The Duke's Perfect Wife

by Jennifer Ashley

  Eleanor watched Hart change from the wicked young man she’d been in love with to the hard, passionless politico Hart had become.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll be right down.”

  David took a few steps forward, face coming into the light. “Good God, that’s Eleanor.”

  Hart scooped Eleanor from the railing, and she landed on her slippered feet, skirts falling decorously back into place.

  “I know who I am, Mr. Fleming,” she said as she snatched up the fallen shawl.

  David leaned against the wall below, brought out a silver flask, and took a drink. “Want me to beat on him for you, El? After we land Neely, of course. I need Hart for that. I’ve had a devil of a time getting him this far.”

  “No need,” Eleanor said. “All is well.”

  She felt David’s keen, dark stare on her all the way from the ground floor. “I love to hate him,” he said, gesturing at Hart with his flask. “And hate to love him. But I need him, and he needs me, and therefore, I will have to wait before I kill him.”

  “So you’ve said,” Eleanor answered.

  Eleanor did not look at Hart as she went down the stairs, but she felt his heat behind her. David put away the flask, took Eleanor’s elbow when she reached the last stairs, and guided her the rest of the way down.

  “Honestly, El,” he said. “If you need protection from him, you tell me.”

  Eleanor stepped off the final stair and withdrew from his grasp. “Do not bother about me, Mr. Fleming,” she said, flashing him a smile. “I am my own woman, and always have been.”

  “Do I not know it.” David heaved an unhappy sigh and lifted Eleanor’s hand to his lips.

  Eleanor gave him another smile, withdrew, and hurried back to the ballroom with the shawl, never looking back at Hart. But she felt Hart’s gaze on her, felt the anger in his stare, and hoped he would not take out that anger on poor Mr. Fleming.

  David Fleming’s coach was ostentatious, like himself. The prim Mr. Neely, a bachelor of Spartan habits, looked out of place in it. He sat upright, his hat on his rather bony knees.

  “Forgive the coach,” Fleming said from the opposite seat as Mr. Neely glanced about in distaste. “My father was avaricious and flamboyant at the same time, and I inherited his fruits.”

  Hart, for his part, couldn’t catch his breath. Having Eleanor warm in his arms, she looking up at him with absolute trust, had crashed into him and made everything else as nothing. If Fleming hadn’t interrupted, Hart would have taken her tonight. Perhaps there on the stairs, with the possibility of one of the guests looking up and seeing them rendering it doubly exciting.

  His hardness had deflated a bit when David had called up the stairs, but thinking about Eleanor on the railing, her foot sliding up to his backside, was making it rise again.

  Pay attention. We throw the net over Neely, and he brings in his dozen staunch followers, wrenching them away from Gladstone. We need him. Fleming was right to fetch me—he’s too decadent for Neely’s taste.

  The reformed Hart Mackenzie, on the other hand, who rarely touched a woman these days, could win over a prudish bachelor. Nothing like a rake who’s seen the error of his ways to excite a puritan.

  Neely gave David a disapproving look as David lit a cigar, leaned back, and inhaled the smoke with pleasure. David rarely bothered controlling his appetites, but Hart knew that David had a razorlike mind behind his seeming depravity.

  “Mr. Fleming believes he can purchase my loyalty,” Neely said. He made a face at the smoke and coughed into a small fist.

  David had nicely primed the target, Hart saw. “Mr. Fleming can be crude,” he said. “Put it down to his upbringing.”

  Neely gave Fleming an unfriendly look. “What do you want?” he asked Hart.

  “Your help.” Hart spread his hands, the words coming easily to his lips while his body sat back and craved Eleanor. “My reforms, Neely, will strike to the heart of matters dear to you. I hate corruption, hate looking the other way while human beings are exploited in the name of enriching the nation. I’ll stop such things, but I need your help to do it. I can’t work alone.”

  Neely looked slightly mollified. Hart knew better than to appeal to him by promising gains of power or wealth—Neely was a well-off, upper-middle-class English gentleman with strong ideas about one’s place in society. He disapproved of David’s wild lifestyle and Hart’s vast estate, but he didn’t condemn the two men entirely. Not their fault. Hart was a duke, David the grandson of a peer. They belonged to the aristocratic classes and couldn’t help their excesses.

  Neely also believed that the duty of the higher classes was to better the lot of the lower classes. He wanted them to remain peasants, of course, but happy and well-cared-for peasants, to show the world at large that the English, at least, still practiced noblesse oblige. Neely would never dream of drinking a pint “down at the pub” with a coal miner or hiring a Cockney pickpocket to be a valet to his brother. But he’d certainly fight for better wages, lower bread prices, and less dangerous working conditions.

  “Yes, well,” Neely said. “You have put forth some excellent ideas for reforms, Your Grace.” He wet his lips, gaze darting first to David, then Hart.

  David caught the look and shot Hart a glance. “Perhaps we can sweeten the pot, eh?” David asked. “I sense that you wish to ask us something. You’re in confidence here. Words will go no further than the three of us and these walls.” He patted the cushioned velvet beside his head.

