Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(18)
“She was a French dancer, and we married on a whim. Ye should have heard my father roar. I left it to my poor younger brother to break the news. The only thing that calmed him was wee Jenny. Now he’s a proud grandfather.”
Alec forced his tongue to still. His father, as far as Englishmen knew, was dead, on a list of those fallen at Culloden. So were Alec Mackenzie, Will, Malcolm, and Duncan. Dead and gone. Dust.
“She certainly is a lovely child.”
Alec snapped out of his thoughts to find Celia’s eyes on him again. She smiled, her face softening from her shy wariness.
“Aye, well,” Alec tried to sound modest while his heart swelled with pride. Jenny was a bonny lass, there was no denying it. “She’s sweet-tempered, that’s a fine thing. Though not when the teeth are poking through her gums and making her howl in pain. Strong voice she has.” Alec gave up on modesty and ended with a boast.
“You look after her well,” Celia said. “For the teething, try chamomile. You steep it in water then mix it with ice—I know Lady Flora has a steady supply of ice, even in the heat of summer. Let Jenny suck on the concoction. It should soothe her.”
“You know much of physic?” Alec asked, studying her. “Ye don’t look like a midwife. Or the doctors who swan about London in their sedan chairs handing out diagnoses like badges of honor.”
Celia shook her head. “Only what my nanny taught me. Every lady has some knowledge of the stillroom, and every estate has one. Who knows how far away the nearest doctor or surgeon might be?”
“Indeed.” There had been a stillroom at Kilmorgan Castle, where their cook had prepared vile-tasting remedies to feed the brothers when they’d been sick. Gone now, with the rest of the bloody place.
The stark image of destroyed Kilmorgan recalled Alec to what he was about. He was here to pump this young woman for any information—any inkling of knowledge—of Will. He had no business making a friend of her, no business getting ready to defend her honor against this bloody, vile marquess, whoever he was. Though Alec would not drop the matter. He’d settle it in his own way.
“Now then, young lass, get to drawing,” he said briskly. “If we’re to make a portrait artist out of ye, it’s time to learn.” He gestured at the page. “You’ve caught your likeness well, but there’s not enough of you in there.”
Celia gazed at the paper in perplexity. “What on earth do you mean? I am right there.” She tapped the paper with the end of the pencil.
The drawing was good—a young lady frowned in rapt concentration, one curl dangling from under her cap, her lips slightly parted. But whereas yesterday Celia had caught the fire hiding inside Alec Mackenzie, this sketch showed him a woman who could be anyone. The spark that made her Celia Fotheringhay was missing.
“Let me,” Alec said.
Before Celia could protest, he dragged her aside, stool and all, scraped another stool to the easel to plant his arse on, and began to add lines to her drawing.
Alec drew in the way light caught on the wayward curl, the slight flush of her cheeks that reddened under his scrutiny, the faint shine of her kissable lips.
The ornate clock on the mantelpiece ticked through moments of silence, the scratch of the pencil the only other sound.
The artistic fire took Alec unawares. He felt it flash through his fingers, pulling the spirit of Celia into them and then out to the paper.
He’d heard that people in some Oriental countries didn’t like having their portraits done, fearing the picture would capture and imprison their souls. Alec had thought such a thing interesting but ridiculous at the time, but in this moment, he understood.
He was capturing Celia, as she’d captured him yesterday. She came alive under his pencil strokes—the curve of her neck, the way one corner of her mouth was upturned, giving her an impish look. The shape of her eyes, which weren’t identical, the glow in them like a flame shuttered. She had fires inside, one a man might find when he loosened her fichu, eased open the lacings of her stomacher, slid his hand beneath her chemise to seek the heat of bare woman inside.
If seduction were necessary to sway Celia, to be his conduit into her father’s mind, Alec wouldn’t find it a drudgery. He imagined her in his bed, her body welcoming him, the heat of her lips beneath his, and then the anguished look in her eyes when she realized his duplicity.
Alec made his hand cease moving. She’d already been ruined by one man—could he let it be two?
When he disappeared from her life after that, Celia would go on as she was meant to, painting portraits of her father’s dull cronies, withering away in the glittering world of London society. She’d hate the name Alec Mackenzie—or at least Ansel Finn—but Will would be alive and well. Alec could return with Jenny to France and his family.
Celia leaned forward, eager to see what he’d done. Alec studied the drawing with her, watched her reach to touch a line, turn to ask him a question.
Alec didn’t want to hurt her. He wanted to befriend Celia, become acquainted with her in all ways, discover what would happen between them.
But she was a duke’s daughter, an innocent, and he was a fugitive. That was life as a Scotsman in King Geordie’s world. Alec was not welcome in that world, and the sooner he left it, the better.
“Tell me what happened to her,” Alec demanded of Lady Flora.