Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction (Mackenzies & McBrides #9)(90)

Celia received letters from her father, who told her he was well, missed her, and that her mother had buried herself in charity work and didn’t say much these days about Celia, marriages, or Uncle Perry and his ruthless machinations to rise in power.

Uncle Perry had recovered from his adventure and gone on travels—he was currently on his way to the American colonies, so said the duke. The king and prime minister had heard about the imprisoned and tortured Scotsmen, and Lord Chesfield was having to explain himself.

The scandal wasn’t made much of, Celia’s father went on, as most Englishmen were not sympathetic to Jacobite Highlanders these days, but the decisions about the regiment were returned firmly to the duke’s hands, the soldiers redeployed to the Continent. Edward had been promoted to Major, and he would soon command a troop in the Netherlands, continuing to fight for Maria Theresa of Austria’s right to keep her throne.

Edward wrote of his mother and Uncle Perry, but in less couched terms than their father.

Uncle Perry scuttled away to the colonies with his tail between his legs. The king and prime minister are not so much concerned with the horrible things he’d done to the men imprisoned, but that he assumed any power at all. He is a nobody and should behave so, was their final word.

Mother too, has been quite subdued. Father put his foot down, it seems, and she has ceased to cross him. She now asks what he thinks anytime she has a scheme, but mostly she keeps to herself. The house has never been more comfortable.

I hope to see you, dear sister, sometime on my travels.

I remain, ever your

Edward

Mrs. Reynolds wrote only one letter, a brief one. In it she said that she and Lady Flora were on a rambling holiday to the west coast of England, and that they would remain away from London until Lady Flora’s nerves were better. Mrs. Reynolds ended the letter by wishing Celia and Alec much happiness.



As summer drew to a close, Celia lay with Alec in their room near the top of the house, late evening sunshine drifting in to touch them.

They’d worked all morning on a portrait of baby Jenny—Celia had made a series of sketches that Alec was now helping her render into a painting. All the sketches were hurried, as the girl could not sit still for more than a minute or so.

Most of the sketch sessions became a game of Jenny running mightily from her father, who would swoop down upon her and lift her to the ceiling. Jenny would laugh and squeal and then wait for her opportunity to run again.

Alone in their chamber now, Alec lazily kissed Celia’s breast, his warm weight at her side. He trailed fingers down Celia’s abdomen to touch the dark curls damp with their loving.

“Jenny’s picture will be beautiful,” Celia said, sighing happily. “We’ll have to hang it in a sunny room in the new house at Kilmorgan.”

“If it’s ever built,” Alec said, letting out an exasperated growl. “Mal’s changed his mind on the plans again.”

“There’s time.” Celia touched his face, loving the friction of whiskers beneath her fingertips. “I don’t mind staying in Paris for a while.”

“Aye, I suppose we have more choice of what we eat here. But too much of a good thing wears on a man. I haven’t had porridge and sheep’s entrails in an age.”

Celia grinned. “Mal says you never touch such things. You certainly shoveled in the roast pork with endives in butter at supper tonight.”

“Ah, I must make the best of what I have.”

Celia nipped his shoulder. “You are the worst liar I have ever met.”

“No, I’m not.” Alec rolled onto his stomach, propping himself on his elbows. “I played the befuddled Mr. Finn well enough.”

“True. But not for me. I saw through you the first day I met you.”

“Ha. That’s because ye poured ice-cold water on my foot, woman. A man can’t keep up his disguise when he’s cursing and sopping wet.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Celia smoothed his hair, which had come loose from its tail. “I’m glad I came to know the real man, Alec Mackenzie, my wild Highlander.”

Alec turned his head and kissed her fingers. “My prim, stuffy duke’s daughter turned out not to be so prim.”

“Or stuffy,” Celia said, pretending offense. “I am quite open-minded.”

“Aye, about drawing a man with his clothes off. I was pleased ye didn’t faint dead away.”

“No indeed. I was quite interested. I’d never seen a man without his shirt before.” Celia let her gaze run across his shoulders to his back and down to his smooth buttocks. “It was most intriguing.”

Alec’s gaze went dark. “And look where it’s led you.”

“To Paris. Where I believe this conversation began.” Celia studied the round of his hips, the strength of his thighs. “I would not mind taking up my pencil and drawing you again. More of you, this time, I mean.”

Alec gave her a slow smile. “Prim and proper you are not, my wife. I suppose I could be your subject. Shall I fetch you paper now?”

“I believe I’d prefer to do it in the studio in the morning, with all the sunshine.”

Alec flushed, and Celia’s heartbeat quickened. She imagined Alec lounging on the chaise, his body bare, one leg dangling over the chaise’s edge as he bathed her in a sinful smile. It was enough to make her wish the night would speed through and the sun rise swiftly.