  Hart expected Neely to ask for another tax on the aristocracy or their help on a pet project, or some such, but he surprised them by saying, “I wish to marry.”

  Hart raised his brows. “Do you? My felicitations.”

  “No, no. I mean, I wish to marry, but I am afraid that I am acquainted with no eligible, unmarried ladies. Perhaps, Your Grace, with your wide circle, you could introduce me to someone suitable?”

  While Hart hid his annoyance, David took a pull of his cigar, removed it, and looked through the smoke at Hart. “Perhaps Lady Eleanor could help? She knows everyone in the country.”

  Neely perked up at the mention of a title. “If this lady would be so kind?”

  David stuck his cigar back into his mouth, and Hart gave him an irritated glance. While Eleanor acknowledged that many women of her class married to make social or financial connections, she might not be best pleased at being asked to introduce the prissy and snobbish Neely to one of her friends.

  “I have to caution you,” Hart said to Neely, “that even were Lady Eleanor to agree to help, whether the young lady in question accepted your offer of marriage would be entirely up to her. A marriage is too nebulous a thing to guarantee.”

  Neely thought about this, and nodded. “Yes, I see. Well, gentlemen, I will consider things.”

  Hart felt the fish slipping away. But he had no interest in scouring England to find this man a bride. He’d have to resort to threats, not exactly what he wanted to do this night either.

  Before he could speak, David blew out smoke and said, “Tell us what you really want, Neely.”

  Hart glanced at David in surprise, then he wondered how he’d missed the signs. Neely was nervous, far more than a man wishing to be introduced to the right woman.

  Hart’s head was not in this game tonight. Of course not. His thoughts were on the stairwell with Eleanor, her instant but innocent response, the taste of her mouth, the scent of her skin…

  “You were about to ask for something else, before you settled on the safe topic of marriage,” David said, dragging back Hart’s attention. “Confess. You’re among friends. Worldly friends, at that.”

  In other words, you can be honest with us, because we’re as bad as any gentlemen could be. You cannot possibly shock us.

  Neely cleared his throat. He started to smile, and Hart relaxed. David had found a point of comradeship with him. Now to bring the fish into the boat.

  Neely looked at Hart. “I want to do what you do.”

  Ha
rt frowned, not understanding. “What I do?”

  “With women.” Neely’s eyes took on a hopeful light. “You know.”

  Oh, dear God. “That was in the past, Mr. Neely,” Hart said coolly. “I’ve reformed.”

  “Yes. Very admirable of you.” Neely drew a breath. “But you’d know where I can find such things. I like the ladies. I like them very much, but I’m a bit shy. And I have no idea which ones to approach for… certain things. I met a fellow in France who told me he put a halter on one and rode her like a horse. I’d like… I’d like very much to try something like that.”

  Hart struggled to hide his disgust. What Neely asked for was nothing like the exotic pleasures Hart had learned and enjoyed. Neely asked for what he thought Hart enjoyed—using women, perhaps hurting them, for his pleasure. What Neely meant was a perversity, and not at all the art Hart practiced.

  What Hart did was about trust, not pain—Hart promising the most exquisite joy to the woman who surrendered to him absolutely. He’d schooled himself to understand exactly what each woman wanted and exactly how to give it to her, and how to ease her back safely in the end. A lady never needed to fear when she was in Hart’s care.

  However, the art could be dangerous, and an inexperienced pervert like Neely could truly hurt someone. The thought that Neely assumed Hart enjoyed handing out pain annoyed him. The man was an idiot.

  But Hart needed the man’s votes. He swallowed his anger and said, “Mrs. Whitaker.”

  “Ah.” David smiled and gestured with the cigar. “Excellent choice.”

  “Who is Mrs. Whitaker?” Neely asked.

  “A woman who will take good care of you,” Hart said. Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan who knew how to contain overexcited men like Neely. “David will see you to her house.”

  Neely looked eager and fearful at the same time. “Do you mean on the moment?”

  “No time like the present,” Hart said. “I will leave you in Mr. Fleming’s hands. Good evening, Mr. Neely. I must return to my guests.”

  “Quite.” Neely made a bow in his seat but did not extend a hand. He’d never think it proper to offer to shake hands with a duke. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

  David and Hart shared another glance, and Hart opened the door. He climbed with relief out of the smoky carriage as David stretched his legs across the seat Hart had vacated and crossed his ankles, the very picture of decadence. A footman shut the door and the carriage rolled away.

  Hart’s breath steamed in the chill of the night, but his house glowed with light and warmth. Music, voices, and laughter poured out the front door.

  Hart strode into the house much more willingly than he’d walked out of it. He wanted to see Eleanor. Needed to see her. Needed her warm blue eyes and her wide smile, her effusive chatter like sudden rain on a dry, hot day. He wanted her beauty to cancel out the ugliness of Neely, wanted to return to the innocent pleasure of kissing her freckles, which had tasted honey sweet.

  There she was, in the bottle green that for some reason brought out the blue of her eyes, the emerald earrings that had belonged to his mother dangling from her ears. A strange relief wafted over Hart when he looked at her, as though the ball, the meeting with Neely—all of it—was nothing, and only Eleanor was real.

