The Duke’s Perfect Wife hp-4

by Jennifer Ashley

  Hart kissed across her lower lip, lingering on the place where he’d bitten her. A tendril of darkness danced somewhere inside him, but he wouldn’t let himself ruin this. Not with Eleanor’s lips soft under his, her mouth warm and responding.

  Sweet and tender, that was Eleanor, and yet she had a core of steel. Hart kissed her throat and then her shoulder, her skin damp with their wild dancing.

  Not enough. It wasn’t enough.

  Hart swept her into his arms and deposited her on the low table heaped with laundry. Before Eleanor could protest, he was over her on hands and knees as he laid her back.

  “You’ll ruin the linens,” she struggled to say. “They worked so hard on them.”

  “I pay my servants the highest wages in London.”

  “For putting up with you.”

  “For letting me ravish my love on a pile of clean laundry.” Hart plucked a pair of drawers from behind her shoulder, a lady’s drawers, made of thin linen and trimmed with lace. “Your laundry, I believe.”

  Eleanor tried to snatch them. “Hart, for heaven’s sake, you can’t be waving my knickers about.”

  Hart held them out of her reach. “Why are they so worn out?” The place that cupped her bottom was threadbare, and the lace on the leg openings had been mended many times. He picked up the companion camisole, again of fine fabric but carefully mended over the years. “Isabella needs to outfit you from the skin out.”

  “I can do it myself,” proud Eleanor said. “I’ll buy some new smalls out of my wages.”

  “You should have a roomful of new ones. Throw these away.”

  “I shall have to if you rip them.”

  “Don’t tempt me.” Hart drew the camisole across her cheek. “These are linen. I want to see you in silk.”

  “Silk is expensive. Lawn is more practical. And you shouldn’t see me in either.”

  Hart lifted the drawers again. “When you put them on tomorrow, think of me.” He pressed a kiss to the worn fabric that would go over the round of her buttocks.

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Cheek.”

  “Cheek? Was that a pun?”

  “You’re horrible.”

  “I never pretended to be anything else.” Hart dropped the drawers on the pile and lost his smile. “You make me wicked, El. When I walk into a room with you in it, everything and everyone goes to hang.”

  “Then you shouldn’t walk into rooms with me in them. You have so much responsibility now.”

  “And you danced back into my life just as I’m poised to grab my greatest success. Why?”

  “To help you. I told you.”

  Hart leaned to her, looking into her blue eyes. “I think God is playing games with me. Having his vengeance.”

  Eleanor frowned. “I’m not sure God works quite like that.”

  “He does with me, but then I’ve always had the devil in me. Maybe you were sent to save me.”

  “I highly doubt that. No one could save you, Hart Mackenzie.”

  “Good. I don’t want you to save me. Not right now.”

  “Then what do you want?” she asked.

  “I want you to kiss me.”

  Eleanor’s eyes softened. She wound her arms around his neck, and Hart forgot about darkness, forgot about Neely, forgot about everything but Eleanor.

  Their mouths met in the silence of the room, Eleanor’s a point of warmth. The laundry slipped and slid beneath them as Hart laid her down all the way and pressed his knee between her skirts.

  He longed to wrest off the skirts and the cage of the bustle that kept him from her. From there, it would be easy to remove her drawers and be inside her in one swift thrust. And then he could be with her, complete. Finding her heat, becoming one with the woman he’d always wanted. Craved. For years.

  If he asked politely, she’d say no. So, he’d have to be impolite.

  Hart tugged her glove the rest of the way off and pressed a hard kiss to her palm. He wrapped the glove once around her wrist and then around his.

  Eleanor watched, startled, not sure what he meant by it. Hart wasn’t certain either. He only wanted her close, and to stay.

  The strange binding of the glove licked heat through Eleanor’s body. Hart was heavy on top of her, and the glove around both wrists bound him to her, she to him.

  He’d taught Eleanor to kiss long ago. Showed her how to part her lips, how to let him inside her mouth. She’d let this man slowly, slowly take all her innocence. Seducing her, teaching her to give in to her desires and not be afraid.

  “El,” he whispered.

