The Duke's Perfect Wife

“I’ve been mad my entire life,” Hart said. “Driven. To take care of my brothers, to make sure we survived, then to take care of the nation, the world if I could. I’ve been terrified that if I stopped, if something happened to me, everything would go to hell. But it hasn’t, has it? It’s wonderful. And I am so bloody tired.”

“But what about the elections? Your party will win. Everyone thinks so.”

“Fleming can lead them. He’ll be good at it, and he’s not a trumped-up aristocrat no one will listen to. He will give Gladstone a run for his money.”

“But if you come back, you can win. I know this.”

“No. I am finished.”

His laughter died into a relieved sigh. The mad light perpetually in Hart’s eyes was absent. At the moment, he was an ordinary man enjoying the simple pleasure of a bath.

“But what about Scotland?” Eleanor asked. “Returning the Stone of Destiny?”

“A stupid dream. The queen adores Scotland, and she’ll never let it go. The days of Highland might and Bonnie Prince Charlie are over, thank God. The strength of Scotland will return one day, but it will take time. I wanted to force it, but I might have made it worse. Look at the mess in Ireland.” Hart splashed more water over his body and rocked up out of the tub, water crashing back into it. “The Stone of Destiny will return to Scotland—someday. I feel it in my bones.” He grinned. “But not today.”

Chapter 22

Eleanor cared nothing at the moment about the elections, the Stone of Destiny, and Scottish pride. She saw only Hart, tall and wet and naked, rising from his bath.

Water darkened the hair on his head and his legs, and on that between his thighs. He was hard with wanting, his smile telling her he knew she liked what she saw. Hart might have said the world would go on without him, but his conceit certainly hadn’t diminished.

The days of worry, fear, hope, and dread washed over Eleanor in a great wave, and her bravado deserted her. She pressed her hand to her mouth as she ran at Hart and flung her arms around him.

Hart swept her up and into his wet embrace. Her dress got soaked, and she didn’t care.

“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed. “I didn’t want you to be dead.”

“I hurt every minute I was away from you, El. Every bloody minute.”

Hart carried her to the bed, coming down on it with her. He got her out of her clothes, tearing buttons from holes, hooks from fabric. Eleanor helped him, throwing off the last of her clothes, needing to be bare against him.

Hart entered her with a gasp of desperation, and then he stilled. They lay together, face-to-face on the high bed, Eleanor’s sobs quieting.

“Eleanor,” he whispered. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” Eleanor touched his hair. “I’m going to have a baby.”

Hart stared. “What?”

“A child. A boy, I’m fairly sure. Your son.”

“A baby?”

Eleanor nodded. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind?” He shouted the word, and at the same time, the golden eyes of Hart Mackenzie flooded with tears. “Why the devil should I mind? I love you, El, love you.”

He laughed as he said it, then he came into her. Eleanor wound her arms around him, laughing with him as he started to frantically love her.

When Eleanor woke, hours later, Hart was asleep facedown beside her, hugging a pillow, blissfully calm.

She loved this—the quiet of the room, the snap of the fire in the stove, she and her husband in a little nest shut away from the world. Only Ian Mackenzie knew where they were, and Ian would never tell.

Would this last? Eleanor wondered. When Hart went home to Kilmorgan, when the world realized he was still in it, would Hart remember his declaration tonight? Or would the world and his ambition swallow him again?

She wouldn’t let it. Ambition was all very well, but now Hart would have a family. She would make sure he never forgot that.

A warm touch on her abdomen made her jump. Eleanor looked down to see Hart’s hand on her belly, he watching her. His leg was twined with hers, a fine position.

“What are you thinking, El?”

Eleanor rearranged her expression. “I was wondering…”

“Yes, minx? What were you wondering?”

“What we did in Mrs. McGuire’s upstairs chamber. Do you remember?”

Hart’s growing smile told her he did. “It is burned on my brain. I could see you in the mirror. It was heaven.”

Eleanor’s face heated. “Is that the sort of thing you did at the High Holborn house?”

He lost his smile. “No.”

“Well, then, what did you do?”

Hart turned onto his back and scrubbed his hand over his face. “El, I do not want to talk about the house and what I did there. Especially not now.”

“Now is as good a time as any.”

“I was much younger then. The first time I lived there, I did not know you; the second time, I was consoling myself for loss. I was a different man.”

“You misunderstand me. I have no interest in what you did with other ladies. None at all. But I want to know what you did. What are these dark proclivities everyone, including you, hints at? I want to know, specifically.”

When he looked at her, she was surprised to see that what was in Hart’s eyes was fear. “I don’t want to tell you,” he said.

“But it is part of you. You are an unconventional man, and I am not exactly a conventional woman. Secluded, yes; conventional, no. I do not want to live with you knowing you suppress your desires or tame yourself for me, or whatever you are thinking you ought to do. Banish the idea, Hart. I am not afraid.”

“I don’t want you to be afraid. That is the point.”

“Then tell me. If you don’t, I will imagine all kinds of bizarre things, put together from whispers and sniggers and peeks into erotic books.”

“Eleanor.”

“Has it to do with riding crops? Or manacles? There is a lot of jesting about manacles. Though why people would want to shackle each other, I cannot imagine.”

“Eleanor, what are you talking about?”

“Am I wrong?” What joy it was to tease him again. “Then perhaps you ought to tell me precisely, and ease my worries in my innocence.”

“Eleanor Ramsay, whatever man thinks you innocent is a complete idiot.” Hart locked his hand around her wrist. His touch was gentle, but his fingers were strong.