The Duke's Perfect Wife(27)

Did the lady look disappointed? Not at all. She laughed and sent him a merry glance, looking all the more resolute.

Wretched cow.

Eleanor made her way toward Hart, pausing in each cluster of guests to chat and listen, admire and congratulate, advise and console. The ballroom floor was full of whirling couples, but Hart remained firmly on the sidelines, the duke famous for never dancing at his own balls.

Bustles were such cumbersome things, Eleanor thought as she pressed her skirts to slide between bedecked ladies. Fashion this year seemed to dictate that the female of the species should strap long shelves to their backsides and fill them with giant bows and large velvet roses. Perhaps we should add tea things or a row of books, Eleanor mused as she squeezed through yet one more clump of ladies.

She popped out between the group tight around Hart and people clustered next to it, trying to get close to him. Somehow, she managed to jostle the arm of a tall gentleman who held a full glass of bloodred claret. He lost his hold on the goblet, which teetered and danced on his fingertips.

And then, disaster. The glass tumbled from his hand and flipped end over end on its way to the floor. Ruby liquid arced through the air and came down all over the front of Lady Murchison’s silver satin bodice.

Lady Murchison shrieked. The gentleman with the claret gasped and started babbling shocked apologies. Eleanor pushed through, gloved hands pressed to her cheeks. “Oh, dear. You poor, poor thing.”

Lady Murchison’s face went ugly green as she let go of Hart, who’d taken a large handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. The bodice was ruined, a bright red blotch spreading on it like blood from a wound.

Eleanor seized Lady Murchison’s hand as she lifted the handkerchief. “No, no, don’t brush it—it will set the stain. We will find a withdrawing room and send for your maid and some soda water.”

So speaking, she dragged Lady Murchison away, the tall gentleman still apologizing in anguish. Lady Murchison had no choice but to go with Eleanor. Everyone was staring, exclaiming, giving Lady Murchison murmurs of sympathy.

Everyone, that is, except Hart. He sent Eleanor a penetrating look even as he snapped his fingers for a footman to run for the soda. Hart’s look told Eleanor that he knew exactly what Eleanor had just done and exactly why she’d done it.





Chapter 6





“El.”

Eleanor stopped at Hart’s voice from the landing below her. It was an hour since the mishap with Lady Murchison, and Eleanor had gone upstairs to find a shawl for a lady who complained of cold. Dancing and drinking continued in the ballroom below, a Scottish reel filling the hall with its happy strains.

The gaslights were low, Hart a bulk of shadow against deeper darkness. He looked like a Highlander lurking to strike down his enemies—the only thing missing was his claymore. Eleanor had seen a painting of Hart’s great-great-grandfather, Malcolm Mackenzie, complete with sword and haughty sneer, and she decided that Hart resembled him greatly. Malcolm had been a madman, legends went, a ruthless fighter none could defeat, the only of five Mackenzie brothers to survive Culloden field. If Old Malcolm had possessed even an ounce of the same determined focus as Hart, then Malcolm had been dangerous indeed.

Eleanor pasted on a smile and went down the stairs to him, arms filled with the shawl. “What are you doing up here, Hart? The ball isn’t over, yet.”

Hart stepped in her way as she tried to flow past him. “You are the very devil, Eleanor Ramsay.”

“For fetching a shawl for a chilly lady? I thought I was being kind.”

Hart gave her a look that held some of his old fire. “I had Wilfred write Lady Murchison a cheque for the dress.”

Of course, he would not have forgotten the little incident in the ballroom. “How thoughtful you are,” Eleanor said. “Wine does make a deplorable stain. Too bad, really—it was a lovely gown.”

Eleanor tried to duck around him again, but Hart caught her arm. “El.”

“What?”

She couldn’t read what was in his eyes, a stillness behind the gold. She thought he might harangue her about deliberately ruining Lady Murchison’s gown—the lady had conceded defeat when the soda wouldn’t wash out the stain, and had gone home. But Hart said nothing about that.

Instead he touched the emeralds dangling from her ear. “These were my mother’s.”

Hart’s voice went soft, his finger brushing Eleanor’s earlobe with equal softness. This is what Lady Murchison had longed for, Hart’s skilled touch, the way his voice could drop to gentleness, curling heat through the lucky lady’s body.

“Isabella insisted, I’m afraid,” Eleanor said quickly. “I wanted to refuse—they having belonged to your mother and all—but you know Isabella. She fixes on a thing, and she hears no argument. I would have asked you about it, but it was rather last minute, and you were already receiving guests. I can remove them if you like.”