been touched in nine long years. His fingers slid beneath the opening of her glove above her elbow, and she felt the folded edge of paper scrape her bare arm. She stared at Lord lan’s golden eyes so near hers, watching his pupils widen before he flicked his gaze away again. He sat up, his face smooth and expressionless. Mather turned to Ian with a comment about the singer, noticing nothing.

Lord Ian abruptly rose. The warm pressure left Beth’s hand, and she realized he’d been holding it the entire time. “Going already, old chap?” Mather asked in surprise.

“My brother is waiting.”

Mather’s eyes gleamed. “The duke?”

“My brother Cameron and his son.”

“Oh.” Mather looked disappointed, but he stood and renewed the promise to bring Beth to see lan’s collection. Without saying good night, Ian moved past the empty chairs and out of the box. Beth’s gaze wouldn’t leave Lord lan’s back until the blank door closed behind him. She was very aware of the folded paper pressing the inside of her arm and the trickle of sweat forming under it. Mather sat down next to Beth and blew out his breath.