The Duke's Perfect Wife(32)

Oh, dear God. “That was in the past, Mr. Neely,” Hart said coolly. “I’ve reformed.”

“Yes. Very admirable of you.” Neely drew a breath. “But you’d know where I can find such things. I like the ladies. I like them very much, but I’m a bit shy. And I have no idea which ones to approach for… certain things. I met a fellow in France who told me he put a halter on one and rode her like a horse. I’d like… I’d like very much to try something like that.”

Hart struggled to hide his disgust. What Neely asked for was nothing like the exotic pleasures Hart had learned and enjoyed. Neely asked for what he thought Hart enjoyed—using women, perhaps hurting them, for his pleasure. What Neely meant was a perversity, and not at all the art Hart practiced.

What Hart did was about trust, not pain—Hart promising the most exquisite joy to the woman who surrendered to him absolutely. He’d schooled himself to understand exactly what each woman wanted and exactly how to give it to her, and how to ease her back safely in the end. A lady never needed to fear when she was in Hart’s care.

However, the art could be dangerous, and an inexperienced pervert like Neely could truly hurt someone. The thought that Neely assumed Hart enjoyed handing out pain annoyed him. The man was an idiot.

But Hart needed the man’s votes. He swallowed his anger and said, “Mrs. Whitaker.”

“Ah.” David smiled and gestured with the cigar. “Excellent choice.”

“Who is Mrs. Whitaker?” Neely asked.

“A woman who will take good care of you,” Hart said. Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan who knew how to contain overexcited men like Neely. “David will see you to her house.”

Neely looked eager and fearful at the same time. “Do you mean on the moment?”

“No time like the present,” Hart said. “I will leave you in Mr. Fleming’s hands. Good evening, Mr. Neely. I must return to my guests.”

“Quite.” Neely made a bow in his seat but did not extend a hand. He’d never think it proper to offer to shake hands with a duke. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

David and Hart shared another glance, and Hart opened the door. He climbed with relief out of the smoky carriage as David stretched his legs across the seat Hart had vacated and crossed his ankles, the very picture of decadence. A footman shut the door and the carriage rolled away.

Hart’s breath steamed in the chill of the night, but his house glowed with light and warmth. Music, voices, and laughter poured out the front door.

Hart strode into the house much more willingly than he’d walked out of it. He wanted to see Eleanor. Needed to see her. Needed her warm blue eyes and her wide smile, her effusive chatter like sudden rain on a dry, hot day. He wanted her beauty to cancel out the ugliness of Neely, wanted to return to the innocent pleasure of kissing her freckles, which had tasted honey sweet.

There she was, in the bottle green that for some reason brought out the blue of her eyes, the emerald earrings that had belonged to his mother dangling from her ears. A strange relief wafted over Hart when he looked at her, as though the ball, the meeting with Neely—all of it—was nothing, and only Eleanor was real.

She was chatting animatedly—nothing shy about Eleanor—to ladies and to gentlemen, gesturing with a furled fan she seemed to have acquired. Or perhaps it had dangled from her wrist the entire night; Hart couldn’t remember. The closed fan became a perfect horizontal as she moved her hand to make a point, then the fan came up to touch her lips.

Hart went rock hard. He stopped in the doorway to the ballroom, one hand on the door frame to keep himself from falling over.

He wanted Eleanor for all those dark pleasures he’d scorned Neely for not understanding. He wanted her surrendering to his hands, trusting him with everything she had, while he took the fan and touched her with it. He wanted to see her astonishment when she discovered how profound the pleasure of simple touching could be, the depth and breadth of it.

He wanted it now.

Hart pushed himself away from the door frame, giving cursory nods to those who tried to gain his attention, and made his way to Eleanor.





Chapter 7





Eleanor saw him coming out of the corner of her eye. Hart looked like an enraged bull, or at least an enraged Highlander in a kilt. His short hair was rumpled, the light in his eyes was harsh, and those who attempted to speak to him melted out of his way.

Things with this Mr. Neely must not have gone well.

Hart kept barreling toward her, as though he meant to sweep her over his shoulder, as he had at the High Holborn house, and carry her off. The strength of him when he’d done that had thrilled her at the same time it had infuriated her.