The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 5
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To drag her mind from such thoughts, she slid the paper from her glove. “What did you mean by this, my lord?” Ian didn’t even look at the letter. “Exactly what it said.”
“These are very grave—and quite distressing—accusations.” Ian’s expression said he didn’t give a damn how grave and distressing they were. “Mather is a blackguard, and you would be well rid of him.”
Beth crumpled the letter in her hand and tried to organize her thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Ian Mackenzie sitting half a foot from her, his powerful presence all but making her fall off the chair. Every time she drew a breath, she inhaled the scent of whiskey and cigar and dark maleness she wasn’t used to.
“I have heard that collectors envy one another to the point of madness,” she said.
“Mather isn’t a collector.”
“Isn’t he? I’ve seen his porcelain. He keeps it locked away in a special room, and won’t even let the servants in to clean.”
“His collection isn’t worth a damn. He can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake.”
Ian’s gaze roved over her, as warm and dark as his touch.
She shifted uncomfortably.
“My lord, I’ve been betrothed to Sir Lyndon for three months, and none of his other acquaintances have mentioned any peculiar behaviors.”
“Mather keeps his perversions to himself.” “But not from you? Why are you privileged with this information?”
“He thought it would impress my brother.”
“Good heavens, why should such a thing impress a duke?”
Ian lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his arm brushing Beth’s. He sat too close, but Beth couldn’t seem to make herself rise and move to another chair.
“Do you go about prepared with letters such as these in case they’re wanted?” she asked.
His gaze moved swiftly to her, then away again, as though he wanted to focus on her and couldn’t. “I wrote it before I came tonight, in case when I met you I thought you’d be worth saving.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Mather is a blind idiot and sees only your fortune.” Exactly what her own little voice had just told her. “Mather doesn’t need my fortune,” she argued. “He has money of his own. He has a house in Park Lane, a large estate in Suffolk, and so forth.”
“He is riddled with debt. That’s why he sold me the bowl.”
She didn’t know what bowl, but humiliation burned in her stomach along with the whiskey. She’d been so careful when the offers had come thick and fast after Mrs. Barrington’s death—she liked to laugh that a young widow who’d just come into a good fortune must be, to misquote Jane Austen, in want of a husband.
“I’m not a fool, my lord. I realize that much of my charm comes from the money now attached to me.” His eyes were warm, the gold the same color as the whiskey.
“No, it doesn’t.”
The simple phrase thawed her. “If this letter is true, then I am in an untenable position.”
“Why? You are rich. You can do whatever you like.” Beth went silent. Her world had turned topsy-turvy the day Mrs. Barrington had died and left her house in Belgrave Square, her fortune, her servants, and all her worldly goods to Beth, as Mrs. Barrington had no living relation. The money was all Beth’s to do with as she liked. Wealth meant freedom. Beth had never had freedom in her life, and she supposed another reason she’d welcomed Mather’s proposal was that he and his aunt could help her ease into the world of London Society as something more than a drudge. She’d been a drudge for so very long.
Married women were supposed to look the other way at their husbands’ affairs. Thomas had said this was balderdash, rules thought up by gentlemen so that they could do as they liked. But then, Thomas had been a good man. The man sitting next to her couldn’t be called good by any stretch of the imagination. He and his brothers had terrible reputations. Even Beth, sheltered by Mrs. Barrington for the last nine years, knew that. There were whispers of sordid affairs and stories of the scandalous separation of Lord Mac Mackenzie from his wife, Lady Isabella. There had also been rumors five years ago about the Mackenzies’ involvement in the death of a courtesan, but Beth couldn’t remember the details. The case had gained the attention of Scotland Yard, and all four brothers had removed themselves from the country for a time.
No, the Mackenzies were by no means considered “good” men. Then why should a man like Lord Ian Mackenzie bother to warn nobody Beth Ackerley that she was about to marry an adulterer?
“You could always marry me,” Lord Ian said abruptly.
Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you could marry me. I don’t give a damn about your fortune.”
“My lord, why on earth should you ask me to marry you?”
“Because you have beautiful eyes.”
“How do you know? You’ve not once looked at them.”
“I know.”
Her breath hurt, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you do this often? Warn a young lady about her fiance, then turn about and offer to marry her yourself? Obviously the tactic hasn’t worked, or you’d have a string of wives dogging your footsteps.”
Ian looked away slightly, his hand coming up to massage his temple, as though he had a headache coming on. He was a madman, she reminded herself. Or at least, he’d grown up in an asylum for madmen. So why did she not fear to sit here alone with him, when no one in the world knew where she was?
