The Duke's Perfect Wife(61)
“Ian,” he said, exasperated.
Ian still didn’t answer. Hart heaved a sigh and rubbed his bristly face again. “Fine, have it your way.”
Ian went back to studying the water.
Hart used to believe himself the only person who truly understood Ian, but he’d learned, painfully, that despite the connection he felt with him, he’d barely penetrated his brother’s shell. The moment Ian had met Beth, however, Ian had responded to her, emerging from his private place of silence and rage. Ian had started engaging with the world through the conduit of Beth.
What Hart had tried, and failed, to do for years, Beth Ackerley, widow of a poor parish vicar, had done in a matter of days.
Hart at first had been angry with Beth, envious of her bond with Ian, fearful that she would exploit him for her own ends. But Beth had proved her deep devotion to Ian, and Hart now loved her for what she’d done.
Hart leaned on the railing and let out a heavy breath. “How do you do it, Ian? How do you deal with the madness?”
He’d been speaking generally, thinking of his own struggles. He didn’t expect Ian to respond, but Ian said, “I have Beth.”
I have no one.
The words came out of nowhere. They were not true. Hart had his brothers, his interfering sisters-in-law, Daniel, and now his small nieces and nephews, who could be adorable—especially when they wanted something. He had Wilfred and his handpicked staff who were loyal to him to a fault. He even had David Fleming, a friend he’d been with through thick and thin over many years.
But no one gets close to Hart Mackenzie the man.
Hart had given up mistresses after Angelina Palmer’s death, forgoing even casual encounters for satiation. He’d been living like a monk. No wonder the merest whisper of Eleanor’s scent made him as randy as an eighteen-year-old. Eleanor had laughed at him, but her laughter hadn’t stopped Hart from wanting her touch.
“How do I deal with my madness?” Hart’s words sounded hollow against the water.
This time, Ian didn’t look at him and didn’t answer.
“You once said that we were all mad,” Hart said after a time. “Remember? On the day we found out about Inspector Fellows, you said that Mac was a genius with painting, Cameron with horses, me with money and politics, and Fellows with solving crimes. You were right. And Father, of course, had the same madness. I think he saw much of himself in you, and that scared him.”
“Father is dead. And I said Mac painted like a god.”
Hart gave him a wry smile. “Sorry, I don’t have your gift for precise memory. But I think my madness is growing. What do I do if I can’t stop it?”
Ian didn’t look at him. “You will.”
“Thank you for your confidence.”
“You need to show Eleanor the house,” Ian said after another silence.
Hart started. “House? What house?”
“In High Holborn. Mrs. Palmer’s house.”
Hart gripped the boat’s rail. “The devil I do. I never want Eleanor in there again. I’m still angry at you for taking her there. Why did you?”
“Because Eleanor needs to know all about it,” Ian said.
“Bloody hell, Ian. Why?”
“The house is you.”
What on earth did he mean by that? “No, Ian. No. The house might have been a large part of my life once, but that era is over.”
Ian shook his head and kept shaking it. “You need to show Eleanor the house. Once you tell her everything about it, you will know.”
“I will know?”
“Yes.”
“I will know what?” Hart’s exasperation grew. “Whether Eleanor can run at double speed to get away from me again? Whether she’ll stop to kick me in the backside before she goes?”
“Yes.”
Hart let out his breath again. It didn’t steam as much, the morning having grown warmer. “I can’t take her there. There are things I still don’t want her to know.”
“You have to. Eleanor needs to understand you, as Beth understands me.”
Ian’s jaw tightened as he spoke, his hand as tight on the railing. At least he’d stopped shaking his head like a stubborn mule.
“You’re a hard man, Ian Mackenzie.”
Ian did not answer.
Tell Eleanor everything.
Angelina Palmer had taken it upon herself to visit Eleanor Ramsay in Scotland a few months into their engagement and tell her about Hart. That he owned the High Holborn house, that he entertained ladies there, that he’d pleasured them in ways well-bred young women could not imagine. Angelina hadn’t described things in detail to Eleanor, thank God; but the hinting had been enough.
Hart had deliberately not visited the house and Angelina while he was courting Eleanor, not wanting to be that sort of liar. Feeling virtuous because of this, he’d coaxed Eleanor to surrender her virginity to him.