The Madness Of Lord Ian MacKenzie(44)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Beth looked at Ian in panic. “I thought he was in Rome.”

“No, he’s here.”

“But you told me. .. Wait, did Curry receive a telegram? Why didn’t you warn me?”

Ian shook his head, his dark red hair spilling against his collar. “I didn’t know until we rode through the gate. The flag was up. The ducal flag always flies when Hart’s at home.” “Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?” Ian held out his hand. “Come with me. He’ll want to meet you.”

Ian, as usual, didn’t betray what he was thinking, but Beth sensed that he wasn’t entirely happy with this turn of events. Despite his calmness in the carriage, he was now tense, wound tight, like when he paced the train.

Her own fingers were ice-cold when she slid them into Ian’s warmer hand. “Very well. I suppose I had better get it over with.”

Ian gave her the faintest of smiles, then held her hand tighter and led her off into the bowels of the house. The dogs, all five of them, followed, their nails clicking loudly on the slate floor.

Chapter fourteen

Hart Mackenzie, Duke of Kilmorgan, both resembled his brothers and at the same time looked nothing like them. He sat behind a writing table near the fireplace, the desk long and ornately carved, as befitted the rest of the room. He was writing with great intensity and didn’t look up when the door closed behind Ian.

The vast drawing room in which Beth and Ian awaited His Grace’s attention looked as though it had once been three rooms, with the intervening walls removed. The ceiling rose higher than a ceiling had a right to, and was covered with frescoes of frolicking gods and goddesses. The walls were covered with paintings, too. They ranged from pictures of the Kilmorgan house in various stages to portraits of ladies and gentlemen—some in Scottish dress, some in whatever formal clothes were fashionable in their period. One could learn a history of clothing, Beth reflected, simply by studying the portraits in this room. Ian had closed the door on the faces of the five dogs, and they’d looked resigned, as though knowing they were never allowed in this grand sanctuary.

Hart was going to make Ian and Beth stand there like schoolchildren waiting to be dressed down, Beth thought irritably. “Your Grace,” she said.

The duke glanced up sharply. His eyes glittered the same gold as lan’s but pierced Beth from across the room—hawk’s eyes.

Ian said nothing, remaining in place without flinching.

Hart’s pen clattered to his pen tray and he rose.

He was tall, like all the Mackenzies, his hair a darker redbrown. Hart had the Mackenzie broad shoulders, powerful build, and square face. He wore a formal kilt, the Mackenzie colors, blue and green with red and white thread. His dark coat fit him like a second skin, likely made for him by the best tailors in Edinburgh.

Still, he wasn’t a mirror image of the brothers she’d already met. Mac’s face bore the restless brilliance of an obsessed artist. Cameron’s face was heavier, more brutish, complete with scar. He looked like a ruffian. So did Hart, but Hart’s smooth confidence rolled off him in waves. This was a man who had no doubt that his slightest command would be fulfilled. It wasn’t conceit, but cool certainty.

Hart overpowered every single thing in the room—except Ian. The waves of Hart’s overweening confidence seemed to break and flow around Ian without Ian feeling the slightest effect.

Hart finally removed his knifelike gaze from Beth and switched it to Ian. “Was there no other way?” He spoke as though they were in the middle of a conversation, but Ian nodded. “Fellows would have found some means to use her. Or turned her into an excuse to arrest me.” “The man’s a pig.” Hart’s stare came back to Beth. “She was once a lady’s companion? Why did Isabella befriend her?”

Beth pulled herself away from Ian and walked forward, sticking out her hand. “I’m very well, thank you so much for inquiring. The journey was tiring but uneventful, no problems on the lines, and no Fenian bombs at any of the stations.”

Hart shot Ian a scowl.

“She is fond of jokes,” Ian said.

“Is she?” Hart answered, his voice cool.

“I am also fond of chocolate, and of raspberry fool.” Beth curled her ignored hand at her side. “At the moment I’d be fond of a cool drink of water and a soft bed.” Hart spoke directly to her for a change. “I don’t recall sending for you, Mrs. Ackerley. You’d even now be reclining on a soft bed if you’d gone upstairs with the maid.” Beth’s heart hammered. “The only person I ever allowed to send for me, Your Grace, was Mrs. Barrington, and that was because she paid me wages.”

Hart’s brows drew fiercely together, and Ian said, “Leave her be, Hart.”

Hart gave Ian a quick glance, then returned his scrutiny to Beth. The look told her Hart didn’t know what to make of Beth or what she was to Ian.

Beth wasn’t quite sure what she was to Ian either, but she saw that Hart didn’t like not understanding. He wanted to instantly sum her up and put her in a slot—likely he had done so before she even arrived, and having to reassess her made him irritable.

Hart said coolly, “Now that we’ve established you’re a woman of independence, will you indulge us a moment? I’d like to talk to Ian alone.”

A man bound and determined to get his own way—always. Beth opened her lips to say a polite, “Of course,” but Ian spoke again.

“No.”

Hart’s eagle gaze swung to him. “What?”

“I want to see that Beth gets upstairs and settled in. We can talk at supper.”

“We have maidservants to help her.”

“I want to do it.”

Hart gave up, but Beth could see that it rankled. “The gong goes at seven forty-five and the meal is served at eight. We dress formally, Mrs. Ackerley. Don’t be late.”

Beth slid her hand through Ian’s, trying to hide her nervousness. “Call me Beth, please,” she said. “1 am no longer Mrs. Ackerley and have become, to our mutual astonishment, your sister.”

Hart froze. Ian raised his brows at him, then turned around and led Beth from the room. As they walked out, surrounded by the waiting dogs, Beth slanted a worried glance up at Ian, but Ian wore the broadest smile she’d ever seen.

She was a wonderful, amazing woman. Ian’s heart warmed as Beth emerged from her dressing room in a gown of dark blue silk. The bodice bared her-bosom, perfect for the necklet of diamonds he’d just given her. Beth gazed up at him serenely as he held out his arm to escort her down to dinner. The necklet had belonged to his mother. Ian remembered his father’s pride in her beauty, remembered his father’s jealous rages when any other man so much as looked at her. He’d had uncontrollable rages, with dire consequences. Any other woman would have fallen over in fear when Hart turned that famous stare on her. Hart’s own wife had fainted on more than one occasion when Hart had looked at her. Not Beth. She’d stood straight and tall and told Hart what she thought of him.