The Duke's Perfect Wife(52)
She didn’t fall, because Hart steadied her as she teetered on her heels. He ripped the book out of her hands, dumped it to the writing table, and then caught her around the waist and lifted her with ease onto the bed.
Eleanor squirmed against him as he came with her onto the mattress. But she didn’t struggle as much as she perhaps should have, because Hart was laughing.
Hart, who never laughed these days, was doing it now as he lowered her onto her back, his kilt spilling over her skirts. His eyes sparked with deviltry, and he laughed.
Eleanor sank beneath him with pleasure but discovered an impediment. “Ow, oh. Dratted bustle.”
Hart locked his feet around hers and rolled over with her in the big bed. Eleanor landed on top of him, the bustle creaking as it righted itself like a ship from stormy water.
Eleanor looked down at him, her laughing, teasing Highlander, and fell in love all over again.
Hart skimmed his hands along her back, palms warm even through her clothes. She tried not to feel a tingle of excitement to feel his hardness obvious through his kilt.
She bent her knees and waved her feet in her high-heeled, buttoned boots. “I must get up. My governess taught me never to lie on a bed in my shoes.”
His smile turned wicked. “I’ll teach you to lie on it in nothing but your shoes.”
Pleasant heat spun through her. “That would be… very naughty.”
“Of course it would be. That is the point.”
Eleanor tapped the end of his nose. “I admit that when I am with you, I find myself becoming naughty indeed.”
“Good.”
“I must be a very bad woman, mustn’t I, to let you take such liberties?”
He grinned, his eyes alight. “El, your innocence rings to the skies.”
“Not so innocent.” She gave him a mock frown. “Remember that I grew up with a father who thought nothing of discussing the reproductive habits of every living creature—including human ones—over the soup.”
“Your mother must have been a patient woman.”
“My mother loved him to pieces.” Eleanor felt a bite of sadness as she always did when her mother came into her thoughts, the woman dying, ill, when Eleanor had been eight years old.
Hart’s eyes darkened. “I always envied you that. Your father and mother actually loving each other. Your happy childhood home.”
“Yes, it was happy,” Eleanor said. “And then sorrowful.”
Hart wrapped his arms around her. “I know.”
“At least Father and I have rubbed along well all this time. Which brings me around again to my knowledge of mating habits. You may think me innocent, but I am quite worldly, in my own way.”
“I know that. You keep nude photographs of a man hidden in your corset drawer.”
“Which you snooped through, drat you.”
“Giving me some idea of the state of your wardrobe. You have not instructed Isabella to dress you as I asked. Your gowns are horrible.”
“Well, thank you very much.”
He touched the pad of her lower lip. “Nip your pride in the bud, lassie. If you’re to parade about with this family, you’ll need decent clothes or you’ll stand out like a beacon. Isabella will outfit you and send me the bill.”
“Indeed, no. People will say I’m your fancy woman.”
He chuckled. “What an expression. I pay you wages.”
“For typing. An honest wage for an honest job.”
“Consider it a clothing allowance. I’ll not have my employees looking drab. My housekeeper dresses better than you do.”
“Insult heaped on top of insult.”
“Truth. Now I want truth from you—why did you keep all that trash about me?”
“To feed your pride, obviously.”
Hart laughed again. It felt good to have him shaking under her, true mirth in his eyes, not the bleakness she’d seen when she’d walked into the room. As though reading his letters had ripped the dressing from a wound, he’d bled, and now, she hoped to God, he could let himself heal.
Or at least lie on the bed with her and tease her as though they were dear friends or casual lovers. He’d been like this when he’d courted her, laughing, teasing, goading her into admissions one moment, becoming incredibly tender the next.
At this moment, he tickled her.
“Stop.” Eleanor drummed her hands on his chest. “No wonder people fear the great Hart Mackenzie—vote for me, or I’ll tickle you to death.”
“I’d do it, if it worked.” His smile faded. “Burn those photos, El. They’re terrible.”
On the contrary, they were beautiful. She did not at all like the fact that Mrs. Palmer had taken them, but Eleanor could find no fault with the results.