There was no alarm or anger in her voice. She might have been answering him in a drawing room over tea. Mac’s thoughts strayed to the last tea they’d taken in her drawing room, and he began to sweat.

He closed the door. “I’ve always admired your attention to cleanliness. Once a day, Lady Isabella is found in her bath, no matter how far the servants have to haul the water.”

“There is a tap at the end of the hall. They do not have to haul it far.”

Mac folded his arms so she wouldn’t see his shaking fingers. Soap suds and the damned sponge obscured the full view of her body, but the pink arms and the soft knee poking through the water made him ache.

“Did you not tell me that your mother once compared you to a duckling?” Mac asked in a light voice. “Because you like to splash about in whatever water is handy?”

“I suppose I never grew out of it.”

She was going to kill him. This was her dastardly plan—to let him glimpse what he couldn’t have so that he’d burn into ashes on the carpet. Evans could sweep him up and throw him in the dustbin; no more intruding Mac Mackenzie.

“Ian and Beth are returning to Scotland at the end of the week,” he said.

“I know.” Isabella ran the sponge up her arm, rivulets of soap and water trickling back into the tub. “Will you be going with them?”

The exact question he wanted to ask her. “That depends,” he said.

“On what?”

“On how many musicales and little soirees you’ll be putting on in London. It’s too cold now for a garden party, so I don’t imagine you’ll be holding them at the house in Buckinghamshire.”

Isabella arched her brows and slid the sponge up her other arm. “My social calendar has been predictable for years. An opening and closing ball for the spring season, garden parties in July and August, the most important races of the circuit through September, shooting season and Christmas at Kilmorgan Castle. I see no reason to alter my plans this year.”

“My social calendar seems to be much the same as yours,” Mac said. “What a happy coincidence.”

“For a change.”

Mac went serious. “For a great change.”

Isabella regarded him with her beautiful green eyes, and then she lowered her lashes and floated one foot to the edge of the tub. Mac watched the sponge glide from toes to knee, and his hunger grew.

Isabella lifted the sponge. “Mac, will you please wash my back?”

Mac stood still a frozen moment. She looked up at him, and he back at her.

Then he was across the room and shrugging off his coat before the sound of the last syllable had died in the stuffy room.

Chapter 11

The Here-and-Gone habits of the Scottish Lord of Mayfair cause much speculation all around. The Lady appears at balls and operas and hosts soirees with her youngest brother-in-law at her side, her own Lord nowhere in sight. —April 1877

Isabella held her breath as Mac slid off his coat and dropped it over the nearest chair. She’d been shaking since he’d entered the room. Tonight Mac wore black trousers rather than a kilt, cream waistcoat and white shirt, no different from any other man-about-town; but with Mac, there was always a difference. His presence filled whatever room he entered and pinned her like a flopping fish.

She found herself growing still more nervous as he looked down at her. Would he like what he saw? Mac preferred ladies who were curvaceous, and in the days after Isabella had left Mac’s house, she’d lost almost a stone, finding herself unable to eat. She’d regained some of her appetite, but her youthful plumpness had never returned. Mac had remained much the same in looks, although the puffiness that drink settled on his face had vanished, rendering his cheeks square and lean. He was more handsome now than he had ever been.

Mac pulled off his waistcoat and opened the cuffs of his shirt. Isabella’s hungry gaze absorbed him as he folded his sleeves to the elbows. His sinewy forearms were covered with dark gold hair that caught the light as he moved.

Once he’d adjusted his sleeves, he smiled at her and leaned to pluck the sponge from her nerveless fingers.

Mac made no pretense of not looking at her. His gaze traveled from her throat to her bosom, down her belly to her lower leg and foot resting on the edge of the tub. He squeezed out the sponge, holding it high so that the water sloshed back into the tub. Mac moved behind her and brushed his hand over the nape of her neck, and she leaned forward, bowing her head.

Isabella closed her eyes at the first touch of the sponge. Warm water flowed down her spine to the cleave of her buttocks; the water and the friction of the sponge made a fine sensation. If Evans had been washing her, the sensation would have remained merely pleasant. But it was Mac, with his hard body so near, his scent and warmth touching her, and pleasant became erotic.

