Jennifer Ashley - Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

All of London was amazed to learn of the sudden marriage of Lady ISand Lord MM, brother of the Duke of K,last evening. The lady in question had her Come-Out and her Wedding the same night, leading debutantes to plead with fathers to make their coming-out balls just as eventful. From a London society newspaper, February 1875

SEPTEMBER 1881

Isabellas footman rang the bell at the house of Lord Mac Mackenzie on Mount Street, while Isabella waited in the landau, wondering for the dozenth time since shed set off whether this were wise.

Perhaps Mac would be out. Maybe the unpredictable man had gone off to Paris, or to Italy, where summer would linger for a time. She could investigate the matter shed discovered by herself. Yes, that would be best.

As she opened her mouth to call back her footman, the large black door swung open, and Macs valet, a former pugilist, peered out. Isabellas heart sank. Bellamy being here meant Mac was here, because Bellamy never strayed far from Macs side.

Bellamy peered into the landau, and a look of undisguised astonishment crossed his scarred face. Isabella hadnt approached this house since the day shed left it three and a half years ago. Mlady?

Isabella took Bellamys beefy hand to steady herself as she descended. The best way to do this, she decided, was simply to do it.

How is your knee, Bellamy? she asked. Are you still using the liniment? Is it too much to hope that my husband is at home?

As she talked, she breezed into the house, pretending not to notice the parlor maid and a footman popping out to stare.

The knees much better, mlady. Thank you. His lordship is . . . Bellamy hesitated. Hes painting, mlady.

So early? Theres a wonder. Isabella started up the stairs at a quick pace, not letting herself think about what she was doing. If she thought about it, shed run far and fast, perhaps lock herself into her house and not come out. Is he in his studio? No need to announce me. Ill go up myself.

But mlady. Bellamy followed her, but his damaged knee wouldnt let him move quickly, and Isabella reached the landing, three floors up, before Bellamy had mounted the second flight.

Mlady, he said not to be disturbed, Bellamy called upward.

I wont be long. I need only ask him a question.

But, mlady, hes . . .

Isabella paused, hand on the white doorknob of the right-hand attic room. I shall take full blame for invading his lordships privacy, Bellamy.

She lifted her skirts as she swung open the door and walked into the room. Mac was there, all right, standing in front of a long easel, painting with fervor.

Isabellas skirts slid from her nerveless fingers, the beauty of her estranged husband striking her like a blow. Mac wore a kilt, threadbare and paint-flecked, and he was naked from the waist up. Though it was cool in the studio, Macs torso gleamed with sweat, his skin tanned from spending the summer on the warmer Continent. He wore a red kerchief on his head, gypsy style, to keep paint out of his hair. Hed always done that, she remembered with a pang. It made his cheekbones more prominent, emphasized the handsomeness of his face. Even the rough boots, much worn and paint-splotched, were familiar and dear.

Mac laid paint on his canvas with energy, obviously not hearing Isabella open the door. He held the palette in his left hand, arm muscles tight, while his right moved the brush in swift, jerking strokes. Mac was a stunning man, made still more attractive when absorbed in doing something he loved.

Isabella used to sit in this very studio on an old sofa strewn with cushions, simply watching him paint. Mac might not say one word to her while he worked, but she had adored watching the play of muscles on his back, the way hed smear paint on his cheek when hed absently rub it. After a particularly good session, hed turn to her with a wide smile and pull her into his arms, never minding that paint now smeared all over her skin.

So absorbed in Mac was she that Isabella didnt notice what he painted with such intensity until she forced herself to look away from him and across the room. She barely stifled her dismay.

A young woman lay on a raised platform draped with yellow and red coverings. She was nude, which came as no surpriseMac generally painted women who wore nothing or very little. But Isabella had never seen him paint anything so blatantly erotic. The model lay on her back with her knees bent, her legs wide apart. Her hand rested on her private place, and she was spreading herself open without shame. Mac scowled at the offering and painted with rapid brushstrokes.

Behind Isabella, Bellamy reached the top landing, puffing from exertion and distress. Mac heard him and growled but didnt look round.

Damn it, Bellamy, I told you I didnt want to be disturbed this morning.

Im sorry, sir. I couldnt stop her.

The model raised her head, spied Isabella, and grinned. Oh, hello, yer ladyship.

Mac glanced behind him once, twice, then his copper gaze riveted to Isabella. Paint dripped, unheeded, from his brush to the floor.

Isabella strove to keep her voice from shaking. Hello, Molly. How is your little boy? Its all right, Bellamy, you can leave us. This wont take long, Mac. I only came to ask you a question.

Damnation.

What the hell was Bellamy playing at, letting her up here?

Isabella hadnt set foot in the Mount Street house in three and a half years, not since the day shed left him with nothing but a short letter for explanation. Now she stood in the doorway, in hat and gloves donned for calling. Today of all days, while Mac painted Molly Bates in her spread glory. This wasnt part of his plan, the one that had made him leap onto a train to London after his brothers wedding and follow Isabella down here from Scotland. Hed call this a grievous miscalculation.

Isabellas dark blue jacket hugged her torso and cupped her full bosom, and a gray skirt of complicated ruffles spread over a small bustle. Her hat was a concoction of flowers and ribbons, her gloves a dark gray that wouldnt show London grime. The gloves outlined slender fingers he wanted to kiss, hands he longed to have slide up his back as they lay together in bed.

Isabella had always known how to dress, how to present herself in colors dear to his artists eye. Mac had loved to help her dress in the mornings, lacing her gowns against her soft, sweet-smelling skin. Hed dismiss her maid and perform the tasks himself, though those mornings it had taken them a long time to descend for breakfast.

Now Mac drank in every inch of her, and damn it, grew hard. Would she see, and would she laugh?

Isabella crossed to the dressing gown Molly had left in a heap on the floor. Youd better wrap up in this, dear, she said to the model. Its chilly up here. You know Mac never believes in feeding the fire. Why dont you warm up downstairs with a nice cup of tea while I have a chat with my husband?

Molly leapt to her feet, her grin wide. Molly was a beautiful female in the way many men likedlarge-bosomed, round-hipped, doe-eyed. She had a mass of black hair and a perfect face, an artists dream. But next to the glory of Isabella, Molly faded to nothing.

Dont mind if I do, Molly said. Its stiff work posing for naughty pictures. My fingers are that cramped.

Some teacakes ought to loosen you again, Isabella said as Molly slid on the dressing gown. Macs cook always used to keep currant ones in large supply, in case of emergencies. Ask her if she still does.

Mollys dimples showed. Ive missed you, no lie, your ladyship. Is lordship forgets we ave to eat.

Its his lordships way, Isabella said. Molly strolled from the studio without worry, and Mac watched as though from far away as Bellamy followed Molly out and closed the door.