“I suppose I could be persuaded,” Isabella said now with her soft, red mouth. “Though this is not what’s meant by courting, you know.”
Mac pulled back a hairsbreadth. “What isn’t?”
She wet her lips, making his longing spike. “You have started badly, I am afraid. You do not ask a lady to dance by tearing her away from the partner she’s just accepted, and when she’s overheated, you walk her to a chair and fetch her an ice. You don’t whisk her out to the terrace and into the shadows.”
“Why not?”
“That is seduction, not courting. You could ruin the lady.”
“Ah.” Mac returned his hand to the wall beside her, noticing that it was shaking. “Then you consider that I’ve failed that lesson.”
“Almost.” She smiled, and his heart turned over. “You are very flattering, which is always a point in a gentleman’s favor.”
“I can be more flattering than that. I can tell you that your hair is a trail of fire, your lips sweeter than the finest wines, that your voice flows inside me and stirs all my desires.”
A swallow moved down her throat. “A proper lady might be taken aback by such comparisons.”
“I remember a proper lady who didn’t mind me talking about the pillows of her breasts and the glory that lay between her legs.”
“Then she couldn’t have been a proper lady,” Isabella said softly.
Mac leaned to her. “Would the proper young lady be shocked to learn I’m in danger of taking her right here, uncaring of who might wander to our end of the terrace?”
Her lashes swept down. “I don’t think such a thing would be practical in this gown.”
“Don’t tease, Isabella. I’m perfectly serious.”
“I’ve never been able to resist teasing you.” She gave him her coy little smile, and his limbs hurt. “But I have been thinking about this rather a lot, Mac. We have both closed in on ourselves, barely able to speak to one another, which has caused great strain. Perhaps if we grow more used to seeing each other, stop avoiding events where we both might attend—like tonight—perhaps we would become comfortable with each other.”
Mac’s bubble of hope dissipated. “Comfortable? What the devil does that mean? As though we were in our dotage, nodding to each other in our Bath chairs?”
“No, no. I meant that if we become used to each other’s company, perhaps your wanting would decrease. We would be more civil to each other. As it is we are nervous. About everything. ”
Mac wanted to burst into laughter, and then again, he wanted to rage. “Bloody hell, Isabella, do you think that the strain between us is all to do with me wanting you? Oh, my darling girl.”
“Of course I do not believe it is so simple. But perhaps, if we agree to become more, well, easy with each other, perhaps we could catch sight of each other without simmering.”
“I very much doubt that.” Mac slanted her a hot smile. “I’ve been simmering for you since the night we met. I’ve never stopped, and I never will, no matter how many times I have the pleasure of taking you to bed.”
Isabella’s lips parted in surprise. Had she thought the solution to their unhappiness so simple? That if they grew bored with each other’s company, Mac would cease wanting her and let her be? Some men—utter fools—did lose interest in a woman once they’d bedded her, but Mac couldn’t imagine ever, ever losing interest in Isabella.
He let his smile grow predatory. “My dear Isabella, I will take your suggestion and show you what happens when you play with fire. I will make certain we see each other quite, quite often. And there will be no growing jaded with each other. Because you see, my dear, when I at last take you home again, it will be forever. No regrets, no games, no being ‘comfortable.’ We will be man and wife, in all ways, and it will be final.”
Isabella gave him a haughty look. That was his Isabella. A firecracker, no whimpering miss. “I see. So the games we play must be ones of your choosing.”
He touched her lips with his fingertip. “Exactly, my sweet. And when I win, Isabella, it will be for good. I promise you that.”
Isabella opened her mouth to retort, but Mac silenced her with one hot, swift kiss. The taste of her was enough to crumble him to dust, but he made himself, just as swiftly, release her.
He ran his finger down her neck to the shadow of her cleavage. “Good night, my darling,” he said. “Keep the coat.”
Walking away from her, so delectable in that low-cut dress, his own coat draped over her shoulders, was one of the most difficult things Mac had ever done. At every step, he expected her to call after him, to beg him to come back, even to curse him.
