Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction: Mackenzies (Mackenzies Series Book 9)

by Jennifer Ashley

  “No, but she is unworldly and lonely,” Mrs. Reynolds said. “Her mother is the foolish one for not recognizing her worth. You are a handsome gentleman, Lord Alec. You could make Lady Celia your servant if you chose—she will be malleable because she’s been raised to be. She showed her good sense when she turned down the Marquess of Harrenton, a disgusting man, but that act reveals her romantic notions. She wants a marriage of equals and one of love. She has yet to learn, as I did, that there is no such thing. Her sense of romance is where you will win.”

  Mrs. Reynolds’s words were bleak against the already bleak day. Yes, Celia might have romantic notions, but Mrs. Reynolds’s description made Celia sound like a silly ninny, waiting to be swept off her feet, and Alec knew she wasn’t. She already had a fairly clear-eyed view of marriage truly in her world.

  Mrs. Reynolds continued. “You are not exercising your charm enough on her. You are too angry. Show her the Alec Mackenzie I have heard of, who had the ladies of Edinburgh and Paris happily surrendering.”

  At one time, before all the sorrow, Alec had been quite the rogue. Now he was a father, sober and responsible, his roué days behind him.

  Except Celia was drawing out the rogue again.

  “Seducing information out of Celia will take too long,” Alec said. “Lady Flora is a grand plotter, but her plans take time.”

  “We shall have to think of a way to increase the pace, then.” Mrs. Reynolds gave the house receding into the distance one last look. “Celia already watches you with much interest. When she spirited you out of the salon the other night, I wager you rewarded her. She certainly looked flustered when she emerged. One hard push, and you will have her.”

  “Aye, maybe.”

  Before he’d met Celia, Alec had planned exactly what Mrs. Reynolds suggested—draw her into his power, no matter what he had to do. But now that he knew her better, his tactics had changed. Celia had been hurt—she was like a wounded bird, afraid to fly again.

  Alec no longer had the desire to break her. If he hastened the wooing, as Mrs. Reynolds urged, he would do so in earnest, no pretense. He would make Celia his in all ways, and no matter what happened with Will, he would not give her back.

  Regardless of the fact he was supposed to be dead, his family name anathema, his home burned, Alec had money—his mother had settled it on all the brothers long ago. He had plenty squirreled away in many places, including Paris. But he’d have to live out his life there, in exile. Would Celia agree to that?

  He’d leave that up to her. Unlike Malcolm, Alec considered himself a simple man. Mal went through machinations and manipulation to get what he wanted. Alec simply took it.

  As the carriage rolled through the rain toward London, Alec laid his plans, which he did not share with Mrs. Reynolds. They were none of anyone’s business but his own.

  When the soldiers departed and Jenny was quiet, Celia tucked the babe into her cot, kissed her soft hair, and left the nursery.

  She descended the stairs, instructing a footman to call a sedan chair for her and have someone fetch her portfolio. Rain had begun in earnest, and Celia had the feeling she’d not see Alec today.

  Rivers met her at the bottom of the stairs, his face drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. Celia halted in surprise—she’d never seen Rivers distressed before.

  “Is everything all right, Rivers? The soldiers didn’t hurt anyone, did they? Or arrest anybody?”

  Rivers made a correct bow. “No, my lady. I beg your pardon. Things are a bit at sixes and sevens, but no harm has been done.”

  Celia frowned at him. “Clearly something is the matter. What has happened?”

  Rivers remained stiff, looking down his long nose. “Nothing, my lady.” He started to say more, but then his eyes swam with sudden tears. “Truth to tell, my lady, her ladyship has taken to her bed. She is very upset. Mrs. Reynolds can usually soothe her, but she is not here. I’m a bit worried.”

  The shock of Rivers revealing he had such a human emotion as concern stunned Celia a moment, then she took a breath.

  “I can look in on her if you like.”

  Rivers hesitated, as though wondering what sort of comfort Celia could offer, then he deflated in relief. “If you would be so kind, my lady. It is this way.”

  He started up the stairs, Celia gathering her skirts to follow.

