The Duke’s Perfect Wife hp-4

by Jennifer Ashley

  My father listened as one stunned, then he tried to attack me. But I am no longer a terrified little boy or a fearful youth, he was drunk, and I easily bested him.

  He was surprised when I punched him full in the face. He’d trained me to be his obedient slave, to let him beat me any time he wished and to not shed a tear over the pain. He said he’d done it to make me strong. He’d made me strong all right, and now he was understanding how strong.

  At the same time I started proceedings to have Ian’s commission reversed, I’d had my man of business draw up documents for a trust, one that divided the current wealth of the dukedom and the Mackenzie family into four equal pieces, one for each son, Ian included. The documents also give me custody of Ian, making Ian’s fate mine to decide.

  Father railed against me, of course, but my man of business had done a thorough job. With one stroke of a pen, my brothers would be free, and Father’s money would be given to the sons he despised.

  He shouted at me and told me he’d kill me, told me he’d kill my brothers and see us in hell. I had to threaten him with violence, and I do not want to tell you about what I had to do. It is enough to say that, in the end, he signed the document and regarded me in stark fear. I’d become a monster, in his eyes, but I am only the monster he created.

  I gave the papers at once to my man of business’s courier, who was waiting outside. He took one copy to Edinburgh and one copy to London, and there they both reside.

  My father raged until he fell into a stupor and was put to bed. The next day, he strode out with his shotgun, saying he was going after a buck. He took the ghillie along, but I didn’t trust him not to double back, get himself and the shotgun onto a horse, and ride across country to the asylum where Ian still resided.

  My father must have known I would come after him, because he sent our ghillie ahead and waited for me in an isolated spot. Sure enough, the moment I caught up to him, Father had that shotgun in my face, his finger on the trigger.

  I fought him. It was a mad struggle for the gun there in the woods. The barrel seemed to be pointed at me forever, and I knew that if I died this day, my brothers wouldn’t have a chance against him, even with the documents he’d signed. He’d find a way to annul the agreement and make their lives an even greater misery than he had before. And Ian would be dead.

  I finally got the shotgun turned around, and now the barrel faced him.

  I can lie and tell myself that it was an accident. That I was fighting for the gun and it went off. But I had it in my hands, El. I saw in my mind’s eye, in the split second before I pulled the trigger, the years of terror we’d have to endure if he went on living. Our father was a devious and insane man, and God help us, we inherited our bits of insanity from him. I saw that Ian would never be safe from him, no matter how diligent I was, if I did nothing.

  I ended that hell in the woods. I pulled the trigger and shot him in the face.

  The ghillie came running, of course. I was holding the gun by the barrel, looking horrified. It had jammed, I said. Backfired when it had gone off.

  The ghillie knew, I know he did, but he said that, aye, His Grace must have failed to check that the barrel was clear before he fired at a stray bird. Accidents happened.

  And so, the thirteenth Duke of Kilmorgan is gone. My brothers suspect the truth, just as the ghillie did, but they have said nothing, and I have not enlightened them. I vowed in that woods that they would never have to pay for what I’ve done.

  Tonight, I confess my sins to you, Eleanor, and to you alone. Tomorrow, Ian comes home. Perhaps the Mackenzies can find some peace, though I doubt it, dear El, because we are so very bad at peace!

  Thank you for listening. I can almost hear you saying, in that clearheaded way of yours: “You did what you have done. Let that be an end to it.”

  I wish I could hear you say it, in your voice like a soothing stream, but do not worry. I will not rush to Glenarden and throw myself at your feet. You deserve peace as well.

  God bless you.

  Hart heard a faint sound. He looked up from the letter, tears in his eyes, to see Eleanor standing in the doorway, prim and proper in a dress buttoned to her chin, her lips parted as she stared back at him.

  Chapter 11

  “You were supposed to burn this,” Hart said. He couldn’t get up, could not move, drained from what he’d just read.

  Eleanor closed the door and came to the table littered with the letters. “I couldn’t, somehow.”

