Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(4)

Well, he could cease being rude about it. Celia started down the stairs, determined to find another servant to fetch this haughty drawing master. If he lay in bed in a drunken stupor, it would be his own fault when the footman burst in to roust him.

A faint cry made Celia pause. The sound had come from somewhere within the house, behind one of the doors on the very floor she’d left.

Another whimper came to her, muffled but unmistakable. Somewhere down the hall, a baby was crying.

A baby in this refined house was as out of place as a weed that dared show itself in her mother’s garden. Celia couldn’t imagine Lady Flora letting any of her servants do anything so human as have children, nor allowing a friend’s child to visit. Lady Flora’s acquaintances kept their children well hidden from the world, in any case, not bringing them to London until they were old enough to be out in society.

Celia rustled back up the stairs and to the nearest door, opened it, found that room empty, and went to the next one. She tried a few more doors, seeing only elegant furnishings in the chambers behind them, all the while the fretful cry continued.

The chamber three down from the studio held the warmth of a bright fire and was filled with sunlight, a beam slanting from the window to touch the deep auburn hair of a man lying on a chair with his head back, fast asleep. A blue and white quilt covered his body, and in the clasp of one big arm was a tiny child with bright red hair. The babe snuggled into him, restless.

The man’s face was slack with sleep, but it was strong, square and hard, the nose sharp, once broken. A brush of red whiskers covered his jaw, a brighter color than the hair that straggled across his cheek, and his mouth was a flat, grim line. He was large-boned, his body taking up the entire delicate-legged chair, the quilt drooping to reveal a wide spread of shoulders in a loose nightshirt. One bare foot protruded from the bottom end of the quilt.

Celia’s gaze slid to the foot in fascination. She’d never seen a man unshod before. Even her brother, older by three years, hadn’t gone barefoot when they’d played together in the grasslands of Kent.

This foot was broad but well-shaped, the toes curled slightly in his sleep. The strength displayed in that appendage alone suggested that the rest of him would be as powerful. The blunt-fingered hand that cradled the child bore out Celia’s observation.

He transfixed her. Celia had never encountered a man as basic, as natural, as this sleeping giant. He splayed formidably on the chair, like a lion at rest, not hunting at the moment, saving his strength for later.

Celia’s gaze returned to his foot. Her too-vivid imagination pictured him opening his eyes, reaching out his hand to draw her near, sliding his strong foot up under her skirts along her calf. She could feel the warmth of the rough sole through her finely knit stocking, his leg twining hers as he pulled her closer. She’d tumble into his lap, and he’d stroke her hair with the same gentleness as he held the babe, and then he’d smile.

Fire seared Celia’s chest. Her breath, which seemed to have left her, came rushing back with sudden sharpness.

She took a quick step back, but something about the man would not let her flee. His presence held her in place as unswervingly as Lady Flora’s stares.

If he was the drawing master, he didn’t look French at all, but Scottish, like those great Highlanders who’d invaded England this past winter. Celia saw no claymore or dirk lying about or any evidence of a tartan to confirm this theory, only a man in a nightshirt under a quilt, holding a tiny child.

Celia could fathom no reason for a Highlander to be here, unless Lady Flora had given him leave. Lady Flora was eccentric enough to do so—she gave sanction to all sorts of scandalous people, like poets and artists, actors and musicians. Lady Flora’s lady’s companion, Mrs. Reynolds, it was whispered, had once been a courtesan.

Not all Highlanders had tried to rebel, Celia’s brother had told her. Half of them had fought for King George and Britain.

Even so, being in the presence of such a man was unnerving. And, Celia made herself be honest, a little bit exciting. Celia was never allowed to come anywhere near men who might be considered the least bit dangerous.

Celia could, of course, run back downstairs and ask Lady Flora who the man was and why he was here, but she didn’t have the nerve to face the reptile in her den again. The lion in this one was less frightening.

She went to the man’s side, disconcerted at how warm the air was next to him. The baby opened its eyes, looked up at Celia with complete trust, and said, “Blurp.”

“Sir.” Celia bent down as close as she dared, ready to dart back as she did when she woke her cat too quickly. “Sir.”

The Highlander slept on, his lips parting to let out a snore. The snore wasn’t loud, but it was deep and low-pitched, a sound only a man could make.

“Sir.” Celia poked her finger into his shoulder.

Nothing. He was a lump of quilt-covered rock. His shoulder was hard as granite, her fingers not making a dent.

The baby gurgled at her encouragingly, but if the father would not wake up when his child moved, Celia doubted he’d respond to her soft taps.

Unfortunately for the Highlander, Celia had been raised by a mother who had no patience for anyone in her house, from the scullery maid to the duke himself, being a lie-abed. The Duchess of Crenshaw had all sorts of tricks to drag a person out of sweet slumber.

Celia moved around the bed to the washstand, lifted the delicate porcelain pitcher, brought it back to the chair, upended the pitcher, and poured a cascade of water over the exposed foot.