The Duke’s Perfect Wife (MacKenzies & McBrides #4)(70)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“Now that I do have you alone,” Eleanor said, “I will tell you that it was Joanna who sent me the photographs.”

Hart stopped, surprised. “Did she? Where did she get them? Stolen from Mrs. Palmer?” If Joanna had somehow found those ridiculous photographs while staying with Mrs. Palmer, would she have looked at Hart in such terror?

Eleanor’s eyes narrowed. “Did you give them to Joanna?”

“No. Why the devil would I?”

“Playing some game of your own?”

He shook his head. “Not this time.”

“Hmm.” Eleanor folded her arms and regarded him skeptically.

“Now, what are you doing?” Hart asked.

“Deciding whether or not to believe you.”

“Believe whatever you want.” Hart could wait no longer. He snaked one arm around her waist and pulled her with him across the room to an armchair, which had given him an interesting idea. He swept the coats that had been carefully folded over the chair to the floor.

“Hart, you should not…”

“I should. How is your arm?”

“Much better. But you know that. You ask me three times a day.”

“I am the reason you were hurt,” Hart said. “I’d ask five times a day if I saw you that often. Now, come here.”

“Why? What are you going to do?”

Hart seized her hand before she could back away and pulled her smack against him. “It was very dangerous for you to smile at me like you did downstairs.”

As though she loved him. As though she wanted him. He touched her lips.

Eleanor pulled away the slightest bit. “What if someone comes in?”

Hart smiled his excitement. “What if someone does?”

“Oh.” He saw her passion rise. “I see.”

“Turn around,” he said.

Hart swiftly found the fasteners that held her skirts to her bodice and undid them. He lifted the skirt off, and the petticoats as well, then untied the tapes that held her bustle in place. Under that, she wore fine lawn drawers, no more worn fabric for his wife. He had her out of those quickly too.

He sat down on the armchair, faced Eleanor away from him, unswathed the kilt from his hips, and pulled Eleanor down to his lap. Eleanor gasped in surprise, but she was so slick that Hart slid right into her.

Yes. Hart tilted her head to the side, baring her neck and shoulder to him, she still in her bodice. The satin rode low across her bosom, delphinium blue fabric to match her eyes. He suckled a little, tasting her skin and the fragrance she’d dabbed on.

Eleanor wriggled, seemingly pleased at the way that drove him inside her. Hart let her play while he fingered her curls and kissed her neck.

He’d positioned the chair so that the standing mirror across the room would reflect them. Eleanor had her eyes closed, but Hart drank in the sight of her bare legs wrapped around his browner ones, her head resting on his shoulder, trickles of her hair snaking across his chest, and the place where they joined.

He could watch as he pleasured her, see her every rise of chest and twist of mouth, every flutter of her hands as she pushed against his thighs. She was a beautiful, beautiful sight.

It did not take long, and Hart hadn’t thought it would, before Eleanor found her deepest pleasure. Hart reached to the join of her legs and gently stroked her.

Eleanor’s eyes opened wide, and she cried out her joy. Hart’s shout joined hers, the syllables of her name a delight on his lips.

Eleanor sank back onto him with a sigh, and Hart wrapped his arms around her and held her close. He would never let her go. She was too precious to him.

He touched the bandage on her arm, a smaller dressing now, thank God, and vowed that he’d never let anything hurt her again.

The halcyon first days of Eleanor’s marriage ended when Hart had to return to London. A telegram from David Fleming arrived at Kilmorgan, and off Hart went. It was time for him to work, and Eleanor knew that from now on, she’d see little of him.

True to his word, Hart did have Wilfred make arrangements to move Eleanor to town as soon as possible. Hart’s lingering kiss promised he’d do much more when she arrived at the Grosvenor Square house, and then he was gone.

Eleanor had too much to do to wallow in missing him, and the day or so between his departure and hers flew by. She was excited not only to see Hart again, but to make a start on redecorating the house. The Grosvenor Square mansion had been left much as when Hart’s father had lived in it, and Eleanor was determined to give it a new life. She’d be hosting balls, soirees, and garden parties of her own there, and she’d need to make a hurried start.

Eleanor traveled to London with Ian and Beth and their two children, plus Ainsley and her baby daughter, Gavina. Mac and Isabella had already gone, their three children in tow, back to Isabella’s London social whirl. Cameron had returned south to his horses, and Daniel remained in Edinburgh at university.

Hart had a private car that was hooked to the back of the train in Edinburgh, Hart, of course, always traveling in luxury. The parlor car helped keep the three busy children contained, at least. Eleanor helped with them, enjoying the task.

She watched them with a secret hope in her heart. Her cycle was late, which could mean a child starting or could mean nothing. Eleanor hadn’t conceived when she’d been Hart’s lover years ago, and she was much older now.

Euston station in London was crowded when they arrived, so many people traveling up and down the country. The train glided into its empty platform, Hart’s car being the last in the line.

Eleanor was happy to alight, the overcushioned comfort starting to wear on her. Perhaps she should redecorate the car as well.

Hart was to come to the station to meet her, and her heart beat faster as she stepped down to the platform. He’d scoop her up for a kiss—Hart wouldn’t care that all of London watched. She’d let him know, when she could whisper it to him, that her arm felt much better.

Beth and Ainsley lingered with the children’s nannies to put everyone to rights, Ian protectively with them. Eleanor couldn’t wait. She excused herself, eager to find Hart and go home.

Eleanor lifted her small valise and started walking down the platform, ignoring the porters and the duke’s footmen, who looked shocked that she was actually carrying a bag by herself. She spied Mac’s tall bulk in the crowd in the main part of the station, Aimee on his shoulders, Isabella beside him. No babies, so they must have been left in the charge of Nanny Westlock at home. Aimee would have insisted on coming along.