  He noticed that she did not need to ask which letter he meant. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, really. I suppose, because, of all the people you could have told, you chose to tell me.”

  “There was no other person,” Hart said. “No one in the world.”

  It hung there. Hart closed the book and stood up, his feet heavy. He needed to touch her. She watched him come to her, said not a word when he cupped her face in his hands and leaned to kiss her.

  She tasted of sunshine. Hart didn’t pause to wonder why she’d come upstairs, whether Isabella expected her to rush right back down. Hart only cared that Eleanor was here, that he had the warmth of her under his hands, the woman who knew his direst secrets and had never told a soul.

  He felt strong again in her embrace, his hurts flowing away under Eleanor’s caress. He waited for dark needs to grip him, to ruin this moment, but they didn’t come.

  He feathered kisses across her cheek, catching the freckles that he held so dear. “El…”

  “Shh.” Eleanor pulled him all the way into her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “Say nothing. There’s nothing to be said.”

  Hart pressed a kiss to the top of her head, loving the satin warmth of her hair. His heart was sore, but Eleanor was soothing away the hurt.

  “You pasted the photographs into a book,” he said. “A book about me.”

  Eleanor raised her head. She caught the look in his eye, and her face flamed as red as her hair. “Well, I…”

  Hart felt light as he watched her struggle for an explanation. He saw her go through several, then she grew redder still, and said in a tiny voice, “You are very fine to look at.”

  Hart wanted to laugh, mirth being all the brighter after the memories the letters had forced upon him.

  Eleanor frowned suddenly, touching his face where the chipped stone had cut him. “What happened?”

  “Nothing important. Don’t change the subject.”

  Her fingers were soft. “Even marred, you are a handsome man. You must know that.”

  Many women had told Hart so, but he’d never let himself wallow in their praise. Riches and position could tinge the perspective, rendering the unpleasant beautiful.

  “I don’t want you to keep the photographs Mrs. Palmer took,” he said. “Burn them.”

  “Don’t be daft. They’re finely done. And besides, if I grow angry enough at you, I’m sure I could sell them for quite a lot of money.”

  Hart lost his smile. “You would do that?”

  She pretended to consider. “Perhaps, if you keep telling me not to search certain places for who sent them—or to do anything I please, for that matter.”

  Her teasing melted him. “I was right. You are a bold lady. You haven’t changed since you lured me into that boating house.”

  “Lured you? I believe I was minding my own business, and you stalked me there.”

  “An argument that could last ages. But no matter.” He snatched up the book. “I’ll just burn the entire thing.”

  Eleanor lunged for it. “Don’t you dare.”

  Hart swung around and headed for the coal stove, its warm glow and Eleanor pumping life back into him.

  Eleanor ran after him and grabbed the book, and Hart pretended to wrestle her for it. She knew he pretended, because Hart could have snatched the book out of her hands any moment he wanted to. She yanked, and he released it suddenly, sending her a few scuttling steps back.

  She didn’t fall, because Hart steadied her as she t
eetered on her heels. He ripped the book out of her hands, dumped it to the writing table, and then caught her around the waist and lifted her with ease onto the bed.

  Eleanor squirmed against him as he came with her onto the mattress. But she didn’t struggle as much as she perhaps should have, because Hart was laughing.

  Hart, who never laughed these days, was doing it now as he lowered her onto her back, his kilt spilling over her skirts. His eyes sparked with deviltry, and he laughed.

  Eleanor sank beneath him with pleasure but discovered an impediment. “Ow, oh. Dratted bustle.”

  Hart locked his feet around hers and rolled over with her in the big bed. Eleanor landed on top of him, the bustle creaking as it righted itself like a ship from stormy water.

  Eleanor looked down at him, her laughing, teasing Highlander, and fell in love all over again.

  Hart skimmed his hands along her back, palms warm even through her clothes. She tried not to feel a tingle of excitement to feel his hardness obvious through his kilt.

  She bent her knees and waved her feet in her high-heeled, buttoned boots. “I must get up. My governess taught me never to lie on a bed in my shoes.”

