The Duke's Perfect Wife

by Jennifer Ashley

  She threw out her hands in that helpless gesture Hart remembered, but woe to any man who thought this woman helpless.

  Lady Eleanor Ramsay.

  The woman I am going to marry.

  Her dark blue serge dress was years out of date, her parasol had one broken spoke, and her hat with faded flowers and short veil perched lopsidedly on her head. The veil did nothing to hide the delphinium blue of her eyes or the spread of sweet freckles that ran together when she wrinkled her nose, all the while smiling her little smile. She was tall for a woman, but filled out with generous curves. She’d been breathtakingly beautiful at age twenty, when he’d first seen her flitting about a ballroom, her voice and laughter like music, and she was beautiful now. Even more so. Hart’s hungry gaze feasted on her, he imbibing her like a man who’d gone without sustenance for a very long time.

  He forced his voice to remain steady, casual even. “What is this important thing you need to speak to me about?” With Eleanor it could be anything from a lost button to a threat to the British Empire.

  She leaned forward a little, the hook at the top of her collar coming loose from the frayed fabric. “Well, I cannot tell you, here, in an open carriage plodding through Mayfair. Wait until we are indoors.”

  The thought of Eleanor following him into his house, breathing the same air he did, made his chest constrict. He wanted it, he craved it. “Eleanor…”

  “Goodness, you can spare me a few minutes, can’t you? Consider it my reward for distracting those rabid journalists. What I have discovered could border on the disastrous. I decided it best I rush down and tell you in person instead of write.”

  It must be serious to make Eleanor leave her ramshackle house outside Aberdeen, where she lived with her father in genteel poverty. She went few places these days. Then again, she could have some covert motive in that head of hers. Eleanor could do nothing simply.

  “If it is that important, El, for God’s sake, tell me.”

  “Goodness, your face looks like granite when you scowl. No wonder everyone in the House of Lords is terrified of you.” She tilted back the parasol and smiled at him.

  Soft flesh beneath his, her blue eyes half closed in sultry pleasure, Scottish sunshine on her bare skin. The feeling of moving inside her, her smile as she said, “I love you, Hart.”

  Old emotions rose swiftly. He remembered their last encounter, when he hadn’t been able to stop himself touching her face, saying, “Eleanor, whatever am I going to do with you?”

  She popping up here before he was ready would force him to alter the timing of his plans, but Hart had the ability to rearrange his schemes with lightning speed. That’s what made him so dangerous.

  “I will tell you in due time,” Eleanor went on. “And give you my business proposition.”

  “Business proposition?” With Eleanor Ramsay. God help him. “What business proposition?”

  Eleanor, in her maddening way, ignored him to look around at the tall houses that lined Grosvenor Street. “It has been so long since I’ve been to London, and for the Season, no less. I am looking forward to seeing everyone again. Good heavens, is that Lady Mountgrove? It is, indeed. Hello, Margaret!” Eleanor waved heartily to a plump woman who was alighting from a carriage in front of one of the painted doors.

  Lady Mountgrove, one of the most gossipy women in England, fixed her mouth in a round O. Her stare took in every detail of Lady Eleanor Ramsay waving at her from the Duke of Kilmorgan’s carriage, the duke himself planted opposite her. She gaped a long time before lifting her hand in acknowledgment.

  “Goodness, I haven’t seen her in donkey’s years,” Eleanor said, sitting back as they rolled on. “Her daughters must be, oh, quite young ladies now. Have they made their come-outs yet?”

  Her mouth was still kissable, closing in a little pucker while she awaited his answer.

  “I haven’t the faintest bloody idea,” Hart said.

  “Really, Hart, you must at least glance at the society pages. You are the most eligible bachelor in all of Britain. Probably in the entire British Empire. Mamas in India are grooming their girls to sail back to you, telling them, You never know. He’s not married yet.”

  “I’m a widower.” Hart never said the word without a pang. “Not a bachelor.”

  “You’re a duke, unmarried, and poised to become the most powerful man in the country. In the world, really. You should give a thought to marrying again.”

  Her tongue, her lips, moved in such a sultry way. The man who’d walked away from her had to be insane. Hart remembered the day he’d done so, still felt the tiny smack of the ring on his chest when she’d thrown it at him, rage and heartbreak in her eyes.

  He should have refused to let her go, should have run off with her that very afternoon, bound her to him forever. He’d made mistake after mistake with her. But he’d been young, angry, proud, and… embarrassed. The lofty Hart Mackenzie, certain he could do whatever he pleased, had learned differently with Eleanor.

  He let his voice soften. “Tell me how you are, El.”

  “Oh, about the same. You know. Father is always writing his books, which are brilliant, but he couldn’t tell you how much a farthing is worth. I left him to amuse himself at the British Museum, where he is poring over the Egyptian collection. I do hope he doesn’t start pulling apart the mummies.”

  He might. Alec Ramsay had an inquisitive mind, and neither God nor all the museum authorities in the land could stop him.

