Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(89)
“This is Celia,” Alec said. “Your daughter.”
The duke, who’d glared so hard at Mary when she’d first appeared in his house, sent the same glare to Celia, but his eyes quickly softened.
“Well now.” The duke cleared his throat. “Ye appear as though ye can look after my good-for-nothing son. Got a bit of steel in you, I warrant. You’d have to, t’ run off with him.”
“I hope so,” Celia said. She made a very proper curtsy. “I am happy to meet you, Your Grace.”
She held out her hand. The duke took it, but instead of bowing over it, he tugged Celia close and enclosed her in an embrace. He said nothing, but his eyes were moist when he released her.
“She’s too damned fine for the likes of you, Alec,” he said as he straightened. The duke surreptitiously wiped his face, muttering something about dust.
“Don’t I know it.” Alec grinned at Celia. “That means he likes you.”
“Humph.” The duke set his face in its habitual scowl and stormed back into the house. “There’s a feast waiting for ye. Make Mary happy and come and eat it.”
“Ah.” Alec said as he followed the grumble into the house, Celia at his side, Jenny on his arm. “’Tis good to be home.”
Epilogue
Being part of the Mackenzie family was a considerable change for Celia. Alec’s persona of artist who struggled to find work to feed his child fell away, revealing a man of sought-after talent who lived in one of the most sumptuous houses in Paris.
They quickly settled into a routine, though Celia realized Alec was simply picking up where he’d left off. He spent the morning at the top of the house in his studio, taking advantage of sunshine pouring in through the skylight. Celia made the habit of leaving him alone to paint for an hour or so, and then joining him.
Watching him work in bare feet, breeches, and smock that slid from his wide shoulders was a joy in itself. Once Alec was satisfied with his morning’s work, he’d turn to teaching Celia.
Her portfolio had been among the things Alec had ordered taken to the boat, and they did their best to restore or copy the sketches Celia’s mother had destroyed. Celia now used a camera obscura to draw the Paris skyline, and Alec showed her how to translate what she traced onto canvas.
He resumed his instruction on mixing paint, the latter ending up very messy, their bodies paint-streaked, the two of them breathless with laughter and bright-eyed when they emerged for dinner. It took Celia a while to find all the places the paint had smeared her skin from their wild lovemaking on the chaise.
Alec, Mal, and Mary showed her Paris, its decadence, its beauty, its gardens. Alec continued to work on plans for an extensive garden for Mal’s glorious house, which they’d build on Kilmorgan lands one day.
Celia watched, her heart full, as the brothers put their heads together over their designs, making and scratching out notes, arguing or agreeing. Mal and Alec belonged together, and she and Mary had made a pact that they’d not be separated again, not for long stretches anyway.
On occasion the duke invited in the Scottish families who also now made their homes in Paris, and they’d have a dance. Plaids filled the main salon, emptied of furniture, and the music of bagpipes, drums, and fiddles invaded the house. Men and women caught hands and danced in circles, then twirled each other, kilts flying, laughter gilding the air. Alec taught Celia how to dance in the Scottish fashion, which was robust and heady, pure enjoyment.
She also had the pleasure of watching Alec perform a sword dance one night, his tall body steady as his feet moved in complicated patterns between a pair of crossed swords. He kept his gaze on Celia, his smile widening as the dance wound to a frenzy.
When he finished, he caught her around the waist and spun her away, his kisses as hot as the dance. He loved her that night with equal passion.
Will was a frequent visitor to the palace at Versailles, and on occasion he took Alec and Celia with him. Alec was welcomed by Louis himself—Alec tutored the king’s offspring from time to time. The king’s beautiful mistress, Madame du Pompadour, was charming to Celia, and asked Alec for suggestions on what paintings to purchase for his majesty.
On one visit, Celia at last was introduced to Clara, the rhinoceros.
The king had set up a menagerie at the end of the gardens, and Clara had her own pavilion. The Dutchman who was her caretaker kept a protective eye on her.
Clara of the delicate name was enormous. Her horn had been trimmed down, but she had a great wide head, a huge body and thick hide, and large flat feet. No claws, Celia saw, though she’d seen rhinos depicted with such things before.
Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked over the many gentlemen who’d come to draw her, resting on Celia in her blue and green skirts as though puzzling about them.
The odor in the pavilion was strong, but Celia seated herself to sketch the beast, Alec on a stool beside her making his own drawing. Clara watched them, placid and hardly vicious, closing her eyes in pleasure when her keeper scratched the side of her face.
Their subsequent paintings of Clara hung in the stairwell of the Mackenzies’s home, and became Jenny’s favorites.
Another benefit of living with Mackenzies was the letters. They flew thick and fast between London and Paris, never seeing a post office, as messengers smuggled them past guards and censors.