  Breathing hurt. Hart had said her name like that on the day in the summerhouse in Scotland when he’d laid her down and kissed her in the sunshine. He’d told her that he wanted her and exactly how he’d wanted her. Eleanor had laughed, pleased with her power. Eleanor Ramsay, bringing the great Hart Mac-kenzie to his knees.

  Foolish, foolish Eleanor. She’d never had power over Hart, and that very day, he’d proved it.

  He was proving it again. He kissed down to her décolletage, his breath heating her bare skin, his hair like rough silk. She found her unbound hand coming up to stroke his hair—she hadn’t told it to do that.

  He would unmake her. Again.

  Hart, no. Let me go.

  The words wouldn’t come. Hart kissed her throat, lips lingering, searing like a brand. She was hot from dancing, cold from their brief moment on the terrace, and burning inside.

  Hart’s body fitted against hers. Hart Mackenzie, again in her arms, where he belonged.

  He raised his head, his golden eyes dark. “I’ve missed you, El.”

  I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much it’s breaking my heart.

  Hart kissed her again, and Eleanor knew she’d surrender. Tonight, she’d let him have her, never mind the cost. It frightened her how easily she was going to succumb.

  The glove wrapped around their wrists made her shiver. More so when Hart lifted her bound hand and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

  He followed that with a lick and then a gentle bite. He nipped her again, then he raised his head. “El, I want…”

  “I know.”

  “No, you don’t. You can’t.” He shook his head. “You are innocence itself, and I am evil incarnate.”

  She smiled, her heart beating faster. “You are a bit devilish, I admit.”

  “You have no idea what a man like me wants.”

  “I have some idea. I remember the summerhouse. And your bedroom upstairs, and at Kilmorgan.” Three times she’d been Hart Mackenzie’s lover; three times in her life she thought she’d die of happiness.

  “That was innocent. I was holding myself back, because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  Hart was holding himself back now. Eleanor saw something desperate in his eyes that she didn’t understand. She longed to reach it but couldn’t.

  “I tell myself that you’re precious and breakable,” he said. “But you have a fire in you I want to touch. I want to show you my evil games and bring that fire to life, to teach you what that fire can be.”

  “That does not sound like so bad a thing.”

  “It could be, El. I can be very bad.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she said, still smiling.

  Hart’s laugh was laced with heat. “That is because you don’t truly know me.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  “You tempt me every time you look at me. You with that fan.” Hart picked it up from the laundry table and threw it across the room.

  Eleanor put her hand out in protest. “Good heavens, Hart, if you’ve broken that… Fans are expensive.”

  “I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll buy you a cart full, if you promise me never to use it like you did tonight—telling me and every man in the room that you wanted to be kissed.”

  Her eyes widened. “I did no such thing.”

  “You kept tapping the confounded thing to your lips and looking coy over it.”

  “I did not.�
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  “It made me want to take you, right there in the ballroom. I want to take you now. I want you bare on this table, and I want…”

  He checked his words, and Eleanor’s pulse raced. “You want what?”

  Hart looked at her with eyes that were molten. “I want everything. To be your lover in all ways. I want to come to your bedroom every night and teach you things that will shock you. Best lock your door, El, because I don’t know how long I can stay away.”

  His smile held sin, the man she’d known before finally shining out. But he was right; even all those years ago, Hart had held himself back. Eleanor had sometimes caught a glimpse of intense hunger when he looked at her, which he’d quickly mask.

  “I told you, I’m not afraid,” she said. “I’m not a virginal young lady, needing shelter and protection. After all, I’m the one who told Ainsley she should run away with Cameron.”

  “Did you, minx?”

  “She came to me for advice, since I had experience with a Mackenzie.”

  Hart smoothed Eleanor’s hair, his touch becoming tender. “I want you. It’s what I’ve wanted every day since I met you. It’s always been you. And that’s why you need to get off this table and get away from me. Now.”

  “But…”

  Hart dragged her up to him for another kiss that forced her mouth to open to his. His teeth scraped her lips, but her body rose to his, and her mouth responded, tangling and stroking with his.

  He released her suddenly, and she fell back onto the soft laundry, breathless, her lip throbbing where he’d bruised it.