“These are very grave—and quite distressing—accusations.” Ian’s expression said he didn’t give a damn how grave and distressing they were. “Mather is a blackguard, and you would be well rid of him.”
Beth crumpled the letter in her hand and tried to organize her thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Ian Mackenzie sitting half a foot from her, his powerful presence all but making her fall off the chair. Every time she drew a breath, she inhaled the scent of whiskey and cigar and dark maleness she wasn’t used to.
“I have heard that collectors envy one another to the point of madness,” she said.
“Mather isn’t a collector.”
“Isn’t he? I’ve seen his porcelain. He keeps it locked away in a special room, and won’t even let the servants in to clean.”
“His collection isn’t worth a damn. He can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake.”
Ian’s gaze roved over her, as warm and dark as his touch.
She shifted uncomfortably.
“My lord, I’ve been betrothed to Sir Lyndon for three months, and none of his other acquaintances have mentioned any peculiar behaviors.”
“Mather keeps his perversions to himself.” “But not from you? Why are you privileged with this information?”
“He thought it would impress my brother.”
“Good heavens, why should such a thing impress a duke?”
Ian lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his arm brushing Beth’s. He sat too close, but Beth couldn’t seem to make herself rise and move to another chair.
“Do you go about prepared with letters such as these in case they’re wanted?” she asked.
His gaze moved swiftly to her, then away again, as though he wanted to focus on her and couldn’t. “I wrote it before I came tonight, in case when I met you I thought you’d be worth saving.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Mather is a blind idiot and sees only your fortune.” Exactly what her own little voice had just told her. “Mather doesn’t need my fortune,” she argued. “He has money of his own. He has a house in Park Lane, a large estate in Suffolk, and so forth.”
“He is riddled with debt. That’s why he sold me the bowl.”
She didn’t know what bowl, but humiliation burned in her stomach along with the whiskey. She’d been so careful when the offers had come thick and fast after Mrs. Barrington’s death—she liked to laugh that a young widow who’d just come into a good fortune must be, to misquote Jane Austen, in want of a husband.
“I’m not a fool, my lord. I realize that much of my charm comes from the money now attached to me.” His eyes were warm, the gold the same color as the whiskey.
“No, it doesn’t.”
The simple phrase thawed her. “If this letter is true, then I am in an untenable position.”
“Why? You are rich. You can do whatever you like.” Beth went silent. Her world had turned topsy-turvy the day Mrs. Barrington had died and left her house in Belgrave Square, her fortune, her servants, and all her worldly goods to Beth, as Mrs. Barrington had no living relation. The money was all Beth’s to do with as she liked. Wealth meant freedom. Beth had never had freedom in her life, and she supposed another reason she’d welcomed Mather’s proposal was that he and his aunt could help her ease into the world of London Society as something more than a drudge. She’d been a drudge for so very long.
Married women were supposed to look the other way at their husbands’ affairs. Thomas had said this was balderdash, rules thought up by gentlemen so that they could do as they liked. But then, Thomas had been a good man. The man sitting next to her couldn’t be called good by any stretch of the imagination. He and his brothers had terrible reputations. Even Beth, sheltered by Mrs. Barrington for the last nine years, knew that. There were whispers of sordid affairs and stories of the scandalous separation of Lord Mac Mackenzie from his wife, Lady Isabella. There had also been rumors five years ago about the Mackenzies’ involvement in the death of a courtesan, but Beth couldn’t remember the details. The case had gained the attention of Scotland Yard, and all four brothers had removed themselves from the country for a time.
No, the Mackenzies were by no means considered “good” men. Then why should a man like Lord Ian Mackenzie bother to warn nobody Beth Ackerley that she was about to marry an adulterer?
“You could always marry me,” Lord Ian said abruptly.
Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said, you could marry me. I don’t give a damn about your fortune.”
“My lord, why on earth should you ask me to marry you?”
“Because you have beautiful eyes.”
“How do you know? You’ve not once looked at them.”
“I know.”
Her breath hurt, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you do this often? Warn a young lady about her fiance, then turn about and offer to marry her yourself? Obviously the tactic hasn’t worked, or you’d have a string of wives dogging your footsteps.”
Ian looked away slightly, his hand coming up to massage his temple, as though he had a headache coming on. He was a madman, she reminded herself. Or at least, he’d grown up in an asylum for madmen. So why did she not fear to sit here alone with him, when no one in the world knew where she was?