Isabella laid her cheek on her knees and smiled as Mac continued to wash her back. He rested one hand on the edge of the tub, his skin brown and strong. Bits of paint clung to his fingertips.

The sight of the paint flecks made Isabella’s heart constrict. Of all the things she could remember about him, why did those tiny specks fill her with longing? Perhaps because the sight reminded her of what he was—an artist who painted for the love of it, not caring whether others praised him or censured him.

Isabella leaned forward and kissed his fingers.

Mac lifted his hand away, but only so he could snake both arms around her from behind. He pulled her back into his embrace, never mind how much water flowed out of the tub and over his shirt. He slid his hands across her slick skin to cup her breasts, and Isabella closed her eyes.

This was all so familiar, yet distant at the same time. Mac’s breath tickled her ear, and his big hands warmed her breasts while his fingers drew her nipples into hot points. He kissed her neck, his mouth a point of fire.

Mac, how I’ve missed you.

Isabella inhaled as Mac slid one hand down her belly and pressed his fingers between her legs. Isabella’s thighs opened at his touch. Her mind warned her to stop him, to modestly push him away, but her body wasn’t obeying. It had been too long, and Mac knew how to make her body sing.

Isabella closed her eyes, letting the wanton in her take over. When she lifted her hips so he might stroke her better, he laughed softly.

“That’s my wicked lady. You’re as smooth and sweet as I recall.” Another chuckle. “And as slippery.”

“It’s the soap.”

“No, love.” He swirled his fingers around her opening, fingers spreading her petals. “It’s you.”

“Only because it’s been so long.”

“I think you’re remembering what it’s like.” Mac nibbled at her earlobe. “Let me remind you, my Isabella, that you made me feel splendid in your parlor. Now let me return the favor.”

Isabella’s hips rocked as he cupped her, the breathtaking friction driving away all thought but Mac and his beautiful hands. He’d learned to read her well during their marriage, and he put his knowledge to good use. Mac’s fingers did their dance, teasing, tickling, making her groan.

As the first of her climax rose, Mac slowed his movements so that she would fade a little and build again. He did this the second time, and the third, until she was growling in frustration. Mac only laughed and brought her almost to climax again.

When she finally went over the top, Isabella nearly slid out of the tub onto him. Mac smiled down at her, his eyes dark. He was soaked, his shirt translucent with water. His hair was wet too, and the floor wasn’t much better.

Mac lifted her slippery body and kissed her. The kiss was deep, a lover’s kiss. She snaked her hand to the front of his trousers where his cock stood up thick and long.

“Yes, it’s hating me,” Mac whispered. “I want to gobble you up and not care.” He kissed her questing mouth, his lips bruising.

Isabella wanted more. She held onto him, fingers sinking into his wet shirt. “Mac.”

“I know what you want.” Mac lifted her to the lip of the tub. “Remember how well I know you?”

Isabella nodded. They’d played like this before, and she understood exactly what he needed her to do. She stood up in the water, moving her legs apart, and Mac knelt in front of her on the wet floor.

Her head went back as Mac pressed his mouth to her. If he knew how to use his hands, his skill with his mouth surpassed that. His tongue was a hot pressure that parted her opening and delved straight inside her.

This was heaven. Isabella threaded her fingers through his hair and held on as he drank her. She was going to die. She’d not felt womanly pleasure since they’d parted ways, and she couldn’t imagine that any man could have ever pleasured her better than Mac. He knew how to use his tongue and lips, even his teeth, to drive her insane. She found herself rocking back and forth, her incoherent cries ringing to the ceiling.

Mac’s unshaven whiskers scratched her skin as his wonderful mouth kept up its torture. He smoothed her back and buttocks, tongue encouraging her to release.

Her next peak was more than she could bear. She wanted to pull him inside her, she wanted him to carry her to bed and never let her leave. This was the Mac who had made her the weakest, the one who could dissolve her into a pliant puddle.

She wanted him so much. She would beg him to take her to bed, just this once. Isabella clutched his shirt, while his mouth drove her on and on. The shirt tore a little under her grip.

“Mac . . .”

Oh, drat it all to hell, she heard Evans’s heavy tread in the corridor.