  “Ah, here we are.” Eleanor craned to look up at Hart’s Grosvenor Square mansion as the landau pulled to a halt. “I see your majordomo peering out the window. He looks a bit dismayed. Do not be too angry with the poor man, will you?” She put her fingers lightly on the hand of the footman who’d hurried from Hart’s front door to help her down. “Hello again, Franklin. I have found him, as you see. I was remarking upon how tall you’ve become. And married, I hear. With a son?”

  Franklin, who prided himself on his forbidding countenance while guarding the door of the most famous duke in London, melted into a smile. “Yes, your ladyship. He’s three now, and the trouble he gets into.” He shook his head.

  “Means he’s robust and healthy.” Eleanor patted his arm. “Congratulations to you.” She folded her parasol and waltzed into the house while Hart climbed down from the landau behind her. “Mrs. Mayhew, how delightful to see you,” he heard her say. He entered his house to see her holding out her hands to Hart’s housekeeper.

  The two exchanged greetings, and were talking about, of all things, recipes. Eleanor’s housekeeper, now retired, apparently had instructed her to obtain Mrs. Mayhew’s recipe for lemon cakes.

  Eleanor started up the stairs, and Hart nearly threw his hat and coat at Franklin as he followed. He was about to order Eleanor into the front drawing room when a large Scotsman in a threadbare kilt, loose shirt, and paint-spattered boots came barreling down from the top floor.

  “Hope you don’t mind, Hart,” Mac Mackenzie said. “I brought the hellions and fixed myself a place to paint in one of your spare bedrooms. Isabella’s got the decorators in, and you wouldn’t believe the racket—” Mac broke off, a look of joy spreading across his face. “Eleanor Ramsay, by all that’s holy! What the devil are you doing here?” He raced down the last of the stairs to the landing and swept Eleanor off her feet into a bear hug.

  Eleanor kissed Mac, second youngest in the Mackenzie family, soundly on the cheek. “Hello, Mac. I’ve come to irritate your older brother.”

  “Good. He needs a bit of irritating.” Mac set Eleanor down again, eyes glinting with his grin. “Come up and see the babies when you’re done, El. I’m not painting them, because they won’t hold still; I’m putting finishing touches on a horse picture for Cam. Night-Blooming Jasmine, his new champion.”

  “Yes, I heard she’d done well.” Eleanor rose on her tiptoes and gave Mac another kiss on the cheek. “That’s for Isabella. And Aimee, Eileen, and Robert.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. Mac absorbed it all with an idio
tic smile.

  Hart leaned on the railing. “Will we get to this proposition sometime today?”

  “Proposition?” Mac asked, eyes lighting. “Now, that sounds interesting.”

  “Shut it, Mac,” Hart said.

  Screaming erupted from on high—shrill, desperate, Armageddon-has-come screaming. Mac grinned and jogged back up the stairs.

  “Papa’s coming, hellions,” he called. “If you’re good, you can have Auntie Eleanor for tea.”

  The shrieking continued, unabated, until Mac reached the top floor, dodged into the room from whence it issued, and slammed the door. The noise instantly died, though they could still hear Mac’s rumbling voice.

  Eleanor sighed. “I always knew Mac would make a good father. Shall we?”

  She turned and headed up to the next floor and the study without waiting for Hart. At one time, she’d become well acquainted with all the rooms in his house, and she apparently hadn’t forgotten her way around.

  The study hadn’t changed at all, Eleanor noted when she entered. The same dark paneling covered the walls, and bookcases filled with what looked like the same books climbed to the high ceiling. The huge desk that had belonged to Hart’s father still reposed in the middle of the room.

  The same carpet covered the floor, though a different hound dozed by the fire. This was Ben, if she remembered correctly, a son of Hart’s old dog, Beatrix, who’d passed on a few months after her engagement to Hart had ended. The news of Beatrix’s death had nearly broken her heart.

  Ben didn’t open his eyes as they entered, and his gentle snore blended with the crackle of the fire on the hearth.

  Hart touched Eleanor’s elbow to guide her across the room. She wished he wouldn’t, because the steel strength of his fingers made her want to melt, and she needed to maintain her resolve.

  If all went well today, she’d not have to be close to him again, but she had to make the first approach in private. A letter could have gone too easily into the wrong hands, or be lost by a careless secretary, or burned unopened by Hart.

  Hart dragged an armchair to his desk, moving it as though it weighed nothing. Eleanor knew better, though, as she sat on it. The heavily carved chair was as solid as a boulder.

  Hart took the desk chair, his kilt moving as he sat, showing sinewy strength above his knees. Anyone believing a kilt unmanly had never seen Hart Mackenzie in one.

  Eleanor touched the desk’s smooth top. “You know, Hart, if you plan to be the first minister of the nation, you might give a thought to changing the furniture. It’s a bit out of date.”

  “Bugger the furniture. What is this problem that made you drag yourself and your father down from the wilds of Scotland?”

  “I am worried about you. You’ve worked so hard for this, and I can’t bear to think of what it would do to you if you lost everything. I’ve lain awake and pondered what to do for a week. I know we parted acrimoniously, but that was a long time ago, and many things have changed, especially for you. I still care about you, Hart, whatever you may believe, and I was distressed to think that you might have to go into hiding if this came out.”

