The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 20
“And now you work for me.”
She rummaged in the drawer, not looking at him. “I’m hardly your servant, but the same principle applies. Were I to wait for your commands, I’d be in that little study with Wilfred, tapping my fingers on the desk, wondering when you would bother to appear. Even Wilfred wonders at your absences, and he is a man of few words.”
“In that study is exactly where I want you to be!”
“I don’t see why. Wilfred doesn’t really need me to type your correspondence. He gives it to me for something to do, because he feels sorry for me. My time is much better spent trying to discover who is sending the pictures and what they mean by it. And you could help me search instead of standing in the doorway shouting at me.”
She made his blood boil. “Eleanor, I want you out of this house.”
Eleanor blithely ignored him to open the next drawer. “Not until I’ve finished looking. There are many nooks and crannies and much furniture.”
Hart pushed his way around the bureau, seized Eleanor by her shoulders, and pulled her upright. She came up swiftly, one blue eye now completely shielded by the veil.
Before Hart registered that he did it, he skimmed his hands down her arms to her wrists and pulled them behind her back. He knew how to lock a woman’s hands, knew how to hold her still. Eleanor stared up at him, red lips parted.
Need streaked through him, a craving that closed him in razor-sharp claws. Hart studied the red lips that beckoned him, br**sts rising against her tightly buttoned bodice, the lock of hair, fallen, gold red against her cheek.
He leaned and took the curl in his mouth. Eleanor drew a breath, and Hart turned his head and caught her lip between his teeth.
Eleanor’s eyes were enormous this close to his. Gone was her defiance, her stubborn obliviousness. She focused on Hart and Hart alone, as he bit down on her lip, not brutally, but enough to trap her. Her breath was hot on his cheek, and her wrists were quiet under his hands.
Tamed? No. Never Eleanor. If she quieted in his skilled grasp, it was her choice to.
Hart could easily take her, now, perhaps across the top of the chest behind her. It would be quick and intense—a few thrusts, and Hart would be spent. They wouldn’t even have to undress. Eleanor would be his, again, inescapably.
Hart pressed a soft kiss where his teeth had scraped. Her lips were slightly salty with perspiration, silken soft, the warm tang of her mouth satisfying. He nipped her again, pulling her lip with his teeth, again gentling the movement by kissing where he’d bitten.
Eleanor moved her lips to kiss him back, her eyes closing to slits while her pink, soft mouth found his. Hart slanted across it, ready to lick inside, but Eleanor pulled back.
“Don’t.” Her whisper was quiet, and he wouldn’t have heard it had they not been this close. But no fear rested in Eleanor’s eyes. He saw sorrow and heartache instead. “It’s not fair.”
“Not fair?”
“To me.” Her lashes were wet.
Dark need tore at him. Hart gripped her wrists, but Eleanor didn’t flinch, didn’t move.
He was Hart Mackenzie, the Duke of Kilmorgan, one of the most powerful men in Britain, and Eleanor Ramsay had put herself into his power. Hart could do anything he wanted to her, up here, alone in this room.
Anything at all.
Eleanor’s eyes, one behind the pin-dot veil, one visible, stared into his. Hart dragged in a breath that burned fire, and made himself let her go.
His body fought him releasing her, and he backed a step before he turned away and leaned on the bureau. He pressed his fists to the wood, his lungs hurting, blood pounding through his body.
“Hart, are you all right?”
Eleanor looked up at him in concern. Still, she had no fear. Only worry—for him.
“Yes, I am all right. Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you look very red and will break the wood if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll be better the minute you are out of this house!”
Eleanor spread her hands in her dove-colored gloves. “When I’m finished searching.”
Hart roared. He grabbed the chest of drawers and overturned it, the thing crashing to the floor. At the same time, the doorway darkened and Ian strode in, his Mackenzie scowl all for Hart.
Eleanor turned to Ian, giving him a bright smile. “There you are, Ian. Will you please take Hart downstairs? I will finish much more quickly if he’s not up here throwing the furniture about.”
Hart went for her. Ian tried to stop him, but Hart shoved Ian out of the way and lunged at Eleanor.
She shrieked. Hart didn’t care. He lifted her and tucked her over his shoulder, then he pushed past Ian—who had decided to step back and let this happen—and carried Eleanor bodily down the stairs.
