Free The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie by Jennifer Ashley

didn’t know, one she’d only glimpsed through half-closed curtains behind which diamond bedecked women smiled at cigar-smoke-wreathed gentlemen. So many houses, so many windows, so much warmth inside, and this was the first time she’d been invited in. The door suddenly banged open, and Isabella strolled into the room in a blue silk dressing gown. Beth tried to jump away from Ian, but he was holding her too tight. She ended up half sitting on, half sliding off his knee. Isabella peered blearily about. “Ian, darling, what are you doing here playing Gilbert and Sullivan at the crack of dawn? I thought I was having a nightmare.”
    Beth finally slid to her feet, her face flaming. “I beg your pardon, Isabella. We didn’t mean to wake you.” Isabella’s eyes widened. “I see. I beg
your
pardon for interrupting.”
    Thank heavens for corsets,
Beth thought distractedly. Her nipples were hard little points against the fabric, but the thick boning would hide it.
    Ian didn’t rise. He leaned one elbow on the piano and studied the moldings behind Isabella.
    “Will you stay to breakfast, Ian?” Isabella asked. “I’ll try to prop my eyes open long enough to join you.” He shook his head. “I came to deliver Beth a message.”
    “Did you?”
    Beth asked. How ridiculous, she’d never thought to ask why he’d suddenly appeared in Isabella’s drawing room.
    “From Mac.” Ian continued to stare across the room. “He says he’ll be ready to start your drawing lessons in three days. He wants to finish the painting he’s working on first.”
    Isabella answered before Beth could. “Really? My husband was always so good at doing two things at once.” Her voice was strained.
    “The model is Cybele,” Ian answered. “Mac doesn’t want Beth there while Cybele is.”
    Pain flashed through Isabella’s eyes. “He never bothered about such things with me.”
    Ian didn’t answer, and Beth couldn’t help asking, “Is this Cybele so awful?”
    “She’s a foulmouthed tart,” Isabella said. “Mac introduced me to her to shock me when we first married. He loved to shock me. It became his raison d’etre.”
    Ian had turned his head to stare out the window, as though the conversation no longer interested him. Isabella’s delight evaporated, and her face looked pinched and tired.
    “Oh, well, Ian, if you aren’t staying for breakfast, I’ll drag myself back to bed. Good morning to you.” She drifted out, leaving the door open behind her. Beth watched her go, not liking how unhappy Isabella looked.
“Can
you stay to breakfast?” she asked Ian. He shook his head and rose to his feet—did he regret leaving or was he happy to go? “Mac expects me at his studio. He gets worried if I don’t appear.”
    “Your brothers like to look after you.” Beth felt a pang. She’d grown up so alone, with no sisters or brothers, and no friends she could trust.
    “They’re afraid.”
    “Of what?”
    Ian kept his gaze out the window, as though he didn’t hear her. “I want to see you again.”
    A hundred polite refusals Mrs. Barrington had drilled into her flitted through her head and out again. “Yes, I’d like to see you, too.”
    “I will send you a message through Curry.”
    “Ever resourceful, is your Mr. Curry.”
    He wasn’t listening. “The soprano,” he said. Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?” She remembered the newspaper article that had bothered her so much the day she’d met Mac.
    “Oh. That soprano.”
    “I asked Cameron to pretend to argue with me about her. I wanted people to focus on the soprano and forget about you. He was happy to oblige. He enjoyed it.” People must have seen Beth enter the Mackenzie box, perhaps had seen Ian spirit her away to Cameron’s coach. He’d created a public argument with Cameron to divert attention from Beth to the Mackenzies, famous for their sordid affairs.
    “Pity,” Beth said faintly. “It was such a well-done story.”
    “It is not what