The Duke's Perfect Wife

Mac waved off a waiter who stopped with champagne, Mac now a teetotaler after years of nearly killing himself with drink. “What happened to your declaration that you’d be looking for your own wife?” he asked Hart after the waiter had whisked himself away.

Hart’s gaze slid back to Eleanor, who was greeting a marquis and marchioness like the old friends they were. Her eyes glowed as she talked, her gloved hands moving as she used them to emphasize her words. Her laughter pealed, and she turned to greet another, rather shy lady and draw her into the group, putting said lady at instant ease. That was one thing about Eleanor—she could charm the hide off Attila the Hun.

“Did you hear me?” Mac growled.

“I did hear you, and I told you to leave it alone.”

“You have Eleanor right in front of you. For God’s sake, kiss her senseless and send for the vicar. Then she can hostess your fˆetes, and Isabella can stay home with me.”

“Not for much longer,” Hart said mildly, still watching Eleanor. “You and Isabella will be running off to Berkshire, where the two of you can stay in bed all day and all night.”

“Because then you’ll turn Ainsley and Beth into your hostesses. You do know that your brothers are ready to lynch you, don’t you?”

“Having a lovely woman greet my guests is part of the plan,” Hart said. “Isabella understands that.”

Mac did not look impressed. “Hart, you’d schedule Christ’s second coming and have Wilfred send him an itinerary. You must learn to let things happen.”

Without waiting for an answer, Mac swung around and shouldered his way through the crowd, drawn back to Isabella.

Learn to let things happen. Hart took a sip of whiskey to hide his cynical laugh. What Mac did not understand was that Mac, Cam, and Ian led the lives they did now because Hart had refused to stand back and let things happen.

If Hart hadn’t orchestrated every detail of their lives, Cam and Mac might even now be trying to scratch out a living in some malaria-infested jungle or up in frozen Scotland farming the tough soil. Racehorses, art, women, and fine whiskey would be unheard-of luxuries.

And Ian? Ian would be dead.

No, Hart’s brothers did not know the extent of what he’d done, and Hart prayed they never would know. The only person who had any inkling was the lady in the bottle green gown smiling and talking with the guests, engaging them with her radiance. She was the only one in the wide world who knew the truth of Hart Mackenzie.

Eleanor watched Mac stride away from Hart, and Hart’s admirers surge around him to fill the space.

This ball was all about rewarding Hart’s staunch supporters and drawing more into the coalition party he’d formed, taking gentlemen away from Gladstone on one side, and from the Tories on the other.

The two ladies who slithered up on either side of Hart had no interest in politics, Eleanor was certain. The lady on Hart’s left was Lady Murchison, a viscount’s wife, the one on his right, the wife of a navy commander. The commander’s wife had her fingers firmly in the crook of Hart’s arm, and Lady Murchison skimmed her gloved hand surreptitiously down Hart’s back.

She wants to go to bed with him.

Of course she did. Who could resist Hart in his black coat and Mackenzie kilt, wool socks on his finely shaped calves? Hart went on speaking to the small group gathered around him, as though he never noticed the two ladies squeezing closer and closer to him.

Eleanor made herself turn away and beam smiles on the other guests. She was good at this—putting people at their ease, making certain everyone who wished to dance found the right partner, that the elderly guests weren’t set against the wall and forgotten. The turnout was quite a crush, though Eleanor knew the guest list was limited enough that those not on it would move heaven and earth to be on it. All part of the game to make Hart’s light shine the brightest.

Ian was absent tonight, but this was not to be wondered at. Ian hated crowds. Isabella said that when Beth was with him, Ian would walk through fire—or even a crowd—as long as his wife was by his side.

I cannot blame him, Eleanor thought as she moved about, chatting to all and sundry. People liked to stare and point at Ian. The Mad Mackenzie, they called him, a bit unfairly. He married that little half-French nobody, they’d whisper. The poor woman must have been desperate for a husband.

Not so poor, and not so desperate. Beth had inherited a large fortune before she’d married Ian. But Eleanor knew the way of the world—some whispered out of annoyance that Beth hadn’t married into their family, thus bringing them all that lovely money.

Eleanor did enjoy the chance tonight to catch up with some of her girlhood friends. These ladies were married now and preoccupied with worries about finding good nursemaids or their sons’ first ventures into public school. And, of course, because Eleanor was still unmarried, they wanted to matchmake.

“You must join us for our boating party, dear El,” one lady said with undisguised fervor. “My brother and his closest friend have just returned from Egypt. Baked quite brown—you’d hardly know them. What stories they tell! Quite fascinating. I’m sure they would be interested to see you.”

“My father would enjoy hearing their stories,” Eleanor said. “He loves travel, as long as he’s not required to move far from his armchair.”

The lady laughed, but her eyes were bright with determination. “Well then, you must bring your dear father along. We’ve missed him so.”

More such offers were forthcoming, all couched as outings that wouldn’t be the same without Eleanor. And, of course, a bachelor brother, male cousin, and even a widowed uncle would make up the party. Eleanor’s acquaintances, it seemed, had decided that their goal before the Season ended was to Get Poor Eleanor Married Off.

Through it all, Viscountess Murchison clung to Hart’s side. Mr. Charles Darwin might have claimed that human beings had descended from apes, but Lady Murchison’s ancestors must have been barnacles.

As Eleanor watched, Lady Murchison let her hand inch down until it rested on Hart’s plaid-covered backside. Hart was too savvy to jump, but he turned a hint to his left, which forced Lady Murchison’s hand to slide away.

Did the lady look disappointed? Not at all. She laughed and sent him a merry glance, looking all the more resolute.

Wretched cow.

Eleanor made her way toward Hart, pausing in each cluster of guests to chat and listen, admire and congratulate, advise and console. The ballroom floor was full of whirling couples, but Hart remained firmly on the sidelines, the duke famous for never dancing at his own balls.