Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(31)

“To please your mum, aye. Learn this to please me.”

Celia looked up at Alec’s face so close to hers, his eyes that interesting golden hue. “What about pleasing me?”

“I think this is what ye want too, is it not?”

He saw into the heart of her, how Celia rejoiced at the spread of the world, its many colors and hues, the vastness of it all. How she felt as though she belonged in that vastness, not in the confinement of her father’s houses, no matter how magnificent they might be.

Celia wet her lips and resumed her study of the image on the paper. “It’s a bit difficult to see clearly.”

“For that …” Alec lifted a thick black drape from a chair. “There’s this.”

Celia watched, mystified, as Alec shook out the velvet cloth and settled it over her shoulders. The fabric slithered across her silk bodice and cut the chill in this high room.

She was further warmed as Alec pulled the other end of the cloth around himself, the piece so vast it encompassed them both.

“We cut all other light.” Alec leaned over the camera obscura, pulling the drape high.

The velvet fell forward over the box, enclosing them in a very small tent. In its darkness, the image projected from the lens was clearer, the colors sharper.

Wordlessly Celia began to trace the outline of the buildings, the horizon beyond, the smoke-filled jumble that was London. Bricks, chimneys, and square or stepped rooflines stretched south toward the Thames, steeples poked up here and there—Grosvenor Chapel, St. Martin-in-the-Fields—the blur of Westminster Abbey.

Celia’s pencil outlined them, capturing the strange beauty of London. Her mother could not understand why Celia bothered painting the foggy, dirty city, but Celia found a magic in it, a vibrancy she sensed from high above, one lost when she was on the ground.

Its vibrancy was enhanced by the presence of Alec against her side. Celia longed to know his family name—his clan as they called them, but she did not ask. She had no doubt he would not tell her.

His thigh pressed her skirt, his arm was heavy against hers, and the scent of linen and soap intrigued her—the clean scent of male, unfamiliar to Celia. Her brother, Edward, usually smelled of sweat, hair powder, and the pomander balls he used to keep the odor of London at bay.

Having Alec against her, the light-blocking cloth giving the illusion of privacy, made her heart pound and her blood sear.

“We must look ridiculous from the outside,” she said to hide her nervousness. “A drapery with a skirt and a pair of legs.”

“And two bums poking at the viewer.” Alec’s amusement rumbled. “Worthy of a cartoon, is that.”

Celia imagined it, exaggerated billows for her back end and his, his well-shaped legs in stockings and large shoes, her skirt ballooning twice its size to add to the comedy. That would be all that the picture showed, and the caption would read—The Camera Obscura.

“Shall we draw it?” she asked eagerly.

“And have it printed in newspapers up and down the country?” Alec’s grin was visible in the faint light. “Are ye sure ye can stand the notoriety?”

“It wouldn’t show our faces, only our back ends. I will draw it. You can show it to your daughter when she’s old enough to laugh.”

“I’ll keep it safe ’til then.” Alec’s voice went soft, the light in his eyes warming. “You’ve a good heart, lass.”

“For an Englishwoman?”

“If you like.” He brought his hand up to cup her cheek. Celia jerked, his touch in this confined space startlingly intimate. “Don’t move about so,” he said. “I only want to kiss you.”

Celia swallowed, her chest tightening. “You kissed me yesterday.”

“Aye, but that was to calm myself, to keep my anger from killing me. A soothing kiss. This one is just because I want to.”

Celia’s lips tingled at the remembered sensations of their encounter in the anteroom. “There are different kinds of kisses?”

“That there are, love.” Alec’s mouth was an inch from hers. “There are kisses of anger, and of passion. Kisses of friendship, and love, kisses for a daughter, for a sister, for a mother, even a dad if ye can make him hold still. Kisses for thanks, kisses for peace.”

Celia’s voice slid to a whisper. “Which will this be?”

“I think … friendship, aye? Maybe a little more.”

“Yes,” she said, barely able to speak. “I think I’d like that.”

Alec closed the last breath of space between them and brushed her lips with a soft kiss, a light touch. The next kiss was as light, but the one after that lasted longer.

Celia’s heart pounded as she returned the pressure, or tried to. She lost her balance and fell into him, and the drapery slid down and pooled on the floor at their feet.





Chapter 10





Alec caught Celia as she fell into him in a soft heap, her skirts tangling the leg of the camera obscura’s stand. She began to straighten, to apologize, but Alec pulled her to him, tilted her face to his, and kissed her in the sunshine pouring through the window.

Her lips softened, the protests dying, and she stilled in his arms, her mouth welcoming.

Friendship, he’d said, maybe a little more. But this kiss was for enjoyment, to taste a woman, to feel her taste him in return.