  His smile turned wicked. “I’ll teach you to lie on it in nothing but your shoes.”

  Pleasant heat spun through her. “That would be… very naughty.”

  “Of course it would be. That is the point.”

  Eleanor tapped the end of his nose. “I admit that when I am with you, I find myself becoming naughty indeed.”

  “Good.”

  “I must be a very bad woman, mustn’t I, to let you take such liberties?”

  He grinned, his eyes alight. “El, your innocence rings to the skies.”

  “Not so innocent.” She gave him a mock frown. “Remember that I grew up with a father who thought nothing of discussing the reproductive habits of every living creature—including human ones—over the soup.”

  “Your mother must have been a patient woman.”

  “My mother loved him to pieces.” Eleanor felt a bite of sadness as she always did when her mother came into her thoughts, the woman dying, ill, when Eleanor had been eight years old.

  Hart’s eyes darkened. “I always envied you that. Your father and mother actually loving each other. Your happy childhood home.”

  “Yes, it was happy,” Eleanor said. “And then sorrowful.”

  Hart wrapped his arms around her. “I know.”

  “At least Father and I have rubbed along well all this time. Which brings me around again to my knowledge of mating habits. You may think me innocent, but I am quite worldly, in my own way.”

  “I know that. You keep nude photographs of a man hidden in your corset drawer.”

  “Which you snooped through, drat you.”

  “Giving me some idea of the state of your wardrobe. You have not instructed Isabella to dress you as I asked. Your gowns are horrible.”

  “Well, thank you very much.”

  He touched the pad of her lower lip. “Nip your pride in the bud, lassie. If you’re to parade about with this family, you’ll need decent clothes or you’ll stand out like a beacon. Isabella will outfit you and send me the bill.”

  “Indeed, no. People will say I’m your fancy woman.”

  He chuckled. “What an expression. I pay you wages.”

  “For typing. An honest wage for an honest job.”

  “Consider it a clothing allowance. I’ll not have my employees looking drab. My housekeeper dresses better than you do.”

  “Insult heaped on top of insult.”

  “Truth. Now I want truth from you—why did you keep all that trash about me?”

  “To feed your pride, obviously.”

  Hart laughed again. It felt good to have him shaking under her, true mirth in his eyes, not the bleakness she’d seen when she’d walked into the room. As though reading his letters had ripped the dressing from a wound, he’d bled, and now, she hoped to God, he could let himself heal.

  Or at least lie on the bed with her and tease her as though they were dear friends or casual lovers. He’d been like this when he’d courted her, laughing, teasing, goading her into admissions one moment, becoming incredibly tender the next.

  At this moment, he tickled her.

  “Stop.” Eleanor drummed her hands on his chest. “No wonder people fear the great Hart Mackenzie—vote for me, or I’ll tickle you to death.”

  “I’d do it, if it worked.” His smile faded. “Burn those photos, El. They’re terrible.”

  On the contrary, they were beautiful. She did not at all like the fact that Mrs. Palmer had taken them, but Eleanor could find no fault with the results.

  “No, indeed,” she said. “The well-wisher sent the photographs to me, not you, and I paid a solid guinea for the others. I’ll not burn them. They’re mine.”

  Hart tried the scowl, the Mackenzie glare, the little growl. Heaps more effective if he hadn’t been flat on his back, his kilt spread, his hair a mess. As it was, Eleanor kissed the bridge of his nose.

  “I’ll only get rid of them if they are replaced,” she said. “Use my clothing allowance to buy me photographing apparatus and have more photos done, ones only for me.”

  Hart’s scowl died, and his eyes took on, of all things, embarrassment. “Who would take these photographs?”

  “Me, of course. I know how to work photographing apparatus. My father hired a camera once, and all the chemicals and machines for a darkroom, so we could make plates of local flora for one of his books. I quite enjoyed it. I’m a dab hand, I must say.”

  “You can type, you can photograph. What can’t you do, paragon?”