Isabella never said a word. Mac’s need berated him soundly as he kept walking the length of the terrace and stepped back into the overly stuffy house.
Mac’s arousal hadn’t died by the time he reached home and climbed the four flights to his studio. He stood in the middle of the room, absorbing the ruined picture still propped on the easel, the table strewn with jars and palettes, his brushes fastidiously washed and sorted. Even when Mac lost his temper and threw things about, he always took care of his brushes. They were an extension of the painter’s fingers, the mad old artist who’d first trained him had told him. They needed to be treated with care.
The labored breathing of Bellamy sounded behind Mac as the valet puffed up the attic stairs. Mac absently pulled off his cravat and waistcoat and handed them over to the disapproving Bellamy when the man entered the room. Mac had conducted wild painting sessions in evening dress before, and Bellamy had said flatly in his East End accent that he wouldn’t be held responsible for his lordship’s clothes if his lordship insisted on mucking them up with oil paints.
Mac didn’t much care, but Bellamy did, so Mac piled the man’s arms high with his garments and told him to go. Once Bellamy closed the door, Mac pulled on the old kilt he kept up there to paint in along with his paint-streaked boots.
He tossed the ruined canvas facedown on the floor and propped a blank one in its place. His charcoal pencil nestled into his palm, and with the ease of long practice, Mac began to sketch.
It took only a few lines to draw what he wanted—the eyes of a woman, another few lines to fill in her face, more to depict the spill of brilliant hair down her shoulder. The beauty and simplicity of the drawing caught at his heart as he finished.
He took up his palette, globbed on colors, and started to paint. Muted tones, many shades of white, the paint for the shadows mixed from green and umber and darkest red. Her green eyes toned down with black, the shine of them caught exactly right.
Dawn filtered through the skylights before Mac finished. In the end, he dropped his palette to the table, shoved his brushes into the cleaning solution, and contemplated the painting.
Something in him rejoiced. After so long—so long—the brilliance Mac’s mentor had seen in him finally broke through once more.
A woman looked out of the canvas: her chin a bit pointed, her lips parted in a half smile. Red hair trickled down her shoulder, and her eyes regarded him with a haughty yet seductive look. Yellow rosebuds, painted the vibrant yellow of Mac’s signature color, drooped from her curls as though she’d danced the night away and come home tired. He hadn’t painted the gown she’d worn tonight, just suggested it with dashes of deep-shadowed blue that blended into the background.
It was the most beautiful thing he’d painted in years. The picture sang out of the canvas, the colors and lines flowing with effortless grace.
Mac let his blunt, paint-stained fingers hover above the woman for a few seconds. Then he resolutely turned his back on the picture and left the room.
Isabella settled the gloves on her fingers the next morning with quick jerks and checked the angle of her hat in the hall mirror. Her heart was thumping, but she was determined. If Mac wouldn’t do anything about the forged paintings, Isabella would.
She nodded to her butler as he opened the front door for her. “Thank you, Morton. Please make certain his lor
dship’s coat is cleaned and returned to him by this afternoon.”
Isabella took her footman’s hand and settled herself in her landau. Not until the vehicle had rolled into morning traffic did she droop against the cushions and let out her breath.
She’d slept very little after she’d returned from Lord Abercrombie’s ball the night before. When Mac had walked away from her down the terrace, the pain of his leaving had struck her to the heart. She’d wanted to rush after him, to make him turn back to her, to beg him with everything she had to stay.
As it was, she’d had to make do with his coat. She’d laid it next to her when she’d gone to bed, where she could touch it and smell his scent on it. She’d remained awake and restless, craving him, until she finally drifted into dreams of his smile and that sinfully hot kiss.
In the morning, she’d tossed the coat carelessly at Evans, instructing her to tell Morton to look after it.
She directed her coachman to take her to the Strand, where Messrs. Crane and Longman, purveyors of fine art, kept a shop. There was no longer a Mr. Longman, he having died and left Mr. Crane the entire business, but Mr. Crane had never removed Longman’s name from the sign.
