The Duke’s Perfect Wife (MacKenzies & McBrides #4)(52)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

She had found him, she knew it. But then he’d gone again.

Eleanor had looked over their clasped hands and the sparkling ring, straight into his eyes. I’ll not be your perfect wife, Hart Mackenzie, obeying you because it’s my duty. I’ll search until I find you, and I’ll make you stay this time. I swear this.

The wedding took place in the ballroom. Isabella had not wanted to take a chance with the changeable weather to have the ceremony in the garden, and the family chapel was too small. But as the weather had stayed clement, she’d ordered all the doors opened, and a breeze from the famous Kilmorgan gardens wafted up and into the house.

The Scottish minister waited at one end of the room, and the rest of the ballroom overflowed with guests. Isabella, happy that at least one of the Mackenzie brothers was having a proper wedding, had invited the world. Peers of the realm, ambassadors, minor royalty, and aristocrats from every European country, Highland lairds and heads of clans, and The Mackenzie himself with his wife, sons, daughters, and grandchildren.

Local people and friends of the family filled out the rest: David Fleming, Ainsley’s brothers, Isabella’s sister and mother, Lloyd Fellows. Lord Ramsay’s friends and colleagues, who ranged from Scottish ghillies to learned professors and the head of the British Museum. Rounding them out were Eleanor’s girlhood friends with their husbands. The Mackenzie children and the two McBride children had been allowed to come, supervised by Miss Westlock and Scottish nannies in the back.

The front corner of the room had been partitioned off with chairs and velvet ropes. Behind this barricade sat the Queen of England herself. She was in black, as usual, but wore a plaid ribbon pinned to her veil, and her daughter Beatrice was in Scots plaid.

In deference to the queen, everyone stood.

Every person in the room, including the queen, turned to stare as Eleanor entered on her father’s arm. Eleanor halted for an instant, all those eyes on her unnerving.

They were speculating—why had Eleanor Ramsay changed her mind after so many years and agreed to marry Hart Mackenzie? And why had he decided that a spinster of thirty-odd years, daughter of an impoverished and absentminded earl, was a better match than the quantity of eligible ladies in Britain? A marriage of convenience—it had to be.

“The best thing is to ignore them,” Earl Ramsay whispered to Eleanor. “Let them think what they want and pay no attention. I’ve been doing that for years.”

Eleanor dissolved into laughter and kissed the earl on the cheek. “Dear Father. Whatever would I do without you?”

“Muddle along, I expect. Now let’s get you married off so I can go home in peace.”

Thinking of her father returning to Glenarden alone—with Eleanor not there to take tea with him, to listen to him read from the newspapers, to discuss bizarre and esoteric topics with him—made her eyes fill. Though she reminded herself that her marriage ensured that her father could go on writing his obscure books and eating scones with his tea in a well-repaired house, saying good-bye to him would hurt.

Eleanor lifted her chin, following her father’s advice about ignoring everyone, and she and her father walked forward.

Eleanor swished past them all in her glorious dress, following Aimee, who scattered rose petals along the way. There was no music, Isabella declaring that it was not in the best of taste. The orchestra would play afterward.

Isabella, Beth, and Ainsley stood in the front row near the queen, all three radiant and smiling at Eleanor. On the other side of the aisle, mirroring them, stood Mac, Cameron, and Daniel, tall and formidable in kilts and black coats, the plaid of the Mackenzies swathing their shoulders. They were proud and handsome, with eyes of various shades of amber—Daniel and Cameron, the same height now, looked heartbreakingly alike. Mac reached around the earl and clasped Eleanor’s shoulder, gladness and strength pouring through his touch.

At the very front of the room, standing to one side of the minister, stood Ian Mackenzie, Hart’s second, also dressed in kilt and plaid. Ian glanced once at Eleanor before his gaze was pulled back to that which he liked to look at most: his wife.

Next to Ian, Hart. Hart’s gaze fell on Eleanor, and the world went away.

He wore his kilt and plaid, the ducal sash of the Kilmorgans across his chest. He’d brushed back his dark red hair, which emphasized his hard, handsome face, honed with time and the brutal decisions he’d had to make. Ian at Hart’s side was as handsome as his brother, but Hart commanded the room.

Hart had won. Everything. The dukedom, the nation, his wife.

Eleanor curtseyed to the queen, and her father bowed, then the earl relinquished Eleanor, looking quite cheerful about it, to Hart.

She whispered to Hart as he took her hand, “Don’t look so bloody pleased with yourself.”

Hart’s answer was a smile, wicked and swift.

The ceremony began. Hart stood like a rock at Eleanor’s side as the minister droned the service in a thick Scots accent. The room was warm from the heat of pressing bodies, and droplets of perspiration slid from under Eleanor’s veil and down her cheek.

When the minister asked whether anyone knew of a reason why Eleanor and Hart could not marry, Hart turned and glared down the room so intensely that Daniel and Mac both chuckled. No one answered.

The ceremony was far too short. Eleanor found herself saying her vows, promising to give herself entirely to Hart and to let him worship her body, in sickness and health, in good times and terrible ones, through thick and thin, forever and ever, amen. Hart’s smile when he cupped her face in his hands to kiss her was triumphant.

Eleanor Ramsay was married, and now the Duchess of Kilmorgan. The orchestra played, and over it, Eleanor heard Daniel shout, “That’s forty guineas you owe me, Fleming.”

David shrugged, looking none too worried, and pulled out a sheaf of banknotes.

Quite a lot of money seemed to be changing hands. The three Mackenzie men were the worst, but even Patrick McBride, Ainsley’s oldest brother, was collecting banknotes, and so—the cheek of her—was Ainsley. Daniel seemed to have placed the most bets, followed by Mac, who had switchedsides and wagered that Eleanor would see Hart fairly married.

“I ought to have formed a pool,” Eleanor said to Hart. “I might have won a bundle.”

Before Hart could turn Eleanor and parade her back down the room, Ian stepped close and touched Eleanor’s elbow. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then he was gone, back to Beth and to scoop up his children.

Hart propelled Eleanor through the parted crowd, his arm around her as though he’d never let go of her. His pace was animated, his eyes sparkling.