Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage Read online

  “Mac?” Isabella lifted her hand and snapped her fingers. “Are you still here, Mac?”

  “Mesmerized.” Mac made himself give her a clinical glance, as though she were a bowl of fruit he’d set up to paint. Fruit. Lord help me. “This is an erotic picture. Your pose is too tame.”

  “Well, I don’t know much about erotic pictures, do I?”

  Mac steadied his voice with effort. “Pretend you’ve been ravished repeatedly by your lover and then left on your own.”

  “Ah.” Isabella sat up, tucked her feet under her, and mimed writing something on her lap.

  Mac stared. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “Writing a letter to my solicitor, naming my ravisher in a suit, and outlining the amount I expect to receive in damages.”

  His heart started thumping again. “Amusing, love. Now lie back down. And sprawl.”

  Her brows arched. “Sprawl? How does one sprawl?”

  “Do you mean to tell me that the art of sprawling was never taught at Miss Pringle’s Select Academy?”

  “Neither was taking off one’s clothes to be painted,” Isabella said. “Nor how one looks after one is ravished. Perhaps I should speak to Miss Pringle about amending the curriculum.”

  Mac laughed. “I dare you. And please let me be there when you do.”

  “I imagine that by ravished, you mean disheveled.” Isabella rubbed her hand through her hair. More tendrils fell from the bun and straggled across her cheek.

  She was going to kill him. They were speaking rapidly and lightly, as though none of this truly mattered, but both of them were nervous. Or at least Mac was. Isabella, as always, looked cool and composed.

  “More than disheveled,” he said. “You have been thoroughly spent by a night of grand passion.”

  “I will have to use my imagination then. I’m not sure what that is like.”

  Her sly smile and the sparkle in her eyes snapped Mac’s control. He tossed down his pencil and came around the easel to stand over her. “Little devil.”

  “I said it in jest, Mac. I suppose I’ve had one or two nights of grand passion.”

  “You, my dear, are coming dangerously near to . . .” He stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

  Isabella’s lips curved. “Dangerously near to what, my lord?”

  A morning of grand passion? She was his wife, his other self, and they’d thrown off their clothes and their restraints. Why should he stop himself?

  “A tickling,” he finished. “You should be tickled until you can no longer make fun of your doddering old husband.”

  Her glance moved down his body like a lick of flame. “I would never apply the adjectives doddering or old to you.”

  Mac found it difficult to breathe. Or talk, or think. He seated himself on the edge of the chaise and yanked the crumpled sheet across her stomach. “I did promise to have these pictures done before Michaelmas. Now, sprawl, my dear. Arm overhead like that, leg hanging like this, sheet tangled and pushed aside.”

  Isabella let him move her arm and leg without a murmur. Mac’s hands shook as though he were palsied.

  “If a lady were truly sleeping after a grand passion,” Isabella said, “she’d bundle up in the sheet so as not to catch her death of cold. After warming herself with a nice cup of tea.”

  “You are far too exhausted for that. Barely awake at all.” Mac patted her hip. “Move that a little off the edge.”

  “That? Are you implying that I am stout, Mac Mackenzie?”

  “The word never left my lips, my petite angel.”

  “Humph. Plump, perhaps? Portly, even?”

  He wanted to tell her how much he adored her voluptuousness, her body that had grown even more beautiful since he’d seen it last. She’d actually become a little thinner since her departure, and he’d noticed that her appetite had lessened a bit, which worried him.

  But Mac had been painting women since age fifteen, and he knew how sensitive they could be to any even imagined change to their waistline. A wise artist never mentioned it unless he wanted to lose a day’s work. He’d always been thankful that Isabella was much more sensible about her body, but even joking as she was, he knew better than to tell her he preferred her curves to the bodies of women who slimmed themselves into sticks.

  “My love,” Mac said, “you have the finest, as the French say—derriere—imaginable.”

  “Liar.” Isabella hooked her finger on the waistband of his kilt. “Take this off.”

  Mac froze. “What? Why?”

  “You have seen what I have become. Perhaps I would like to see whether your derriere has grown broader with time.”

  What she would see was a cock that had elongated into a rigid pole. She could hang her St. Leger Ladies’ Day hat on it . . . and oh, Lord, why did he just think of that?

  “You saw me in the bath, at your house in London,” he said. “And I lifted my kilt for you in your drawing room.”

  “A brief glimpse, both times.” Isabella tugged harder on the waistband. “Come now, Mac. Turnabout is fair play.”

  Mac decided he’d strangle whoever had invented that saying. He drew a deep breath, unpinned and unfastened the kilt, and let the woolen folds drop to the floor.

