The Duke's Perfect Wife(117)

David Fleming came to Kilmorgan, eager to have Hart take the reins of power again. They couldn’t lose, David said. Hart could hold the nation in the palm of his hand, make it do whatever he wished.

Everything he’d always wanted.

“It’s up to you, old man,” David said, lounging back in a chair, a cheroot in one hand, a flask in the other. “I don’t mind stepping aside. I’d prefer it. What do you want to do?”

Hart looked up at the Mackenzie ancestors that marched along the walls of his huge study, from Old Malcolm Mackenzie, with the sneer that had put the fear of God into the English, to his own father, who glared at all who crossed the threshold.

Hart looked into the eyes above the beard, at the mean glitter that the painter had managed to capture. Behind those eyes was a man who’d plotted to kill his own son.

Except that this time when Hart looked at the picture, he saw that the painted eyes were just that, paint.

The old duke was gone.

Hart pressed his hands flat on the desk and closed his eyes. I have defeated you. I no longer need to prove to you that I am not weak.

Upstairs, in their bedchamber, Eleanor was knitting booties.

He opened his eyes. “No,” he said.

David stopped, his flask halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?”

“I said no. I am resigning. You lead the party to victory.”

David paled. “But I need you. We need you.”

“No, you don’t. You kept the coalition together when it looked as though I was dead. You could not have done that if I was the only thing that held the party together. I look forward to many nights sharing whiskey with you and listening to your stories of your days as prime minister. I will continue to support the party and advise you if necessary. But I no longer want the post of prime minister.”

David stared at him. “You are joking.”

Hart sat back, breathing the waft of cool Scottish air that floated through the open windows. “The fish are biting in the river down the hill. The Mackenzie distillery needs my help. Ian does fine with it, but his heart’s not in brewing the finest malt whiskey known to man. I’m going to take over the running of it while he enjoys himself with the accounts. I am going to stop trying to run the world and start trying to run my life. I’ve neglected it.”

“I see, so you’ll become a proper Scottish laird, and walk about your estate in stout boots with a walking stick. I know you, Mackenzie. You’ll grow bored soon enough.”

“I doubt it. My wife is growing heavy with my child, and I intend not to miss a moment of his life.”

“Eleanor’s increasing?” David gaped. “Good Lord. Has she run mad?”

“Not yet.” Hart stared comfortably out at the room that had ceased to intimidate him. Maybe he’d let Eleanor take down all these bloody pictures and redecorate the place.

David laughed a little, but he shook his head. “Ah, well. We could have been great together, Mackenzie. Tell Eleanor she has my congratulations. And my sympathies.”

“I will. Now get out. I want to be alone with my wife.”

David chuckled. He took a drink from his flask and dropped it in his pocket. “Don’t blame you, old man. Don’t blame you one whit.” David shook Hart’s hand one last time, clapped him on the shoulder, and finally went away.

Hart stood up. He walked to his father’s portrait, a copy of the one that hung in the great stairwell down the hall. Tradition had it that the current duke hung on the first landing, the former duke on the second, and so on to the top of the house. When Beth had first moved in with Ian, she suggesting consigning the lot of them—including Hart, no doubt—to the attic.

Hart had thought Beth too full of her own opinion at the time, but now, he agreed with her. Changes would be made at Kilmorgan forthwith.

Hart gazed up at his hated father, His Grace of Kilmorgan, Daniel Fergus Mackenzie. And stopped. Clouds outside had parted, and a beam of sunshine slanted onto the portrait to show Hart something he hadn’t been able to see from his desk.

Hart stared at it for some time. Then he started to laugh.

Still laughing, he tugged the bellpull, and when a footman answered, he sent him to fetch Eleanor.

Eleanor found Hart sitting at his desk, leaning his chair back on two legs, his booted feet crossed on the desk’s surface. His kilt slid up to reveal his strong thighs, and he had a grin of delight on his face.

“Eleanor,” he said pointing. “Did you do that?”

Eleanor turned to look at what he indicated. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“That’s a valuable painting.”

“You have another by the same artist hanging in the hall. Not to mention the Manet in London.”