  Rivers led her to a bedroom that was as large and grand as a ballroom. Two floor-to-ceiling windows faced the garden in back of the house, the ceiling painted with the same blue skies and cavorting cherubs as the morning room below it. A circular molding had been placed in the middle of the ceiling, the illusion of a dome with an oculus painted inside it.

  Beneath this dome was a bed with gold damask hangings. The bed’s canopy was gathered in a ring in the very center, draperies flowing from it over the four bedposts in an elegant cascade.

  The rest of the chamber held sofas, chairs, and a writing table. A double door led to an equally sumptuous dressing room where Lady Flora conducted her public toilette, though Celia had never been invited to one.

  Lady Flora lay in the bed, her slim form nearly lost among pillows, sheets, and velvet bed coverings. The sound of quiet sobbing reached Celia as soon as she stepped through the door.

  The fact of Lady Flora weeping was even more stunning than Rivers’s worry. Celia gave a nod to Rivers to leave them alone.

  Celia waited until Rivers, with a look of reluctance, quietly pulled the chamber door closed behind him before she approached the bed.

  “Lady Flora?” Celia asked softly. “Can I help?”

  Lady Flora sat upright with a gasp, her sobs breaking off. Her face was blotchy and swollen, her eyes red and wet, her hair tumbling down her shoulders in tangles. Her poised beauty had vanished, and Celia gazed upon an exhausted, unhappy woman.

  “What are you doing in here?” Lady Flora’s usual stentorian tones were weak and scratchy. “I will sack Rivers. Get out.”

  “What is it?” Pity moved Celia to climb the bed step to sit on the mattress and reach for Lady Flora’s hand. “Did the soldiers upset you? Did any of them hurt you?”

  “No!” Lady Flora sniffled and groped for a handkerchief that was just out of her reach. Celia plucked it up and handed it to her. “It is nothing. I am tired, that is all. I have been staying out too late and not sleeping enough.”

  Her wretchedness surely had more to it than missing sleep. “Mrs. Reynolds is certain to be back soon. Where did she go?”

  Lady Flora snatched her hand from Celia. “Never you mind. Yes, she will return. Rivers will send her to me. She will understand …”

  She broke off, a sob working up through her chest and out her mouth before she could stop it. She squeezed her eyes shut, hiccupping for breath.

  “I will stay with you until she comes.” Celia rested her hand on Lady Flora’s thin back as the woman bowed her head, her body shuddering. “You should not be alone.”

  Lady Flora tried to shake her off again. “You don’t understand. How could you? I miss her. I miss her with every breath. Why did they take her away from me?” The last words rose into a wail.

  Celia knew she was not speaking of Mrs. Reynolds, but Sophia, her daughter. Tears of sympathy stung Celia’s eyes as she put her arms around Lady Flora and gathered her close. This time, Lady Flora collapsed onto Celia’s shoulder and sobbed brokenly.

  “I’m so sorry.” Celia stroked Lady Flora’s hair, no longer timid with her. Lady Flora was a lonely woman, and she grieved. “So sorry.”

  There was nothing more to say. Sophia had been a beautiful and kind young woman, and she’d died far too young. The cold emptiness of the house was due to her absence.

  Celia puzzled over the words Why did they take her away from me? Lady Sophia had died of a fever, as had several others in London that year. Celia’s father had moved his family to the country to avoid it.

  She could mean the men who had taken Sophia’s body to be buried in St. George’s burial ground in Mount Street. Th
ere had been a tomb prepared at Lady Flora’s husband’s estate in Hampshire, but the new Marquess of Ellesmere, her deceased husband’s great-nephew, and Lady Flora did not get on, as everyone knew. Lady Flora insisted Sophia remain in London, where she would be near, as Flora had use of the Grosvenor Square house for her lifetime. Ellesmere had argued, but Lady Flora had prevailed.

  Celia mulled all this over as Lady Flora continued to cry, and Celia rocked her, but she was no more enlightened.

  By the time Alec arrived home, it was dark. He went straight to Jenny, happier once he could hold his daughter close.

  She was quiet tonight, and when he remarked on it, Sally told him Lady Celia had come upstairs to calm her earlier.

  “Did she, now?” Alec bounced Jenny, making her laugh. “Did ye like her, Jenny? She’s a bonny lass, isn’t she?”