  “Embroider.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “I’m very bad at it. And I never did learn to play the piano. In the maidenly pursuits, I’m not much good. I seem to do better at masculine pursuits.”

  Hart’s smile reappeared. “I’d say you were excellent at pursuing the masculine.”

  “Oh, very funny, Your Grace. What about the camera?”

  “You truly want to take photographs of me?” He sounded… shy.

  “I do indeed,” she said. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

  “I’m much older now.”

  Eleanor let her smile grow. She moved her gaze over his face with its healing cuts, his throat damp behind his pulled-askew cravat, his broad chest under shirt and waistcoat, his flat abdomen. She knelt back to continue looking at him, taking in his tight hips and thighs outlined by the crumpled kilt. The plaid had dragged a little above his knees to show her brawny muscle above his thick wool socks.

  She heaved a pleased little sigh. “I don’t see that there’s much wrong with you, Hart Mackenzie.”

  “Because I’m fully dressed. Fine feathers.”

  An intense and uncontrollable daring gripped her. Before Eleanor could stop herself, she grasped the hem of the kilt and inched it upward until it bared his thighs. Hart lay very still, one arm behind his head, as she looked him over.

  “Nothing wrong there either,” she said.

  “I ride every day.”

  “Very commendable. A sound mind in a sound body. I think these will look quite nice in a photograph.”

  Heaven help us, he was blushing.

  “Are you that worried?” she asked.

  “I was a young man when I was courting you.”

  “And I was a very young woman. Although, you do have wrinkles.” Eleanor touched spiderweb lines at the edges of his eyes. She liked them, because it meant he smiled a little, at least.

  “You don’t,” he said.

  “Because I’m a bit plump. Were I a slender woman, I’d be an old stick by now.”

  Hart touched her face with gentle fingers. “I’ve never seen you more gloriously beautiful.”

  Eleanor’s heart sped, but she knelt back before the treacherous warmth he stirred might make her say something she’d regret. Slanting him a smile, Eleanor flipped the kilt up past his hips.

  She stilled. “Oh.�
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  Hart’s eyes went dark. “What’s the matter, love?”

  “I thought you would be wearing flannels. It’s rather cold.”

  “I haven’t gone out this morning,” he said.

  Hart’s shyness was gone, he once again turning the tables. He rested his head in his cupped hands and waited to see what she’d do.

  Between his thighs lay the tight spheres of his balls, and above those, the length of him arced back against his abdomen, cradled by plaid.

  “I wish I had the photographing apparatus now,” Eleanor said.

  “Do you, naughty woman?”

  Oh, yes. Hart would make a heady portrait—him lying back, his kilt crumpled around his hips to reveal his wanting while he watched her with warm eyes.

  She’d learned his body a long time ago, becoming familiar with the scar that snaked up the inside of his right thigh, the way his hair curled along his legs, how one knee was not the perfect mirror of the other. The photographs didn’t show these small details; they were known only to the woman who had the privilege of gazing at him this close.

  Hart said nothing, did nothing.

  Eleanor touched the scar, finding the little ridge smooth and cool. Something sparked in Hart’s eyes as she traced the scar upward, but he remained still.

  His skin was warmer closer to the join of his legs. His scar ended halfway up the inside of his leg, but Eleanor let her finger continue along the trail until she found the crease between ball and thigh. She caressed there a moment, the last safe place, and then moved her fingers to the shaft.

  Hart’s body jerked the slightest bit. His gaze fixed on her, waiting.

  Eleanor’s smile widened as she drew her finger up the length of him to his tip. His skin was smooth, hot, and at the same time, silken soft. Strength encased in a firm package.

  “The male’s organ stiffens,” she said. “So that he might penetrate the female’s softest place and enter her for his purpose.”

  “Bawd,” Hart said, voice rough. “Who taught you such talk?”

  “A scientific journal.”

  Hart’s laughter shook him, but not enough to make Eleanor’s fingers slide away. “I hope you damn well don’t whisper such things to any other man, especially not in that sweet voice.”