  She was chatting animatedly—nothing shy about Eleanor—to ladies and to gentlemen, gesturing with a furled fan she seemed to have acquired. Or perhaps it had dangled from her wrist the entire night; Hart couldn’t remember. The closed fan became a perfect horizontal as she moved her hand to make a point, then the fan came up to touch her lips.

  Hart went rock hard. He stopped in the doorway to the ballroom, one hand on the door frame to keep himself from falling over.

  He wanted Eleanor for all those dark pleasures he’d scorned Neely for not understanding. He wanted her surrendering to his hands, trusting him with everything she had, while he took the fan and touched her with it. He wanted to see her astonishment when she discovered how profound the pleasure of simple touching could be, the depth and breadth of it.

  He wanted it now.

  Hart pushed himself away from the door frame, giving cursory nods to those who tried to gain his attention, and made his way to Eleanor.

  Chapter 7

  Eleanor saw him coming out of the corner of her eye. Hart looked like an enraged bull, or at least an enraged Highlander in a kilt. His short hair was rumpled, the light in his eyes was harsh, and those who attempted to speak to him melted out of his way.

  Things with this Mr. Neely must not have gone well.

  Hart kept barreling toward her, as though he meant to sweep her over his shoulder, as he had at the High Holborn house, and carry her off. The strength of him when he’d done that had thrilled her at the same time it had infuriated her.

  Hart stopped in front of her, doing nothing so scandalous, but the tension in his body spilled to hers. He fixed Eleanor with his eagle stare and stuck out one large, gloved hand. “Dance with me, El.”

  The command jerked out of him, and Eleanor knew he did not really want to dance. But they were at a ball full of people, in a place where Hart could not voice what he truly wanted.

  Eleanor glanced at his offered hand. “Hart Mackenzie never dances at balls. Known for it, you are.”

  “I’m prepared to give everyone a shock.”

  Eleanor wasn’t certain what she saw in his eyes—rage, need, and again that bleak emptiness. Something was hurting him. She had the feeling that if she refused this simple request, the blow would erase every bit of new understanding they’d achieved.

  “Very well,” she said, placing her hand in his. “Let us shock the world.”

  Hart’s smile blazed out, the dangerous man back. “Your words.” He nearly crushed Eleanor’s hand as he pulled her onto the ballroom floor. “Let us waltz, Lady El.”

  “It’s a Scottish reel,” she said. The fiddles and drums were around playing a raucous beat.

  “Not for long.”

  Mac and Isabella were leading the reel, ladies and gentlemen romping around and around the circles with them. Hart walked with Eleanor straight to the orchestra leader and snapped his fingers at the man. The fiddles stuttered to a halt as Hart spoke to the conductor in a low voice, then the man nodded and raised his baton again. The opening strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room, and the dancers looked about in confusion.

  Hart guided Eleanor to the middle of the room with his hand on the small of her back. The orchestra gained strength, and the bewildered ladies and gentlemen started forming couples.

  Hart stepped into the waltz with the downbeat of the main theme, pulling Eleanor effortlessly with him. They swirled past Mac and Isabella, who remained where they’d been for the reel.

  “What the blazes are you up to, Hart?” Mac asked him.

  “Dance with your wife,” Hart returned.

  “Delighted to.” Mac, grinning, clasped Isabella in his arms and whirled her away.

  “You’re getting yourself talked about,” Eleanor said as Hart swung her to the center of the ballroom.

  “I need to be talked about. Stop looking at me as though you’re afraid I’ll tread all over your feet. Do you think I never dance because I’ve forgotten how?”

  “I believe you do whatever you please for your own reasons, Hart Mackenzie.”

  No, Hart hadn’t forgotten how to dance. The floor was crowded, yet Hart whirled her through the other dancers without danger, propelling her with strength. His hand was strong on her waist, the other firmly holding her gloved hand. His muscular shoulder moved under Eleanor’s touch, and the contact electrified her.

  Hart took her across the ballroom floor, spinning her and spinning her. The vast and opulent room whirled past, and she saw the blur of his guests staring in astonishment.

  Hart Mackenzie never danced, and now he danced with Lady Eleanor Ramsay, the very-much-on-the-shelf spinster who’d turned him down years before. And how he danced. Not with polite boredom, but with energy and fervor
.

  Hart’s look said he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. He’d dance with Eleanor tonight, and the world could go hang. Eleanor’s feet felt light, her heart lighter still. She wanted to lean back in his arms and laugh and laugh.

  “We waltzed the first night we met,” she said over the music. “Remember? We were the talk of the town—decadent Lord Hart singling out young Eleanor Ramsay. So delicious.”

  The raw look in Hart’s eyes didn’t lessen. “That wasn’t the first time we met. You were nine and I was sixteen. You were at Kilmorgan, trying to play a tune on our grand piano.”

  “And you sat down next to me to teach me how to play it.” Eleanor smiled at the memory, the tall Hart, already handsome in his frock coat and kilt, with an air of arrogant confidence. “In the most condescending way possible, of course. A young man from Harrow deigning to notice a child.”