  Sally gave him an aghast look. “She’s a duke’s daughter, sir.”

  As far as Sally knew, Alec was Alden Finn, drawing tutor from an impoverished gentleman’s family from Ireland. Not good enough for the likes of Lady Celia Fotheringhay.

  Alec grinned at her. “Doesn’t make her less comely, does it? Don’t worry, lass, I’ll hold my tongue around my betters.”

  “She was right good with the babe,” Sally admitted. “Jenny took to her, didn’t you, Jen?”

  Jenny shoved her fingers into her mouth and gurgled around them. She already knew she was endearing and strove to use that fact to her advantage. She was a Mackenzie all right.

  It was time for Jenny’s supper and bed, so Alec relinquished her to Sally, kissed her good night, and went down to find Mrs. Reynolds to continue their council of war.

  Mrs. Reynolds and Lady Flora were at table in Lady Flora’s private dining room, the footmen waiting motionlessly near the sideboard heaped with food. Alec was a bit surprised Lady Flora had not left for her nightly round of social gatherings, but no, she sat in her place at the head of the table, nibbling on a feast.

  Not eating much, though, Alec saw as he seated himself and accepted a large portion of fish and meat from the footman. Lady Flora appeared pale and unwell, though her eyes sparkled with her usual guile.

  Lady Flora dismissed the footmen after they’d served Alec, waiting until they pulled the doors closed behind them before she spoke.

  “Mrs. Reynolds told me all,” she said as she traced patterns in the butter sauce with her fork. “I agree with her that you must cease dilly-dallying about Celia and bring her under your power.”

  “I’ll not be harming the lass,” Alec said quickly, his irritation rising. “She’s been through too much for that.”

  Lady Flora sniffed. Her eyes were strangely pink, her face puffy, which explained why she hadn’t gone out. She never left the house unless she was the picture of beauty.

  “Celia is resilient,” Lady Flora said. “And I did not mean she should be harmed. She has kindness in her—” She broke off and swallowed. “You are quite wealthy, are you not? If you make her your mistress, you could arrange for her to paint leisurely away at a seaside spa for the rest of her life, out of reach of her foul family. How far are you willing to go?”

  Alec recalled the ghostly fog surrounding the abandoned house in the country, the rain staining the carriage windows like tears. He thought of Will Mackenzie’s sunny smile as he beguiled with one breath and bested you in the next. Was Will in that house, or another like it, waiting to face execution? His smile would be gone, his charm extinguished.

  Alec had already resolved that his father would not have to face losing another son. He and Mal would make bloody certain of that.

  “As far as I need to,” Alec said grimly.

  Lady Flora gave him a decided nod. “Good. I have an idea. But you must follow it to the letter. Agreed?”

  The shot that had killed Duncan rang in Alec’s mind, as did his father’s broken voice when he’d looked at Alec moments later and called him by the name of his dead twin.

  “Aye,” Alec answered, his heart burning. “I’m agreed.”

  Chapter 13

  Celia returned to Lady Flora’s in eager anticipation the next morning.

  “Is Lady Flora well?” she asked Rivers as a footman took her cloak and another departed upstairs with the portfolio.

  Rivers gave her a nod. His unflappable demeanor had returned, but his eyes held gratitude. “She has recovered. She is breakfasting with Mrs. Reynolds but asked not to be disturbed.”

  “Ah, it does sound as though she is better. Thank you, Rivers.”

  Rivers bowed, his evident concern for Lady Flora touching. Lady Flora was a difficult woman, but Celia was glad to see she engendered affection and compassion in Rivers and Mrs. Reynolds at least. It would be horrible to be completely unloved.

  Celia’s heart beat faster as she made her way to the studio, her anticipation of seeing Alec humming through her. She wanted to make certain he was safe, ask what he’d been doing yesterday, and whether he’d been hiding from the soldiers.

  He’d been gone from the house a long time, returning last evening after dark. Celia knew this because she’d been watching across the square, craning her head to study every carriage that so much as paused near Lady Flora’s house. She’d seen Mrs. Reynolds alight a little after eight o’clock, followed by a tall, cloaked and hatted man, difficult to distinguish in the distance, but she’d known it was Alec.

