Eleanor dissolved into laughter and kissed the earl on the cheek. “Dear Father. Whatever would I do without you?”
“Muddle along, I expect. Now let’s get you married off so I can go home in peace.”
Thinking of her father returning to Glenarden alone—with Eleanor not there to take tea with him, to listen to him read from the newspapers, to discuss bizarre and esoteric topics with him—made her eyes fill. Though she reminded herself that her marriage ensured that her father could go on writing his obscure books and eating scones with his tea in a well-repaired house, saying good-bye to him would hurt.
Eleanor lifted her chin, following her father’s advice about ignoring everyone, and she and her father walked forward.
Eleanor swished past them all in her glorious dress, following Aimee, who scattered rose petals along the way. There was no music, Isabella declaring that it was not in the best of taste. The orchestra would play afterward.
Isabella, Beth, and Ainsley stood in the front row near the queen, all three radiant and smiling at Eleanor. On the other side of the aisle, mirroring them, stood Mac, Cameron, and Daniel, tall and formidable in kilts and black coats, the plaid of the Mackenzies swathing their shoulders. They were proud and handsome, with eyes of various shades of amber—Daniel and Cameron, the same height now, looked heartbreakingly alike. Mac reached around the earl and clasped Eleanor’s shoulder, gladness and strength pouring through his touch.
At the very front of the room, standing to one side of the minister, stood Ian Mackenzie, Hart’s second, also dressed in kilt and plaid. Ian glanced once at Eleanor before his gaze was pulled back to that which he liked to look at most: his wife.
Next to Ian, Hart. Hart’s gaze fell on Eleanor, and the world went away.
He wore his kilt and plaid, the ducal sash of the Kilmorgans across his chest. He’d brushed back his dark red hair, which emphasized his hard, handsome face, honed with time and the brutal decisions he’d had to make. Ian at Hart’s side was as handsome as his brother, but Hart commanded the room.
Hart had won. Everything. The dukedom, the nation, his wife.
Eleanor curtseyed to the queen, and her father bowed, then the earl relinquished Eleanor, looking quite cheerful about it, to Hart.
She whispered to Hart as he took her hand, “Don’t look so bloody pleased with yourself.”
Hart’s answer was a smile, wicked and swift.
The ceremony began. Hart stood like a rock at Eleanor’s side as the minister droned the service in a thick Scots accent. The room was warm from the heat of pressing bodies, and droplets of perspiration slid from under Eleanor’s veil and down her cheek.
When the minister asked whether anyone knew of a reason why Eleanor and Hart could not marry, Hart turned and glared down the room so intensely that Daniel and Mac both chuckled. No one answered.
The ceremony was far too short. Eleanor found herself saying her vows, promising to give herself entirely to Hart and to let him worship her body, in sickness and health, in good times and terrible ones, through thick and thin, forever and ever, amen. Hart’s smile when he cupped her face in his hands to kiss her was triumphant.
Eleanor Ramsay was married, and now the Duchess of Kilmorgan. The orchestra played, and over it, Eleanor heard Daniel shout, “That’s forty guineas you owe me, Fleming.”
David shrugged, looking none too worried, and pulled out a sheaf of banknotes.
Quite a lot of money seemed to be changing hands. The three Mackenzie men were the worst, but even Patrick McBride, Ainsley’s oldest brother, was collecting banknotes, and so—the cheek of her—was Ainsley. Daniel seemed to have placed the most bets, followed by Mac, who had switchedsides and wagered that Eleanor would see Hart fairly married.
“I ought to have formed a pool,” Eleanor said to Hart. “I might have won a bundle.”
Before Hart could turn Eleanor and parade her back down the room, Ian stepped close and touched Eleanor’s elbow. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then he was gone, back to Beth and to scoop up his children.
Hart propelled Eleanor through the parted crowd, his arm around her as though he’d never let go of her. His pace was animated, his eyes sparkling.
As they cleared the crowd at the back of the room, a youth darted in through the open French windows. Eleanor saw everything in slow motion, as the lad, perhaps twelve or so and wearing horse boy’s livery that looked too large for him, stared at Hart in rage and then absolute terror. The boy reached a hand into his open coat, brought out a revolver, and fired it straight at Hart.
Chapter 15
Eleanor screamed and shoved Hart out of the way, hard enough to make him let go of her. She heard the roar of the pistol, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder, felt herself falling, heard Hart swearing. His voice was the last thing she remembered as she succumbed to pain, then numbness.