  “Into hiding?” He stared at her. “What are you talking about? My past is no secret to anyone. I’m a blackguard and a sinner, and everyone knows it. These days, that’s almost an asset to being a politician.”

  “Possibly, but this might humiliate you. You’d be a laughingstock, and that would certainly be a setback.”

  His gaze became sharp. Gracious, he looked like his father when he did that. The old duke had been handsome, but a monster, with nasty, cold eyes that made you know you were a toad beneath his heel. Hart, in spite of it all, had a warmth that his father had lacked.

  “Eleanor, cease babbling and tell me what this is all about.”

  “Ah, yes. It’s time you saw, I think.” Eleanor dug into a pocket inside her coat and withdrew a folded piece of pasteboard. She laid this on the desk in front of Hart, and opened it.

  Hart went still.

  The object inside the folded card was a photograph. It was a full-length picture of a younger Hart, shot in profile. Hart’s body had been a little slimmer then but still well muscled. In the photograph, he rested his buttocks against the edge of a desk, his sinewy hand bracing on the desk’s top beside his hip. His head was bent as he studied something at his feet, out of the frame.

  The pose, though perhaps a bit unusual for a portrait, was not the unique thing about the picture. The most interesting aspect of this photograph was that, in it, Hart Mackenzie was quite, quite naked.

  Chapter 2

  “Where did you get this?” The question was hard, harsh, demanding. She had Hart’s full attention now.

  “From a well-wisher,” Eleanor said. “At least that is how the letter was signed. From one as wishes you well. Grammar indicating the writer is not an educated person—well, at least educated enough to write a letter, but she obviously didn’t attend finishing school. I believe it a woman from the hand—”

  “Someone sent it to you?” Hart interrupted. “Is that what you are coming around to telling me?”

  “Indeed I am. Luckily for you, I was alone at the breakfast table when I opened it. My father was out classifying mushrooms. With the cook, who was not so much classifying mushrooms as choosing them for our supper.”

  “Where is the envelope?”

  Hart obviously expected her to hand the whole thing over to him on the spot. But that would spoil her plans.

  “The envelope did not reveal much,” Eleanor said. “Hand delivered, not posted, brought to Glenarden from the train station. The stationmaster got it from a train conductor, who said it was passed to him by a delivery boy in Edinburgh. One line on the envelope—To Lady Eleanor Ramsay, Glenarden, near Aberdeen, Scotland. Everyone knows me and where I live, so in theory, even if the sender had dropped it somewhere between Edinburgh and Aberdeen, it would have reached me. Eventually.”

  Hart’s brows drew down as he listened, again reminding Eleanor of his father. A portrait of the man had hung in this room, in the place of honor above the mantel, but it wasn’t there now, thank heavens. Hart must have taken it to the attics, or perhaps burned it. Eleanor would have burned it.

  “What about the delivery boy in Edinburgh?” Hart asked.

  “I did not have the time or the resources to conduct such an investigation,” Eleanor said, drawing her gaze back from the fireplace. A landscape of a kilted man fishing in the Scottish Highlands, painted by Mac, now hung there. “I plunked the last of our money on train tickets to London to come here and tell you that I’d be happy to look into the matter for you. If you will provide the funds and a small salary.”

  His gaze fixed on her again, sharp and gold. “Salary.”

  “Yes, indeed. That is the business proposition I mentioned to you. I want you to give me a job.”

  Hart went silent, the ponderous clock across the room ticking loudly into the stillness.

  It unnerved her to be in the same room with him, the world closed out, but not because he watched her with his assessing stare. No, what unnerved her was being alone with Hart, the man with whom she’d once been madly in love.

  He’d been devilishly handsome, teasing, and tender, and he’d courted her with a verve that had left her breathless. She’d fallen in love with him quickly, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever fallen out of love with him.

  But the Hart she faced today was a different man from the one she’d been engaged to, and that worried her. The Hart who’d laughed so readily, who’d been animated and excited by life—was gone. In his place was a man even harder and more driven than before. He’d seen too much tragedy, too much death, too much loss. Gossip and newspapers had put it about that Hart had been relieved to be rid of Lady Sarah, his wife, but Eleanor knew differently. The bleak light now in Hart’s eyes came from grief.

  “A job,” Hart was saying. “What are you up to, Eleanor?”

  “Up to? Our ears in debt, of course.” She smiled at
her joke. “Quite seriously, Hart, we need the blunt. Father is dear to me but a wee bit impractical. He believes we still pay the staff wages, but truth to tell, they stay and look after us because they feel sorry for us. Our food comes from their family’s gardens or charity from the villagers. They think we don’t know. You can call me an assistant to a secretary or some such, if you like. I’m sure you have several of those.”

  Hart looked into the determined blue eyes that had haunted his dreams for years and felt something break open inside him.

  She’d come like an answer to a prayer. Hart had planned to travel to Glenarden soon to convince her to marry him, knowing the pinnacle of his career was nigh. He’d wanted to win everything and present it to her on a platter, so she’d not be able to refuse. He’d make her see that she needed him as much as he needed her.