Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(16)

Alec pushed the need for that away with vehemence, at the same time part of him cried out for it.

He’d begun losing what made him whole when Genevieve, Jenny’s mum, had died, and then he’d lost Angus, his other self. He and Angus hadn’t been the closest of brothers—Alec and Mal had been best mates while Angus had stuck to taking care of their irascible father—but Angus had been Alec’s twin.

Alec and Mal had derided Angus for being their father’s toady, but the day Angus died, a light had gone out of Alec’s life. He hadn’t recovered from the blow of his loss and probably never would. Even Duncan’s death, as terrible as it had been, hadn’t leveled Alec like losing Angus.

He could not allow Celia to take him to a stillroom to nurse him—standing with her in the cool, stone-walled room, dried herbs scenting the air, Celia gently touching his skin would be too bloody enticing.

Alec shoved these thoughts down under the fa?ade he desperately lifted in place. “I’ll be well,” he repeated firmly. “I heal quickly. Now then, let us draw.”

He turned to the easel where he’d already pinned paper. Alec had bullied Lady Flora into lending him a dressing-table mirror from one of her guest rooms—she’d sighed and told Rivers to see to it.

The mirror was about a foot wide by two feet tall perched atop a small walnut drawer, polished and pristine. The drawer pulls were delicate polished brass rings and the drawer had a matching keyhole. The whole thing was meant to be set atop a chest of drawers or dressing table, so a lady could apply her powder or see the effect of her jewelry.

Alec positioned the mirror on the table next to the easel and motioned for Celia to sit on a stool before it.

Celia complied, her green-brown eyes on him. Studying his bruises? Wondering what to tell her father about a Scotsman pretending to be Irish?

Lady Flora was so certain she’d be able to wrap the Duke of Crenshaw around her elegant fingers, certain Celia was malleable and easily led, but Alec was quickly losing his faith in Lady Flora’s convictions. No doubt Lady Flora had the haut ton of Britain terrified of her, but Celia was proving herself to be far from the mindless young debutante Lady Flora thought her.

Celia perched on the stool and settled her skirts. “Why was Lady Flora so angry at my drawing yesterday?”

Alec hid his start by straightening the mirror. He’d wondered if she’d ask about that. Lady Flora had spoken too openly, underestimating Celia’s percipience. “Perhaps she’s a wee bit jealous of you, my lady,” he extemporized. “Of your talent.”

Celia let out another laugh that sounded like music.

Lass, don’t soften me. I must be hard as granite.

“Lady Flora, jealous of me?” Celia said. “How absurd. It isn’t talent—it’s a knack. I can catch faces and, as you say, landscapes. The idea that I will draw portraits of famous Whigs was Lady Flora’s, and my mother leapt at the scheme. I must redeem myself somehow, you see.”

Alec felt a bite of puzzlement. Celia on her stool was like a flower with her blue and green brocade skirts spread around her like petals. Lace decorated her cuffs and fichu that crossed over her stomacher, but the lace lay quietly instead of standing up in the froths Lady Flora wore. Sixty women in Brussels must slave every day for a month to make enough lace for one of Lady Flora’s ensembles.

“Now what can a lass like you have to redeem herself about?” he asked in true curiosity.

“Quite a lot, I assure you,” Celia said. “At least, according to my mother. Refusing to run off with a rake is apparently more shocking than remaining chastely at home.”

She closed her mouth with a snap, as though she’d said more than she meant to.

There was far more to that story, and Alec wanted to know it. “What rake?” The anger that had simmered in him since Angus’s senseless death boiled up, the mad Highlander delighted he might have someone to take out his rage on.

Celia snatched up a pencil. “He is not important. Shall I attempt your hand again? As your face is not fit to be seen today. Although …” Her eyes fixed on him, her focus unnerving, as though she’d decided learning to draw bruises and cuts might be a good thing.

Alec’s heart burned at her scrutiny. She was seeing him as she had yesterday, below the skin, as her drawing of him had revealed. Celia had caught the true Alec Mackenzie, the man he couldn’t contain under drab clothes and pretense, the one he must hide at all costs.

He abruptly turned the mirror until it reflected Celia, her face flushed, her pencil poised. “My face isn’t fit to be seen as you say,” he said, “so you will draw your own.”

Celia stared at her reflection as though she’d never seen it before. “Me?” She blinked, and the reflection blinked back at her. “I doubt my mother sent me to a renowned drawing master to return home with pictures of myself.”

Alec minutely adjusted the mirror. “Why? Your mum might quite like a picture of her daughter.”

“Her Grace.”

“Hmm? What’s that, lass?”

“My mother,” Celia answered. “She is Her Grace. Never Mum. Or Mama. Or even Mother.”

Alec stared. “Good Lord, she expects her own daughter to call her Your Grace?”

“I avoid the problem by rarely addressing her directly.” Celia moved her gaze from herself and rested it on Alec. “What do you call your mother?”