The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 46Eleanor lifted her already muddy skirt and picked her way down the slope to the bank, mindful of Sinclair’s words about slipping. Hart watched her come—she could feel his gaze on her all the way down the field—but he didn’t leave the boat to meet her.
Not until she’d reached the canal boat did Hart step to the rail, snatch the umbrella that threatened to turn inside out in the wind, toss it aside, and haul Eleanor across the foot of water between them.
Eleanor landed against him. Hart was soaking wet, his coat open, wet strands of hair against his unshaven face. From behind those strands, his eyes were amber and sharp, alive.
“What are you doing?” Eleanor asked, still angry. “Are you going to weigh anchor and float us away?”
“Angelo’s mother asked me to look after the boat. They’ve come to watch Cameron and Angelo train the horses.”
“She meant for you to have one of the staff do it, surely.”
“No, she meant me.” Hart gazed into the strengthening rain, which obscured the tents on the hill. “Dukes and errand boys are all the same to her. But it doesn’t matter. It’s quiet here.”
Quiet was one thing Hart Mackenzie did not have an abundance of, and Eleanor knew that when he returned to London, he’d have even less.
“Shall I go, then? Leave you in peace looking after your canal boat?”
“No.” The answer was abrupt, swift. Hart’s hand, heavy and strong, landed on hers. “You’re all wet. Let’s go inside. I want to show you the boat.”
He half guided, half pulled her down the few stairs to the cabin door. Hart wrenched open the swollen wooden door, towed Eleanor through, and shut it again.
“I’ve never been on a canal boat before,” she said, looking around in delight.
The Romany might be itinerants, but their home was cozy. The tiny stove gave off good heat. Pots and pans hung above the stove, scrubbed gleaming clean, and bunks at the far end were piled with colorful quilts and blankets. The bench that ran along one wall under the windows held embroidered cushions she recognized as Ainsley’s work.
“I thought you’d like it,” Hart said.
“I take it you had no run-ins with assassins on your jaunt?”
“No.”
Just the one word, when she’d been worried to death. “I am speaking lightly of it, because, Hart, I was so scared…” She trailed off, her hands balling. She wanted to fling her arms around him, and at the same time, she wanted to beat her fists against his chest. To stop herself from doing either, she folded her arms across her stomach.
She felt Hart’s warmth as he came to her, smelled the wet linen of his shirt and damp wool of his coat. Hart slid off the coat and set it aside, then he cupped her elbows with his big hands and drew her against him.
The kiss, when it came, was hungry. No teasing, no playing, no cajoling. A desperate kiss that wanted her.
He needs you.
Eleanor pressed her hands against his wet shirt, feeling his heart racing beneath her touch. His skin was too cold, his mouth, hot as flame.
Hart impatiently shrugged off the shirt and let it fall to the floor. He was bare beneath, no flannels covering his bronzed, tight skin.
He pulled her into the circle of warmth near the stove and drew her up to him again, thumbs opening her mouth. His next kiss was even more fierce, more desperate.
Eleanor’s fingers curled into his shoulders as she kissed him back. He kissed her harder, tasting her mouth, licking the rain from her lips. Eleanor ran her hands down his naked back, feeling hot, smooth skin.
Her body was on fire. Eleanor kissed his warm lips, chasing his tongue with her own. She felt the top buttons of her bodice open, then Hart’s fingers, easing the placket apart. His palm slid behind her bared neck, strong and warm, holding her.
He broke the kiss to swiftly unbutton the rest of her bodice and peel it down her arms. He didn’t pull off the bodice entirely—his eyes darkened as her arms were pinned to her sides by the fabric. Hart growled softly and kissed her again, she lifting her hands as much as she could to place them at his waist. She felt the in and out movement of his breath, the warm wool waistband of his kilt, the hotter skin of the man inside it.
“Eleanor. El.” He raised his head, eyes dark in the shadows of his damp hair. The smile, when it came, was sinful. “I keep having visions of you in nothing but your corset.”
Eleanor’s heart beat faster, a tingle of heat racing through her. “I’ve been having visions of you in nothing but your kilt. In fact, I have photographs to pore over if necessary.”
His smile went wider, and the Hart Mackenzie she’d fallen in love with years ago shone through. “What am I going to do with you, minx?”
“My father sent for some photographic apparatus so he can take pictures of the Berkshire flora. Perhaps he will let me borrow the camera.”
Hart stopped, and then his wicked grin returned. “Do your worst. But only…” He pulled her bodice all the way off, then slid his hand behind her back and smoothly untied the cord that closed her corset. The laces loosened and spread under his fingers. “Only if you do the same for me.”
The laces came undone, the little straps that held the corset over her shoulders sliding off under Hart’s large hands. He leaned close.
“These will be private photographs. Very private. Only you and only I will see them.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I will think on it.”
Hart smiled against her mouth, followed by a lick across her lips. “If you want me in only my kilt, you must agree to the terms.”
Eleanor’s face heated. “I told you I’d think on it.”
“I knew the moment I kissed you in that boathouse that you were a wicked lass. Prim and proper for the world, wild with passion behind closed doors. The perfect lady for me.”
“I’ve only ever been wild with you, Hart. You taught me.”
“Did I?” Hart was laughing, hands on her back, nothing between him and her but the thin linen of her camisole. “You were eager to learn.”