  Isabella’s eyes grew round. “Oh. My.”

  Mac put his knee on the chaise, swung himself on top of her, and lowered his face to hers. “Did you think you could lie here like this without me responding? I’ve been hard for you, my dear, since you barged into my house and actually spoke to me after three and a half years of silence.”

  “That was a few weeks ago. You must have found it a bit inconvenient.”

  “Inconvenient? It’s been absolute hell.”

  Her eyes flickered. “You’ve borne up well.”

  “I’m dying for you. I’ve managed to keep myself from you for all these years. Because you wished it. Well, I can’t do it any longer.”

  Isabella’s slender throat moved in a swallow. Mac expected her to make another joke, to push him away, to mock him.

  She touched his face. “You are with me now,” she whispered. “And the door is locked.”

  Mac growled. “Hell, I wish I were a saint. I’d be able to leave the room if I were a saint.”

  “If you were a saint, you’d never have married me in the first place.” Isabella’s voice went soft. “And that would have never done.”

  “Why not? I made you miserable.”

  She stroked his skin, her touch feather light. “You saved me from ordinary marriage to an ordinary man who spent his days at his club and his nights with his mistress. I’d have nothing to do but buy new dresses, have teas, and hostess fetes.”

  “You do buy new dresses, have teas, and hostess fetes.”

  She shook her head. “I bought gowns I thought you’d like to see me in. I gave tea parties for your friends, so they would be my friends too. I ran fetes to help people who needed help, because I wanted to emulate the way you helped poor artists.”

  “I left you alone aplenty. Just like an ordinary husband.”

  “Not to your club or to a mistress, which would have been intolerable.”

  Her look was tender, her eyes so green. Mac brushed a kiss over her lashes, feeling them lush and full against his lips. “Clubs are rotten places. Gaming hells and cabarets are so much more entertaining. And I mean I’d leave you for weeks at a time. To run off to Paris or Rome or Venice—whatever took my fancy.”

  “Because you thought I needed to be alone,” Isabella said. “Away from you.”

  Mac swallowed. “Yes.”

  Marriage to him had been hard on Isabella; Mac had seen that. After a month or so in his constant company, her eyes would grow strained and her face lined with exhaustion. Their tempers would fray, and they’d quarrel about the most inane and trivial things. Mac had realized early on that the best gift he could give Isabella was peace and quiet. He’d pack a few things and disappear. He’d write to her from wherever he ended up—Paris or Rome or Zuric
h, telling her gossip about friends and sending her picture postcards. Isabella would never write back, but then, Mac lived a gypsy-like existence, so there wouldn’t have been much point. A letter likely wouldn’t have reached him.

  He’d return after several weeks to her welcoming smile, and all would be honeymoon-like again. Until the next time.

  Mac saw in her eyes that Isabella didn’t believe that this time would be different. If he were a wise and practical man, he’d leave this room now, indicate that he was ready to take things slowly, to give her a calm, steady, sensible marriage, not one rife with ups and downs.

  But he wasn’t wise, or practical, and definitely not sensible.

  He kissed her.

  His entire body came alive. He was aware of his blood boiling through his veins, his muscles tightening, Isabella’s mouth softening under his.

  “God, you’re sweet.” Mac licked across her lips, tasting her morning tea laced with sugar. “Sweet little debutante I stole from under Papa’s nose.”

  His sweet little debutante twined her arms around his neck and pulled him down to the chaise, on top of her naked, delectable body.

  The feel of her husband on her made Isabella swallow a groan. He smelled of sweat and paint, and his mouth aroused her, promised, taunted. It had been too long, too long.

  He pulled back, his eyes dark. “Isabella.”

  This was different from Mac teasing her in the tub in Doncaster. Then he’d been fully clothed, playing with her, the master of the situation. Now he kissed her, equally naked, their bodies pressed together except where the bunched sheet separated them. Right now, they were man and wife.

  “Just kiss me, Mac,” she whispered.

  “This is not what I want.”

  Isabella widened her eyes, trying to keep her voice light. “Goodness, you truly have embraced abstinence.”

  His smile could have melted the hardiest ice floe. “Oh, no, my dear, I want you. I want to couple with you for hours on end. Days. Weeks. But I don’t want this and nothing more.”

  Isabella touched his sandpaper whiskers on his chin. He hadn’t shaved this morning. “You said that before. But you want everything, all at once. Can we not simply take things as they come?”

  “I’m very close to coming at this point.”

  She laughed, and his brows drew together.

  “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.

  Yes.

  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 ha
rd 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.”