Mr. Crane, a smallish man with soft palms and well-manicured nails, shook Isabella’s hand when she entered, then began spewing forth praise of Mac Mackenzie.
“Mr. Crane, Mac is precisely who I’ve come to see you about,” Isabella said when he’d wound down. “Please tell me about the painting you sold to Mrs. Leigh-Waters.”
Crane pressed his hands together and tilted his head, which made him look like a small, plump bird. “Ah, yes, Rome from the Capitoline Hill. An excellent work. One of his best.”
“You do know that Mac doesn’t sell his paintings? He gives them away to whoever wants them. Did it not strike you as odd when this one came up for sale?”
“Indeed, I was quite surprised when his lordship instructed us to sell it,” Mr. Crane said.
“Mac instructed it? Who told you that?”
Mr. Crane blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Who brought in the painting and told you his lordship wanted it sold?”
“Why, his lordship himself.”
Now Isabella blinked. “Are you certain? Mac carried the painting in here and handed it to you himself?”
“Well, not to me, as a point of fact. I was out. My assistant received it and cataloged it. Said his lordship told him he didn’t care what price he got.”
Isabella’s thoughts whirled. She had assumed her errand would be simple—point out to Mr. Crane that he’d sold a forgery and demand to know what he would do about it. Now she wondered. Had Mac actually painted it himself and sold it? And why?
“Does your assistant know Mac by sight?” she asked. “He didn’t assume that the gentleman was Mac without asking?”
“My lady, I was as surprised as you are, but my assistant described his lordship precisely. Even that careless way he has of talking, as though nothing about his art very much matters. So charming, when he has such talent. Mind you, his lordship hasn’t done much lately, so I was happy I could obtain something at all from him.”
Isabella had no idea what to say next. She’d pictured herself interrogating Mr. Crane on who had brought in the painting, to scold him for letting forgeries pass through his hands. Now she did not know how to continue. She’d been so certain that Mac hadn’t painted the scene, although come to think of it, Mac had neither confirmed nor denied it when she’d asked him.
“Ah, your lordship,” Crane said brightly. “How propitious of you. We were just speaking of you and that lovely picture you did of Rome. Welcome to my humble shop.”
Isabella whirled. Mac himself stood in the doorway, blotting out the weak sunlight outside.
He stepped across the threshold, swept off his hat, sent a smile to Isabella that weakened her knees, and said, “Now then, Crane. What have you been up to, selling forgeries of my blasted paintings?”
Chapter 4
The smitten Groom of Mount Street has purchased his Lady a country Cottage in Buckinghamshire where she hosts charity Garden Fetes now that the weather has grown warm and Town swelters. The great and the good attend these parties and speak of nothing else.
—July 1875
Crane spluttered, but Mac couldn’t summon up much anger for the little man. Mac’s entire awareness centered on Isabella standing near him as resplendently beautiful in a brown-and-cream day dress as she had been in her elegant satin ball gown and diamonds.
If Mac were to paint her in this costume he’d use the palest of yellows for the trim, cream and umber for the bodice, darker brown for the shadows. For her skin, tints of cream and pink. Darkened red for her lips, which would be the only color on her face, rippling red orange for the curls under her hat. Eyes a suggestion of black and green, in shadow.
“Mac, I was just explaining . . .”
Mac didn’t hear her. Or rather, he couldn’t hear Isabella’s words—he heard only her voice, low, musical, designed to make his heart dance.
“Your lordship.” Crane rubbed his hands together in that irritating manner he had. “You brought me the paintings yourself.”
“Paintings?” Mac’s brows rose. “You mean, there’s been more than one?”
“Of course. I have another here.” Crane minced his way into a back room and came out with a framed canvas almost as tall as himself. Mac laid his walking stick and hat on a table helped Crane lift the painting to a hook on the wall.
