Isabella didn’t answer, because he had the truth of it. When they’d stood face-to-face on the stairs, in the house they used to share, she’d almost let him kiss her. If Molly hadn’t interrupted them, Isabella would have let him take her into his arms and press his paint-stained face to hers, to touch her as much as he liked. But Mac had let her go, his choice.
“Please, may we stop now, Mac? I really am quite warm.”
“You do look flushed. There’s only one remedy for that.”
“A seat and a cool drink?”
“No.” A smile spread over his face, the same wicked smile that had destroyed Isabella the debutante more than six years ago. He swung her out of the dance, tucked her arm through his, and led her swiftly across the ballroom and out of the French windows. “A stroll on the terrace.”
“Mac.”
Mac ignored her protest and propelled them along the length of the chill and dimly lit terrace. He stopped at the end of it, in the shadows beyond the lit windows.
“Now then,” he said.
Isabella found herself against the wall, Mac’s strong hands on either side of her.
Isabella’s breath was sweet, her body a warm length in the cool air. Her bosom rose against her décolletage, diamonds sparkling on her skin.
They’d stood like this on her father’s terrace the night they’d met, Isabella against the wall, Mac’s hand splayed on the bricks beside her. Isabella had been eighteen then, her dress virgin white, her only adornment a necklace of pearls. A pure, untouchable maiden with glorious hair, a ripe plum ready to be plucked.
The temptation to touch her had been irresistible. The wager Mac had agreed to that night had been simple—enter the overly priggish Earl Scranton’s house without invitation, dance with the prim and proper debutante in whose honor the ball was being held, and entice her to kiss him.
Mac had expected to find a stick-thin maiden with a prissy mouth and irritating mannerisms. Instead, he’d found Isabella.
It had been like discovering a butterfly among colorless moths. The instant Mac had seen Isabella, he’d wanted to know her, to talk to her, to learn everything about her. He remembered how she’d watched him push through the crowded ballroom toward her, her chin lifted, her green eyes daring him to do his worst. Her friends had whispered behind her, no doubt warning her who he was, hoping to watch her rebuff the scandalous Lord Roland “Mac” Mackenzie. Isabella, Mac had come to know, was quite good at the rebuff.
He’d stopped before her, and without saying a word, Isabella had taken his breath away. Her hair spilled over her shoulder in a river of red, her eyes glinted with cool intelligence, and he’d wanted her. To dance with her, to paint her, to make love to her. Come, sweetheart. Sin with me.
Mac had grabbed the nearest male acquaintance and forced the man to introduce them, knowing that this perfectly raised young lady would refuse to speak to him at all until then. When Mac had held out his hand and asked the conventional question, “My lady, may I have this waltz?” she’d given him a cool look and lifted her wrist to show him her dance card dangling from it.
“What a pity,” she’d said. “My card is full.” Of course it was. She was a well-protected debutante, the oldest daughter of Earl Scranton, an advantageous catch. One of her father’s handpicked gentlemen would even now be pushing his way through to her, hurrying to claim his waltz.
Mac had caught the card in his hand, removed a pencil from his pocket, and slashed a heavy diagonal line through all the names. Across this line he wrote in his careless scrawl—Mac Mackenzie.
He dropped the card and held out his hand. “Come dance with me, Lady Isabella,” he’d said. I dare you . . .
He had expected her to freeze him with a cutting dismissal. She’d walk away, her nose in the air, seek her father’s footmen, and instruct them to throw the blackguard out.
Instead, she’d placed her hand in his. They’d eloped that very night.
Tonight, in the semidarkness of Lord Abercrombie’s terrace, Isabella’s hair stood out like fire, but her eyes were shadowed. She hadn’t screamed and fled from him the night they’d met, and she didn’t scream and flee now.
On the terrace at her father’s house, she’d regarded him with courage, her eyes unafraid. Mac had touched his lips to hers, a touch only, not a kiss. When he’d eased back, Isabella had stared up at him in shock.
Mac had been equally shocked. He’d intended to laugh at her fluttering modesty and leave her. Debutante kissed, wager won. But after the first touch of lips, he couldn’t have dragged himself away if he’d been tied to one of Cameron’s swiftest racehorses.
At the next touch of mouths, Isabella had parted her lips, trying to kiss him back. Mac had laughed softly in triumph, told her she was impossibly sweet, and claimed her mouth. He’d wanted her in his bed that very night, needed it, craved it. But he’d ruin her utterly if he didn’t marry her, and Mac didn’t want to hurt a hair on this lady’s head.
Ergo, he’d married her.
That night, after the kiss, Isabella had opened her lips and whispered his name. Tonight, those same red lips parted, and she said, “Have you looked into the forgery I told you about yesterday morning?”
The present returned to Mac like a cold slap. “I told you, Isabella, I don’t give a damn if some fool wants to copy my paintings and sign my name to them.”
“And sell them?”
“He’s welcome to the money.” Whoever it was could have it and enjoy it.
Isabella regarded him in earnest, her eyes wide. “It is not only the money. He—or she—is stealing a part of you.”
“Is he?” Mac couldn’t imagine what part. Isabella had taken most of him when she’d left, leaving a hole where Mac had been.
“He is. Painting is your life.”
No, painting had been his life. Attempting the picture of Molly yesterday had been a complete disaster. The pictures he’d started in Paris this summer had been equally disastrous and had ended up on the scrap heap. Mac had accepted it—that part of his life was over.
“You know I took up painting only to annoy my father,” he said, his tone light. “That was a long time ago, and the old bastard is out of reach of my annoying hobbies now.”
“But you fell in love with art. You told me that. You’ve produced some wonderful work, you know you have. You might be dismissive of it, but your paintings are astonishing.”