The Duke's Perfect Wife(39)
“Nine: Able to put up with Hart Mackenzie,” Mac said.
“Ah, yes.” Isabella wrote. “And I’ll add strong-minded and resolute. That will be number ten, a nice round number.”
“Isabella, please stop,” Hart said.
Isabella, amazingly, ceased writing. “I am finished for now. I’ll draw up a list of names of young ladies who fit the criteria, and then you can begin courting them.”
“The devil I will.” Hart felt something cold and wet bump his knee. He looked down to see Ben looking up at him, heard his tail thump the floor. “Why is the dog under the table?”
“He followed Ian,” Isabella said.
“Who followed Ian?” Eleanor’s voice preceded her into the room.
Did Eleanor look exhausted from her long night, from her exuberant dance with Hart, from Hart kissing her first in the stairwell and then on the pile of laundry? No, she looked fresh and clean, and smelled of the lavender soap she liked as she went around Hart to the sideboard. Lavender—the scent always meant Eleanor to him.
Eleanor filled her plate, then brought it back to the table, kissed her father’s cheek, and sat down between him and Hart.
“Old Ben,” Isabella said. “He likes Ian.”
Eleanor peeped under the table. “Ah. Good morning, Ben.”
She says good morning to the dog, Hart thought irritably. No words for me.
“Eleanor, what do you think of Constance McDonald?” Isabella asked.
Eleanor began eating the cold eggs and greasy sausage as though they were the headiest ambrosia. “What do I think of her? Why?”
“As a potential wife for Hart. We are making a list.”
“Are we?” Eleanor ate, her gaze on Ian and his newspaper. “Yes, I think Constance McDonald would make him a fine wife. Twenty-five, quite lovely, rides well, knows how to wrap stuffy Englishmen around her finger, is good with people.”
“Her father’s Old John McDonald, remember,” Mac said. “Head of the McDonald clan and a right ogre. Many people are afraid of him. Including me. He nearly thrashed the life out of me when I was a callow youth.”
“That’s because you got drunk and half trampled one of his fields,” Isabella said.
Mac shrugged. “That’s a truth.”
“Do not worry about Old John,” Eleanor said. “He’s a sweetie if handled correctly.”
“Very well,” Isabella said. “On the list Miss McDonald goes. What about Honoria Butterworth?”
“For God’s sake!” Hart sprang to his feet.
Everyone at the table stopped and stared at him, including Ian. “Do I have to be made a mockery of in my own house?”
Mac leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “Would you prefer we made a mockery of you in the street? In Hyde Park, maybe? In the middle of Pall Mall? The card room at your club?”
“Mac, shut it!”
A faint laugh escaped Lord Ramsay’s mouth, which he covered with a cough. Hart looked down at his plate and noticed the sausage he’d taken a bite from now missing. He hadn’t eaten it.
The sound of breathy chewing came from under the table, and Eleanor looked suddenly innocent.
A shout worked its way up through Hart’s throat, and he couldn’t stop it coming out of his mouth. His voice rang against the crystals of the chandeliers, and Ben stopped crunching.
Hart slammed away from the table, his chair falling over behind him. Somehow he got himself out of the room, walking as swiftly as he could down the hall and toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Eleanor say, “Goodness, what is the matter with him this morning?”
Just as well Hart had gone, Eleanor thought, lifting her fork in an unsteady hand. She felt quite shy with him this morning, after the heady kisses in the laundry room and him holding her on the railing in the upstairs hall. She was wearing the very drawers he’d pulled out of the laundry pile last night, Maigdlin having brought them upstairs this morning.
Maigdlin had said nothing about servants finding the laundry in a sad state, because they hadn’t. Eleanor had stayed behind and refolded every single garment before rejoining Isabella to help her through the rest of the ball.
When Eleanor had slid on the drawers this morning, she’d remembered Hart pressing a kiss to the fabric and telling her to think of him. Eleanor had, and now she swore she could feel the imprint of his lips on her backside.
Eleanor lifted the remaining sausage from Hart’s plate and fed it to Ben. “Why are you writing out potential brides for Hart?”
Isabella laid down her pencil. “I am not. This is all flummery, Eleanor. We all know that you are his perfect match; he just needs a push to get there.”