It was a Venice picture. Two men worked a gondola in the foreground, with the buildings of the Grand Canal fading into the mist, the merest suggestion of reflections of them in the murky water.
“One of your best, your lordship,” Crane said. “From your Venetian Period.”
The painting was damned good, Mac had to say that. The composition was finely balanced, the colors just right, light and shadow precise without being dull. Mac had painted quite few a pictures of canals while he’d been wallowing in self-pity after Isabella’s departure. But he hadn’t painted this one.
Isabella rolled her lower lip under her teeth, rendering it red and kissable. She shot Mac a worried look. “It is a forgery, isn’t it?”
“I didn’t paint that, Crane. Someone’s having you on.”
Mr. Crane pointed at the corner of the painting. “But you signed it.”
Mac leaned close to see the words Mac Mackenzie scrawled in the corner in his usual lazy style. “That does look like my signature.” He stepped back and regarded the picture fully. “Mind you, it isn’t bad.”
“Isn’t bad?” Isabella burst forth like a fury. “Mac, it’s a forgery.”
“Yes, and a damned good one. The fellow paints better than I do.”
Crane looked horrified. He glanced over his shoulder as though the police might come flooding in any moment to drag him away to a dank, dark dungeon. “But, your lordship, my assistant swore you brought it in yourself.”
“Mr. Crane,” Isabella began.
Mac cut her off. “Don’t blame him, love. If I didn’t know better, I couldn’t tell the difference myself.”
“Well, I could.”
“Because you have an eye for it. How many of these did you take, Crane?”
“Just the two,” Crane said in a small voice. “But I’m afraid I asked for more.”
Mac burst out laughing. Isabella looked indignant, but Mac couldn’t help himself. It was too idiotic. He hadn’t been able to paint anything decent in years, and this upstart not only painted better than Mac did, he gave Mac the credit for it.
“Out of curiosity, how much did Mrs. Leigh-Waters pay you?” Mac asked.
“A thousand guineas, my lord,” Crane whispered.
Mac whistled then laughed harder.
Isabella glared at him. “That’s criminal.”
Mac wiped his eyes. “Good Lord, Crane, I’m sure you were happy with that commission. What became of her payment, by the way? I’m sure this ‘Mac Mackenzie’
didn’t let go of his share.”
Crane looked troubled. “Funny thing, my lord. He’s never come for it. And he left no address or name of a bank where we could send it on. That was three months ago.”
“Hmm,” Mac said. “Well, if ever he does come ’round—”
“You must contact his lordship at once,” Isabella said.
“I was going to say, let the fellow have the cash. He’s obviously desperate for money.”
“Mac . . .”
“He did the work, after all.”
Mac wasn’t sure whether Isabella was more beautiful when she smiled or when she was bloody furious. Her cheeks were red, her eyes shone with green fire, and her breasts rose delightfully inside her tight bodice.
“What about Mrs. Leigh-Waters?” Crane’s face was ashen. “I should tell her what I’ve done.”
Mac shrugged. “Why? She likes the painting—praised it to the skies, my wife tells me. If Mrs. Leigh-Waters is happy, why spoil it for her?” He took up his stick and hat. “But if any more Mac Mackenzies turn up to sell you paintings, be warned. I never sell mine. I see no reason to charge people for my worthless drivel.”
“Drivel?” Crane cast him an indignant look. “Your lordship, they call you the English Manet.”
“Do they? Well, you know my opinion of ‘them.’ ”
“Yes, my lord, you’ve said.”
“Utter idiots, I believe is the term I prefer. Good morning to you, Crane. My dear?” Mac offered his arm to Isabella. “Shall we go?”
To his surprise, Isabella took his arm without rebuff and let him escort her out of the shop into the now-falling rain.
Isabella tried to remain angry as Mac assisted her into her landau, but the strength of his hands as he lifted her dissolved all thought.
She dropped into her seat and settled her skirts, expecting to hear the door shut and Mac say his farewells. Instead, the carriage listed as Mac climbed in and sat down beside her.