  Mostly, Celia simply wanted to see him. To hear him rumble lass in his warm accent, to feel the vibration of his laughter, to bathe in his quick smile.

  Alec was in the studio when she, breathless from her climb, entered it. Her portfolio was open on the table, and Alec, his back to her, leafed through the pages within.

  “I see you carried on with the landscape,” he said without turning. “Good. We’ll see if we can finish roughing it in today.”

  Celia went around the table to face him across it. She sent him a shy smile, wondering if he meant to ply her with kisses while they worked.

  She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about his kisses, his mouth a place of heat, his hands strong on her body. She hadn’t understood how fire could rise through her at the touch of a man’s mouth, how the places of herself she’d never thought much about could ache for him.

  He looked up at her, and Celia froze, chilled as though she stood in a winter breeze.

  Alec’s eyes were hard, the golden color without warmth. His expression was stiff, closed off, forbidding. His affability had gone, a cold man standing in his place.

  “What has happened?” Celia asked in alarm.

  Alec shook his head, forcing a quick smile that had no warmth in it. “Nothing, lass.” He bent over the drawing, his shoulders rigid as he studied it. “It needs work—but I think when we are finished, you’ll have something to be proud of.”

  Celia curled her fingers against her skirts, her eyes burning. He was shutting her out. She was familiar enough with the tactic to recognize it—she’d seen her mother subtly and then blatantly cut people when they didn’t respond to the subtlety.

  Whatever camaraderie she’d begun to form with Alec he’d shut off, like pinching out a candle flame. And it had to do with wherever he’d gone with Mrs. Reynolds yesterday, whatever they’d done.

  Her throat tightened. She’d been a fool to think she could form a friendship with this man, but his kisses had awakened something in her she could not dismiss.

  She swallowed and tried to breathe. Alec lifted a pencil and handed it to her. His eyes were empty, blank, with a hint of warning that she should accept that he was no longer interested in charming her.

  Celia took the pencil with stiff fingers, willing herself not to tremble. If she’d inherited anything from her mother it was pride—she’d never let this man know how close she’d come to making a fool of herself over him. If the kisses meant nothing to him then she would make sure he believed they meant nothing to her.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the drawing, to shut out the world and focus on the task
, though she couldn’t quite with the scent of Alec so close as he advised her on lines and shading.

  When the clock struck nine with its muted chimes, Alec straightened. “A little more work with the preliminary drawing, then we’ll transfer it to a canvas and learn a bit about color.” He cast his glance over her gown, but she knew he saw only the charcoal gray velvet, not Celia within it. “I’ll have Rivers find you a smock to protect your clothes while ye learn to mix paint. Your father can provide you assistants for that, but it’s best to mix your own at first. Ye get a feel for the colors and the texture of the paint, how it responds under your hands.” For a moment, the spark returned to Alec’s eyes, his passion for creating art unfeigned. It vanished as quickly. “Off ye go, lass. We’re finished for today.”

  “You missed my lesson yesterday,” Celia said, laying the sketches from the camera obscura into her portfolio.

  Alec nodded without guilt. “I had a few errands to attend to.”

  Celia ought to accept this, quietly place her pencil back into its case, and hurry away, saying nothing. Instead she pinched her lips together, drew upon her courage, and looked him in the eye.

  “You were gone all day, with Mrs. Reynolds. I saw you return—I can see the house from my chamber window.”

  Alec’s look of wariness reemerged. “Errands, that is all.”

  “You are lying.” Celia lifted her chin. “I will not demand to know what you were about and what has happened to make you angry, but please do me the courtesy of not lying to me. If you wish to cease the lessons, I am certain my mother can find another tutor. Good day, Mr. Finn.”

  She stalked for the door, ready to exit with her dignity intact, but Alec moved swiftly to stop her.

  “We’re not ceasing the lessons.” Alec’s eyes were no less flinty, but the intensity returned, and he spoke rapidly. “I can’t tell ye where I was yesterday, and it’s my business, but I don’t want ye gone. Ye have to come here tomorrow, as usual. Understand?”

  Celia didn’t, but she caught the adamance in his voice. Something was very wrong.