  He made her feel loosened, freed. She drew her hand down his arm, thrilling to feel the muscles like steel beneath his coat.

  Hart leaned to whisper into her ear. “You need to stay far away from me, Eleanor Ramsay. You say you don’t need protection, but that is exactly what you do need. From me.”

  He kissed her again, a hard kiss, demanding. All at once, she felt him free her wrist, the glove sliding away to land on her chest. Hart kissed her lips one more time as he lifted himself away from her and got to his feet.

  Eleanor sat up, clutching the glove, trying to catch her breath. Hart ran his hand through her curls, then bent down for one more kiss.

  Hunger blazed in his eyes, one so fierce Eleanor knew she should be frightened, but she wasn’t. Hart wanted her, even after all these years, and that made her warm and excited.

  She saw him fight the hunger, watched him tuck it away beneath his iron self-control.

  He touched an emerald dangling from her ear with fingers that shook. “Keep the earrings,” he said. “They suit you.”

  Then Hart walked away, without apology, without good-byes. He slammed the door open and strode out into the bright corridor, leaving Eleanor alone and shivering on a table filled with crumpled laundry.

  Hart walked into his private dining room the next morning, out of temper, and found it full of people.

  He’d tried to snatch a few minutes’ sleep after the ball had ended but had given up, because Eleanor had invaded his dreams. In them they’d been dancing, dancing, but her green dress had slid down with every turn, revealing her beautiful and most distracting breasts. At the same time, she’d danced away, just out of reach. Eleanor had smiled at him, knowing his wanting, knowing he couldn’t have her.

  Hart looked irritably around the room as he made for the sideboard, ravenously hungry. “Do none of you have homes?”

  Mac glanced up from the foot of the table, where he was spreading marmalade on toast for Isabella next to him. Isabella paid no attention to Hart, continuing to scribble in the little notebook she always carried with her. Mac had accused Hart of organizing things to death, but Isabella and her lists could defeat Hart every time.

  Ian sat halfway down the table, a newspaper spread wide in front of him. Ian could read extraordinarily quickly if he didn’t get fixed on something, and he turned two pages in the space of time that Hart lifted lids from serving platters and shoveled eggs and sausages onto his plate. Lord Ramsay sat opposite Ian, also reading a newspaper, but far more slowly, absorbed in each page.

  Eleanor was the only person missing, and her absence made Hart all the more irritable.

  Lord Ramsay said, without looking up, “I do have a home, but I thought I was your guest.”

  “I did not mean you, Ramsay. I meant my brothers, who both have perfectly good houses and servants of their own.”

  Isabella gave Hart an unworried look from her green eyes. “The decorators have torn up the bedrooms. I told you.”

  Yes, Hart knew that. Ian, on the other hand, had a large house on Belgrave Square, which Beth had inherited from the fussy old lady to whom she’d been a companion. Hart knew that Ian and Beth kept the house in good working order for whenever they might take an impulsive trip to town.

  Ian, of course, said nothing, turning another page of the newspaper. He wouldn’t explain, even if he did pretend to listen.

  Hart thunked his plate to his place at the head of the table. “Where is Eleanor?”

  “Sleeping, poor thing,” Isabella said. “She worked like a drudge all day and all night and waved off the last guests with me a few hours ago. Likely she’s also exhausted from the way you pulled her around the dance floor. You know everyone is talking about that, Hart. What do you intend to do about it?”

  Chapter 8

  “Do?” Hart shoveled up a forkful of eggs and thrust them into his mouth. They were cool and congealing, but he chewed and swallowed the mess. “Why should I do anything?”

  “My dear Hart, you have the reputation of never taking a lady to a ballroom floor, under any circumstance,” Isabella said.

  “I know that.”

  Hart had learned a long time ago that singling out this young lady or that one to dance led to expectations. The girls and their mothers started believing he’d propose, or their fathers would use the indication of interest to try to finagle favors. Hart did not have time to dance with all ladies at any given event, and the families of those left out would take it as a slight. Hart had decided early on in his career that if he wanted to keep people dangling on his string, it was best to appear to favor no young ladies at all. He’d danced with Eleanor, and he’d danced with Sarah, and that was all.

