“Hmm?” Her brows rose. “Oh, Mrs. Thomas. She got word that her sister was ill, and I told her she should take a week and visit her. She’s in Kent. The sister, I mean, although by now, Mrs. Thomas will be there too, of course. There wasn’t time to find a replacement before this morning, but I imagine one will be here by tonight. Mrs. Mayhew is seeing to it.”
When had he lost control? The day Eleanor Ramsay had lurked in a crowd of journalists in St. James’s and Hart had been foolish enough to scoop her up and bring her home.
Only this morning he’d thought himself clever for keeping her close, drawing her into his life, netting her until she would think that staying was her own idea.
He had to be insane. Not only was Eleanor turning his house upside down, he couldn’t stop his visions of her, ones that continued what he’d started with her last night. He looked across the desk and wanted her—now. He could unwind his cravat and use it to gently tie her wrists. Or maybe to blindfold her so that she wouldn’t know where he was, or what pleasure he intended for her, until he touched her skin, kissed her neck, nipped the skin of her shoulder…
He wanted to strip everything from her—gown, corset, combinations, lift her to the desk, spread her across it, and lick from her throat to the glory between her legs. Her hair was golden red there, he remembered.
He wanted to wrap her hands, perhaps in a pair of soft, silk stockings, to hold her thus while he feasted on her. She’d wriggle in joy, and he’d murmur, Eleanor, do you trust me?
Yes, she’d whisper.
He’d bring her to pleasure again and again, and when she was warm and smiling, he’d climb onto her and inside her. He’d have her in this room, and banish his ghosts.
The vision gave him hard, aching pleasure. Hart knew he was standing in the study, the desk between himself and Eleanor, she fully dressed, but he could feel every touch, every kiss, every breath.
“Hart?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
The tug of concern in her voice undid him. Hart stood up and removed his fists from the desk. It hurt, his whole body hurt to leave while Eleanor watched with worry in her blue eyes, but he knew he had to get out of this room.
Hart made himself go to the door, open it, and walk out, without stopping to look back at her. He walked around the landing, sidestepping Ben in the middle of it. He continued to his own bedroom, entering it by nearly ripping open the door.
Marcel, who was brushing one of Hart’s coats, looked up in surprise.
“Draw me a bath, Marcel,” Hart growled as he tore off his cravat and opened his shirt. “Make it a cold one.”
Hart managed to keep himself away from Eleanor for three days. He rose and left the house before she awakened and returned when he was certain she’d be in bed.
Hart filled his days with meetings and debates, arguments and committees. He tried to plunge himself into the troubles of the country and the empire, to wipe away any thought of his domestic life. It worked when he was in a shouting match with his opposition, when he tried to persuade yet another MP to lean to his side, and when he adjourned with Fleming to their club or a gaming hell to continue the battle for political domination there.
But as soon as Hart descended at his doorstep in Grosvenor Square, knowing Eleanor was in the room above, her body damp with sleep, the visions of her returned and would not be banished.
He spent more and more time away from home, staying very late at meetings and creating meetings so that he could stay late. It was after one very late evening that the assassination attempt was made.
Chapter 10
It was inky dark, Hart emerging from the Parliament buildings in the wee hours, still arguing with David Fleming about some point.
Hart heard a loud bang, then shards of stone flew from the wall beside him. Instinct made him drop and pull David down with him. Hart heard the bull-voiced shouting of his coachman and the running footsteps of his large footmen.
David got to his hands and knees, eyes wide. “Hart! Are you all right?”
Hart felt a sting on his face from the stone and tasted blood. “I’m fine. Who fired that shot? Did you grab him?”
One of Hart’s former prizefighters panted up to him. “Got away in the dark, sir. You’re bleeding, Your Grace. Were you hit?”
“No, the wall was hit and the stone lashed out at me,” Hart said with grim humor. “You all right, Fleming?”
Fleming ran his hand through his hair and reached for his flask. “Fine. Fine. What the devil? I told you the Fenians would be hot to kill you.”
Hart dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief, heart hammering in reaction, and didn’t answer.
Fenians were Irish who’d emigrated to America, formed the group dedicated to freeing the Irish from the English, and sent the members off to do their worst. A newspaper had proclaimed this morning that Hart would try to defeat the Irish Home Rule bill in order to push out Gladstone, and the Fenians had reacted strongly.
Hart’s action did not mean he was against Irish independence—in fact, he wanted Ireland completely free of the English yoke, because this would pave the way for Scottish independence. He simply thought Gladstone’s version of the bill was ineffectual. Under Gladstone’s bill, Ireland’s independence would be marginal—they’d be allowed to form a parliament to settle Irish matters but it would still be answerable to the English government.
Hart knew that if he forced Gladstone to call a vote on the bill, the man would not have enough support to pass it, which would then lead to a vote of no confidence, and Gladstone’s resignation.