The Duke's Perfect Wife(83)

This was a first for him too—he’d never been with a virgin. He feared to break her, to mar her in some unrecoverable way. Then again, Eleanor was resilient. She lifted her body to his, touched his face, nodded when she was ready.

And then Hart was inside her, she squeezing him, a feeling of glory and hot, hot joy.

“El,” he said. “You are so tight. You feel beautiful.”

Eleanor’s body rocked against his, her arms coming around him, her mouth finding his. Wanting, accepting, loving.

The astonishing feeling of her around him made him drop his seed before he was ready. Hart groaned with it, amazed at himself, then he laughed. Hart’s women usually tried every trick they could to make him do their bidding, to lose control to them, and they never succeeded. Eleanor had conquered him by lying there being warm and beautiful.

Hart kissed her, knowing that something exquisite had just happened and not knowing quite what to do about it.

The rest of Act II had been heady. News of the betrothal of Lord Hart Mackenzie and Lady Eleanor Ramsay spread to every corner of the country, filling every newspaper and magazine.

Glorious days. The happiest days of his life, Hart realized now. At the time, the stupid, selfish young man he’d been had only tasted triumph of landing the woman he’d wanted. Eleanor would bring the notorious Mackenzie family a measure of respect, which they badly needed. Hart’s horror of a father had eroded the Mackenzie reputation, as had Ian’s supposed madness, Mac’s running away to live among depraved artists in Paris, and Cameron’s very bad marriage.

But no one could say a wrong word about Eleanor. She sailed above all scandal, her talkative charm melting one and all. Eleanor was kind, generous, strong, and well liked. She’d lead Hart to glory.

Hart told her he loved her, and it was not a lie. But he never gave the whole of himself to her, never believed he needed to. Looking back, Hart realized that he’d kept himself from her out of fear.

And that had been his great mistake.

So stupid was Hart that he didn’t understand what he had to lose, until Act III.

Scene: Eleanor Ramsay’s ramshackle home in autumn, the trees surrounding it having turned brilliant red and gold. Their radiant glory splashed against the dark evergreens that marched across the mountains, silent reminders that the coming winter would be brutal and cold.

Hart had been as buoyant as the cool weather, looking forward to visiting his lady with hair the color of autumn leaves. Earl Ramsay received Hart in the house and told him, in a strangely quiet tone, that Eleanor was walking in the gardens and would see him there.

Hart had thanked the earl, unsuspecting, and had gone to find Eleanor.

The Ramsay gardens had long become overgrown and wild, despite the valiant efforts of their one gardener and his pruning shears. Eleanor always laughed at their unruly patch of land, but Hart liked it—a garden that blended into the Scottish countryside instead of being structured, overly clean, and shutting out true nature.

Eleanor paced the walks in a dress too light for the weather, the shawl too small to keep out the cold. Her hair had come down, the wind tearing at it. When Eleanor saw Hart walking toward her, she turned her back and strode away.

Hart caught up to her, seized her arm, and turned her to face him.

Her stare had made him drop his hold. Eleanor’s eyes were red-rimmed in a face too white, but her glare was angry, an intense rage he’d never seen in her.

“El?” he asked in alarm. “What is it?”

Eleanor said nothing. When Hart reached for her again, she tore herself from his grip. Clenching her teeth, Eleanor yanked off the engagement ring and threw it at him.

The circlet thunked against Hart’s frock-coated chest and fell with a tink to the paving stones.

Hart didn’t bend down for the ring. This was something more than Eleanor’s rare flashes of temper, her frequent exasperation at him, or their teasing arguments about ridiculous things.

“What is it?” he repeated, his voice quiet.

“Mrs. Palmer came to call on me today,” Eleanor said.

Cold fingers snaked through his body. Those words should not come out of Eleanor’s lips. Not Mrs. Palmer. Not with Eleanor. They were two separate beings, from separate worlds, separate parts of Hart. Never to meet.

“I know you know who I mean,” Eleanor said.

“Yes, I bloody well know who you mean,” Hart snapped. “She should not have come here.”

Eleanor waited a beat, as though expecting Hart to say something like My love, I can explain.

Hart could explain, if he chose. Angelina Palmer had been his mistress for seven years. He had ceased to go to her once he’d started courting Eleanor. That had been Hart’s decision, and so be it. But Angelina, it appeared, in her jealousy, had scuttled here to tell Eleanor Hart’s dirty little secrets.