The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 62Hart could not breathe. Eleanor stood there like some avenging angel, making Hart face everything he was, everything he’d become. By his own choice.
He ran a shaking hand over his face, finding it wet with sweat. You broke her. Maybe he had. Angelina had soaked up his needs, his terrors, his tempers, and his frustrations like a sponge. She’d taken everything he’d thrown at her. This did not make her a saint—she’d been far from that—but she’d put up with Hart and his life.
But Hart Mackenzie could never bow, apologize, or back away for the sake of another. He’d never learned how to control his anger or his selfish desires—to have any idea that he ought to control them. His father had vented anger by terrorizing, and Hart had never learned there could be any other way.
Whatever Hart wanted, he took. Those who got in his way paid the price.
He looked at Eleanor with her quiet strength. No matter what he’d done or how hard he’d tried, he’d never truly won Eleanor. And that made him so angry.
“I can ruin your father,” he said. “Don’t think I can’t. Ruin him, ruin you… easily.”
Eleanor gave him a grim nod. “I am certain you could. You are wealthy and powerful, and everyone will say what a fool I am for turning you down.”
“I’m not jesting, El. I can destroy him. Is that what you want?”
Hart waited for Eleanor’s fear, for her need to say anything, do anything, to make him withdraw the threat. He waited for her desperation to put Hart back to his laughter and wicked jokes, to smooth him over, to do what he wanted. Everything Angelina had done.
Eleanor looked at him for the longest time, shadows from the overgrown garden playing across her face. She never registered fear. Only sadness.
“Please go, Hart.”
Eleanor shook her head. “No. Please go.”
Hart caught her arm in a hard grip. She stared at him in amazement, and he softened his hold but didn’t let go.
“What will you do without me, Eleanor? You have no one to go to, and you have nothing. I can give you everything in the world. I told you that, remember?”
“Yes, but what price will I pay for it?”
Hart lost his temper. He knew, even then and all through the long years, that it was that temper that had lost him everything. He’d been too young and too sure of himself to understand that not everyone in the world could be bullied, especially not Eleanor Ramsay.
“You are nothing.” The words came out a snarl. “You are the daughter of an impoverished earl who is too feckless to understand where his own dinner comes from. Is that what you want for the rest of your life? Poverty and idiocy? If I walk away from you, you are finished. Ruined. No one will want Hart Mackenzie’s leavings.”
Eleanor slapped him. He barely felt the sting, but he grabbed Eleanor’s wrist again, and she glared at him, eyes blazing.
She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She wrenched herself from his grasp, glared at him another moment, then turned and walked away. Head high, her shawl and light gown billowing in the wind, Eleanor Ramsay walked out of Hart’s life.
Hart felt himself falling down, down, down, into an abyss of his own making. “El!” he’d called, his voice cracking, pathetic.
Eleanor did not stop and did not turn back. She walked on, never looking at him, until she was lost in the shadows of the overgrown garden. Hart had put his hands on top of his head and watched her go, his heart aching until he thought it would burst.
“I’m sorry, Mackenzie,” Lord Ramsay had said sorrowfully when Hart approached him. “I’m afraid I must stand behind my daughter. You did play a rather bad game.”
Even Hart’s argument that he’d taken Eleanor’s virginity brought him nothing.
“I’ve not started a child,” Eleanor had said when he’d argued this. She’d not even blushed when Hart had laid out the fact that he’d ruined her to her father. “I know the signs. I’ll likely not marry anyone else anyway, so it does not matter, does it?”
Eleanor and her father, the pair of them with their stubborn, steadfast, unyielding Scots stolidity, had defeated him.
End of Act III, Hart, the villain, exits. Never to return.
Act IV had to be Hart’s life since Eleanor—his father’s death, marrying Sarah, losing her on one day and his son the next. Hart, who never cried, had stretched across the floor of his bedroom and wept brokenly after he’d laid Sarah and Hart Graham Mackenzie to rest in the overdone Mackenzie mausoleum.
This then, was Act V. The heroine returns to drive the villain insane.
“Hart?”
Eleanor saw Hart blinking at the light as he jerked around to face her and the lantern she carried. His hand was on the chiseled letters of his son’s name, and he was holding on to them for dear life.
Chapter 17
Eleanor walked to him. Hart kept his hands on the plaque, as though loathe to take his fingers from the letters.
“What are you doing here?” Eleanor asked. “You have a perfectly good fire in your bedchamber. I saw it.”
Hart turned his face back to the tomb. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?” It was cold, which made her hurt arm ache, but Eleanor did not want to leave him here. “Tell me.”
“Losing you.” Hart looked at her again, his eyes anguished. “I was remembering you throwing the ring at me and telling me to go away, how arrogant I was.”
Eleanor shivered, thinking of that terrible day and how enraged and how proud they both had been. “That was a long time ago.”
“No, I’m still f**king arrogant. I should have sent you home when you came bleating to me about a job. But, no, I coerced you into staying with me, and you almost died for it.”
“Not everything in the world is your fault, Hart,” Eleanor said.
“Yes, it is. I manipulate the world, and then I suffer the consequences. Others more so than me.”
Eleanor’s gaze went to the tomb, where lovely, shy Sarah lay, along with her tiny son, Lord Hart Graham Mackenzie, one day old.