Jennifer Ashley: The Duke’s Perfect Wife

“Goodness, your face looks like granite when you scowl. No wonder everyone in the House of Lords is terrified of you.” She tilted back the parasol and smiled at him.

Soft flesh beneath his, her blue eyes half closed in sultry pleasure, Scottish sunshine on her bare skin. The feeling of moving inside her, her smile as she said, “I love you, Hart.”

Old emotions rose swiftly. He remembered their last encounter, when he hadn’t been able to stop himself touching her face, saying, “Eleanor, whatever am I going to do with you?”

She popping up here before he was ready would force him to alter the timing of his plans, but Hart had the ability to rearrange his schemes with lightning speed. That’s what made him so dangerous.

“I will tell you in due time,” Eleanor went on. “And give you my business proposition.”

“Business proposition?” With Eleanor Ramsay. God help him. “What business proposition?”

Eleanor, in her maddening way, ignored him to look around at the tall houses that lined Grosvenor Street. “It has been so long since I’ve been to London, and for the Season, no less. I am looking forward to seeing everyone again. Good heavens, is that Lady Mountgrove? It is, indeed. Hello, Margaret!” Eleanor waved heartily to a plump woman who was alighting from a carriage in front of one of the painted doors.

Lady Mountgrove, one of the most gossipy women in England, fixed her mouth in a round O. Her stare took in every detail of Lady Eleanor Ramsay waving at her from the Duke of Kilmorgan’s carriage, the duke himself planted opposite her. She gaped a long time before lifting her hand in acknowledgment.

“Goodness, I haven’t seen her in donkey’s years,” Eleanor said, sitting back as they rolled on. “Her daughters must be, oh, quite young ladies now. Have they made their come-outs yet?”

Her mouth was still kissable, closing in a little pucker while she awaited his answer.

“I haven’t the faintest bloody idea,” Hart said.

“Really, Hart, you must at least glance at the society pages. You are the most eligible bachelor in all of Britain. Probably in the entire British Empire. Mamas in India are grooming their girls to sail back to you, telling them, You never know. He’s not married yet. ”

“I’m a widower.” Hart never said the word without a pang. “Not a bachelor.”

“You’re a duke, unmarried, and poised to become the most powerful man in the country. In the world, really. You should give a thought to marrying again.”

Her tongue, her lips, moved in such a sultry way. The man who’d walked away from her had to be insane. Hart remembered the day he’d done so, still felt the tiny smack of the ring on his chest when she’d thrown it at him, rage and heartbreak in her eyes.

He should have refused to let her go, should have run off with her that very afternoon, bound her to him forever. He’d made mistake after mistake with her. But he’d been young, angry, proud, and… embarrassed. The lofty Hart Mackenzie, certain he could do whatever he pleased, had learned differently with Eleanor.

He let his voice soften. “Tell me how you are, El.”

“Oh, about the same. You know. Father is always writing his books, which are brilliant, but he couldn’t tell you how much a farthing is worth. I left him to amuse himself at the British Museum, where he is poring over the Egyptian collection. I do hope he doesn’t start pulling apart the mummies.”

He might. Alec Ramsay had an inquisitive mind, and neither God nor all the museum authorities in the land could stop him.

“Ah, here we are.” Eleanor craned to look up at Hart’s Grosvenor Square mansion as the landau pulled to a halt. “I see your majordomo peering out the window. He looks a bit dismayed. Do not be too angry with the poor man, will you?” She put her fingers lightly on the hand of the footman who’d hurried from Hart’s front door to help her down. “Hello again, Franklin. I have found him, as you see. I was remarking upon how tall you’ve become. And married, I hear. With a son?”

Franklin, who prided himself on his forbidding countenance while guarding the door of the most famous duke in London, melted into a smile. “Yes, your ladyship. He’s three now, and the trouble he gets into.” He shook his head.

“Means he’s robust and healthy.” Eleanor patted his arm. “Congratulations to you.” She folded her parasol and waltzed into the house while Hart climbed down from the landau behind her. “Mrs. Mayhew, how delightful to see you,” he heard her say. He entered his house to see her holding out her hands to Hart’s housekeeper.

The two exchanged greetings, and were talking about, of all things, recipes. Eleanor’s housekeeper, now retired, apparently had instructed her to obtain Mrs. Mayhew’s recipe for lemon cakes.

Eleanor started up the stairs, and Hart nearly threw his hat and coat at Franklin as he followed. He was about to order Eleanor into the front drawing room when a large Scotsman in a threadbare kilt, loose shirt, and paint-spattered boots came barreling down from the top floor.

“Hope you don’t mind, Hart,” Mac Mackenzie said. “I brought the hellions and fixed myself a place to paint in one of your spare bedrooms. Isabella’s got the decorators in, and you wouldn’t believe the racket—” Mac broke off, a look of joy spreading across his face. “Eleanor Ramsay, by all that’s holy! What the devil are you doing here?” He raced down the last of the stairs to the landing and swept Eleanor off her feet into a bear hug.

Eleanor kissed Mac, second youngest in the Mackenzie family, soundly on the cheek. “Hello, Mac. I’ve come to irritate your older brother.”

“Good. He needs a bit of irritating.” Mac set Eleanor down again, eyes glinting with his grin. “Come up and see the babies when you’re done, El. I’m not painting them, because they won’t hold still; I’m putting finishing touches on a horse picture for Cam. Night-Blooming Jasmine, his new champion.”

“Yes, I heard she’d done well.” Eleanor rose on her tiptoes and gave Mac another kiss on the cheek. “That’s for Isabella. And Aimee, Eileen, and Robert.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. Mac absorbed it all with an idiotic smile.

Hart leaned on the railing. “Will we get to this proposition sometime today?”

“Proposition?” Mac asked, eyes lighting. “Now, that sounds interesting.”

“Shut it, Mac,” Hart said.

Screaming erupted from on high—shrill, desperate, Armageddon-has-come screaming. Mac grinned and jogged back up the stairs.

“Papa’s coming, hellions,” he called. “If you’re good, you can have Auntie Eleanor for tea.”

The shrieking continued, unabated, until Mac reached the top floor, dodged into the room from whence it issued, and slammed the door. The noise instantly died, though they could still hear Mac’s rumbling voice.

Eleanor sighed. “I always knew Mac would make a good father. Shall we?”

She turned and headed up to the next floor and the study without waiting for Hart. At one time, she’d become well acquainted with all the rooms in his house, and she apparently hadn’t forgotten her way around.

The study hadn’t changed at all, Eleanor noted when she entered. The same dark paneling covered the walls, and bookcases filled with what looked like the same books climbed to the high ceiling. The huge desk that had belonged to Hart’s father still reposed in the middle of the room.

The same carpet covered the floor, though a different hound dozed by the fire. This was Ben, if she remembered correctly, a son of Hart’s old dog, Beatrix, who’d passed on a few months after her engagement to Hart had ended. The news of Beatrix’s death had nearly broken her heart.