The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Perhaps because she’d seen lunatics in Thomas’s charity work in the East End, kept by families who could barely manage them. Poor souls, they’d been, some of them kept roped to their beds. Lord Ian was a long way from being a poor soul.

She cleared her throat. “It is very kind of you, my lord.”

Ian’s hand closed to a tight fist on the arm of his chair.

“If I marry you, Mather can’t touch you.”

“If I married you it would be the scandal of the century.”

“You would survive it.”

Beth stared at the soprano on the stage, suddenly remembering that gossip painted the large-bosomed lady as a paramour of Lord Cameron Mackenzie, another of Ian’s older brothers. “If anyone has seen me dive in here with you, my reputation is already ruined.”

“Then you will have nothing to lose.”

Beth could stand up in a huff, point her nose in the air as Mrs. Barrington had taught her, and march out. Mrs. Barrington had said she’d slapped a good many would-be suitors in her time, though Beth would leave off the slap. She couldn’t imagine Lord Ian being fazed by any blow she could land, anyway.

“If I said yes, what would you do?” she asked in true curiosity. “Balk and try to talk your way out of it?”

“I would find a bishop, pry a license out of him, and make him marry us tonight.”

She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids? What about all the flowers?” “You were married once before.”

“So that ought to have satisfied my need for white gowns and lilies of the valley? I must warn you that ladies are quite particular about their weddings, my lord. You might want to know that in case you decide to propose to another lady in the next half hour.”

Ian closed hard fingers around her hand. “I am asking you. Yes or no?”

“You don’t know anything about me. I might have a sordid past.”

“I know everything about you.” His gaze went remote, and his hand closed more tightly on hers. “Your maiden name is Villiers. Your father was a Frenchman who appeared in England thirty years ago. Your mother was the daughter of an English squire, and he disowned her when she married your father. Your father died a pauper and left you destitute. You and your mother were forced into a workhouse when you were ten years old.”

Beth listened in astonishment. She’d made no secret of her past to Mrs. Barrington or Thomas, but to hear it come out of the mouth of a lofty lord like Ian Mackenzie was unnerving.

“Goodness, is this common knowledge?” “I told Curry to find out about you. Your mother died when you were fifteen. You were eventually employed by the workhouse as a teacher. When you were nineteen the vicar newly in charge of the workhouse, Thomas Ackerley, met you and married you. He died of fever a year later. Mrs. Barrington of Belgrave Square hired you as her companion.” Beth blinked as the drama of her life unfolded in the brief sentences. “Is this Curry a Scotland Yard detective?” “He is my valet.”

“Oh, of course. A valet.” She fanned herself vigorously. “He looks after your clothes, shaves you, and investigates the pasts of obscure young women. Perhaps you should be warning Sir Lyndon about me instead of the other way around.”

“I wanted to discover whether you were genuine or false.”

She had no idea what that meant. “You have your answer, then. I’m certainly no diamond in the rough. More like a pebble that’s been polished a little.”

Ian touched a lock of hair that had drifted to her forehead.

“You are real.”

The touch had her heart pounding and heat washing to every limb. He sat too close, his fingertips so warm through his gloves. It would be a simple thing to tilt her head back and kiss him.

“You are ten times higher than I am, my lord. If I married you it would be a misalliance never to be forgotten.” “Your father was a viscount.”

“Oh, yes. I had forgotten about dear, dear Father.” Beth knew exactly how real her father’s claim to be a viscount had been, exactly how well her father had acted the part.

Lord Ian drew a thin curl between his fingers, straightening it. He let it go, his eyes flickering as it bounced against her forehead. He drew the curl out again, watching it bounce back, and again. His concentration unnerved her; the closeness of his body unnerved her still more. At the same time, her own wanton body was responding.

“You shall take all the spring out of it,” she said. “My maid will be so disappointed.”

Ian blinked, then returned his hand to the arm of his chair as though having to force it.

“Did you love your husband?”

This bizarre encounter with Lord Ian was the sort of thing she would have had a good laugh over with Thomas. But Thomas was gone, years ago, and she was alone.

“With all my heart.”

“I wouldn’t expect love from you. I can’t love you back.” Beth plied her fan to her hot face, her heart stumbling.

“Hardly flattering, my lord, for a woman to hear a man won’t fall in love with her. She likes to believe she will be the center of his abject devotion.”

Mather had said he’d be devoted. The crumpled letter burned her again.

“Not won’t. I can’t love you.”

“I beg your pardon?” She’d been using the phrase so often tonight.

“I am incapable of love. I will not offer it to you.” Beth wondered what was more heartbreaking, the words themselves or the flat tone of voice with which he delivered them. “Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right lady, my lord. Everyone falls in love sooner or later.” “I have taken women as lovers, but never loved them.” Beth’s face heated. “You make no sense, my lord. If you don’t care about my fortune or whether I love you, why on earth do you wish to marry me?”