“Eleanor, aren’t you ready?”
Eleanor jumped as Isabella’s voice sounded outside her bedchamber door. Eleanor swept the photographs back into the box and was shoving the box into the bottom drawer of her dresser when Isabella Mackenzie entered in a swish of silver satin and taffeta.
Eleanor locked the drawer and dropped the key into the top of her corset. “Sorry, Izzy,” she said. “I was just finishing something. Will you help me dress?”
Hart knew full well the moment Eleanor joined the throng that filled his ballroom.
Eleanor wore green—a dark, bottle green gown with a neckline that plunged down her breasts and bared her shoulders. A bustle, more restrained than the gigantic ones worn by the other ladies, drew her overskirt back before spilling it to the floor in a soft wave of satin.
The style drew attention to her waist hugged by a small, tight bodice, and that in turn drew attention to the décolletage framing her full breasts. A necklace, a simple chain with an emerald drop, pointed to her cleavage. Emerald earrings dangled from her ears, as green as the dress.
Hart had been thinking about David Fleming, the MP who was Hart’s eyes and ears in Commons, and wondering how the man was getting on. Fleming tonight was using his art of persuasion to sway to Hart’s side one or two men on the fence about pushing a vote of no confidence on Gladstone. Hart knew the time was near when he could force Gladstone to resign, and either concede that Hart’s coalition had the majority, or call for elections, which Hart would make bloody sure he and his party won.
Get them over by any means necessary, Hart had told Fleming. Fleming, debauched but charming and devious as a snake, had assured Hart of his victory.
But once Eleanor entered the room, worry about Gladstone, votes, and victory dissolved to nothing.
Eleanor was radiant. Tonight was the first Hart had seen her in anything but the ugly cotton or serge dresses Eleanor wore buttoned up to tomorrow. The gown let her glow. Isabella must have either lent Eleanor the dress or bought it for her, but either way, the result was breathtaking.
A little too breathtaking. Hart couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Very tired of you borrowing my wife to hostess your boring parties,” Mac said, stopping next to Hart in a rare moment of empty space around him. “Between these blasted balls and musicales, and the decorators underfoot, I never see her.”
Hart didn’t pull his gaze from Eleanor as he took a sip of malt whiskey. “What you mean is you don’t have as much time to bed her as you’d like.”
“Can you blame me? Look at her. I want to kill any man who so much as speaks to her.”
Hart had difficulty dragging his gaze from Eleanor, but he conceded that Isabella, in a dress of silver and green that rested like a whisper on her slim figure, looked fine. Isabella always did.
Mac had fallen madly in love with the woman the moment he’d set eyes on her. It had taken his idiotic brother six years to learn how to love her, but thank God, that storm was over, their marriage now in a safe harbor. Isabella and Mac were radiantly happy, with Isabella busily taking care of Mac so Hart no longer had to.
Mac waved off a waiter who stopped with champagne, Mac now a teetotaler after years of nearly killing himself with drink. “What happened to your declaration that you’d be looking for your own wife?” he asked Hart after the waiter had whisked himself away.
Hart’s gaze slid back to Eleanor, who was greeting a marquis and marchioness like the old friends they were. Her eyes glowed as she talked, her gloved hands moving as she used them to emphasize her words. Her laughter pealed, and she turned to greet another, rather shy lady and draw her into the group, putting said lady at instant ease. That was one thing about Eleanor—she could charm the hide off Attila the Hun.
“Did you hear me?” Mac growled.
“I did hear you, and I told you to leave it alone.”
“You have Eleanor right in front of you. For God’s sake, kiss her senseless and send for the vicar. Then she can hostess your fˆetes, and Isabella can stay home with me.”
“Not for much longer,” Hart said mildly, still watching Eleanor. “You and Isabella will be running off to Berkshire, where the two of you can stay in bed all day and all night.”
“Because then you’ll turn Ainsley and Beth into your hostesses. You do know that your brothers are ready to lynch you, don’t you?”
“Having a lovely woman greet my guests is part of the plan,” Hart said. “Isabella understands that.”
Mac did not look impressed. “Hart, you’d schedule Christ’s second coming and have Wilfred send him an itinerary. You must learn to let things happen.”