  “I know you know that,” Isabella said. “Mamas have learned not to push their daughters in front of you at supper balls because the effort is wasted. And then, last night, you pluck out Eleanor and waltz her about with great fervor. You have ripped the lid off the powder keg. Some speculate you did it as vengeance for her jilting you—because now she’ll be talked about. Others speculate that it means you are once again on the marriage mart.”

  Hart abandoned the eggs and sliced the sausage. It looked greasy. What had happened to his celebrated cook?

  “It is my own business with whom I dance or don’t dance.”

  Lord Ramsay looked up from his newspaper, putting his finger on the column where he’d stopped. “Not when you’re famous, Mackenzie. When you are a famous person, everything you do is well picked over. Debated. Discussed. Speculated on.”

  Hart did know that, having seen his life and that of his brothers spilled out in newspapers all the years of their lives, but he was too out of sorts to be reasonable.

  “Do people not have anything better to talk about?” he grumbled.

  “No,” Lord Ramsay said. “They don’t.” He went back to his paper, lifting his finger from the words as he resumed reading.

  Isabella rested her arms on the table. Mac kept spreading marmalade, his grin at Hart’s discomfiture irritating.

  “I mentioned a powder keg,” Isabella said. “Your dance means that mamas all over London and far beyond are going to assume you fair game. They will try to throw their daughters between you and Eleanor, claiming they have the better match for you. In that case, Hart, we should get you married off quickly and avoid the battles to come.”

  “No,” Hart said.

  Mac broke in. “Your ow
n fault, my brother. You raised Isabella’s expectations at Ascot last year, declaring you were thinking about taking a wife. She grew quite excited, but since then, you’ve done nothing about it.”

  In the box at Ascot, Hart had known exactly what he was doing. He supposed his brothers had come up with the romantic idea that he’d ride up to Eleanor’s dilapidated estate, beating his way through the overgrown garden to find her, and carry her off. Never mind how much she protested—and Eleanor would protest.

  No, he would go about taking her as wife as thoroughly and deliberately as he ran one of his political campaigns. Overt courting would come later, but it would come. For now, having her live in his house and help Wilfred and Isabella organize his life was getting her used to the demands of it. He’d have Isabella coax her to a dressmaker’s so that Eleanor would grow used to pretty things and find it too much of a wrench to give them up. He would indulge her father in all the books, museums, and conversation with experts he could want, so that Eleanor would not have the heart to take it all away from him again. After a time, Eleanor would find herself so entrenched in Hart’s life that she’d not be able to walk away.

  The dance last night had been a whim—no, not a whim, a voice said inside him. A burning hunger.

  Whatever Hart’s reasoning had been, he’d use the dance to indicate to the world that he had set his sights again on Eleanor. Hart’s party would take the country by storm soon, the queen would ask Hart to form a government, and Hart would lay his victory at Eleanor’s feet.

  “I told you, Mac,” Hart said. “That is my own business.”

  “Marrying quickly will also save Eleanor from scandal,” Isabella said, ignoring both of them. “Attention will focus on your new bride-to-be, and the impromptu dance with Eleanor will be forgotten.”

  No, it wouldn’t. Hart would make certain that it wouldn’t.

  Isabella turned a page in her notebook and applied her pencil. “Let me see. The lady must be, first, Scottish. No English roses for Hart Mackenzie. Second, of the right lineage. I’d say earl’s daughter or above, don’t you agree? Third, she must be beyond reproach. No scandals attached to her name. Fourth, not a widow—that way you avoid her former husband’s family suddenly wanting favors or making trouble for you. Fifth, she should be well liked, able to smooth people over after you irritate them to death. Sixth, a good hostess for the many soirees, fˆetes, and balls you will have to host. Knowing who should not sit by whom, and so forth. Seventh, she must be well liked by the queen. The queen is not fond of Mackenzies, and a wife she likes will help things along for you when you become prime minister. Eighth, the young lady ought to be fine-looking enough to draw admiration, but not so showy as to incite jealousy.” Isabella lifted her pencil from the page. “Do I have everything? Mac?”