“Ian, bring my package!” Eleanor shouted back over his shoulder. “Hart, put me down. This is absurd.”
Hart’s town coach was pulling to a halt under the gaslights, which were turning the now-misty air a sickly yellow. Hart at least set Eleanor on her feet before he guided her down the steps to the street, hand on her elbow, pushing her at the car-riage.
Instead of fighting him, Eleanor subsided after one “Really, Hart.” He saw her glance at the passersby and decide not to make a scene.
Hart shoved her into the coach that his footmen hastily opened. He climbed up beside her and directed his coachman to Grosvenor Square, knowing good and well that Eleanor would never stay in the carriage if he didn’t hold her there all the way home.
She rummaged in the drawer, not looking at him. “I’m hardly your servant, but the same principle applies. Were I to wait for your commands, I’d be in that little study with Wilfred, tapping my fingers on the desk, wondering when you would bother to appear. Even Wilfred wonders at your absences, and he is a man of few words.”
“In that study is exactly where I want you to be!”
“I don’t see why. Wilfred doesn’t really need me to type your correspondence. He gives it to me for something to do, because he feels sorry for me. My time is much better spent trying to discover who is sending the pictures and what they mean by it. And you could help me search instead of standing in the doorway shouting at me.”
She made his blood boil. “Eleanor, I want you out of this house.”
Eleanor blithely ignored him to open the next drawer. “Not until I’ve finished looking. There are many nooks and crannies and much furniture.”
Hart pushed his way around the bureau, seized Eleanor by her shoulders, and pulled her upright. She came up swiftly, one blue eye now completely shielded by the veil.
Before Hart registered that he did it, he skimmed his hands down her arms to her wrists and pulled them behind her back. He knew how to lock a woman’s hands, knew how to hold her still. Eleanor stared up at him, red lips parted.
Need streaked through him, a craving that closed him in razor-sharp claws. Hart studied the red lips that beckoned him, br**sts rising against her tightly buttoned bodice, the lock of hair, fallen, gold red against her cheek.
He leaned and took the curl in his mouth. Eleanor drew a breath, and Hart turned his head and caught her lip between his teeth.
Eleanor’s eyes were enormous this close to his. Gone was her defiance, her stubborn obliviousness. She focused on Hart and Hart alone, as he bit down on her lip, not brutally, but enough to trap her. Her breath was hot on his cheek, and her wrists were quiet under his hands.
Tamed? No. Never Eleanor. If she quieted in his skilled grasp, it was her choice to.
Hart could easily take her, now, perhaps across the top of the chest behind her. It would be quick and intense—a few thrusts, and Hart would be spent. They wouldn’t even have to undress. Eleanor would be his, again, inescapably.
Hart pressed a soft kiss where his teeth had scraped. Her lips were slightly salty with perspiration, silken soft, the warm tang of her mouth satisfying. He nipped her again, pulling her lip with his teeth, again gentling the movement by kissing where he’d bitten.
Eleanor moved her lips to kiss him back, her eyes closing to slits while her pink, soft mouth found his. Hart slanted across it, ready to lick inside, but Eleanor pulled back.
“Don’t.” Her whisper was quiet, and he wouldn’t have heard it had they not been this close. But no fear rested in Eleanor’s eyes. He saw sorrow and heartache instead. “It’s not fair.”
“Not fair?”
“To me.” Her lashes were wet.
Dark need tore at him. Hart gripped her wrists, but Eleanor didn’t flinch, didn’t move.
He was Hart Mackenzie, the Duke of Kilmorgan, one of the most powerful men in Britain, and Eleanor Ramsay had put herself into his power. Hart could do anything he wanted to her, up here, alone in this room.
Anything at all.
Eleanor’s eyes, one behind the pin-dot veil, one visible, stared into his. Hart dragged in a breath that burned fire, and made himself let her go.
His body fought him releasing her, and he backed a step before he turned away and leaned on the bureau. He pressed his fists to the wood, his lungs hurting, blood pounding through his body.
“Hart, are you all right?”
Eleanor looked up at him in concern. Still, she had no fear. Only worry—for him.
“Yes, I am all right. Why the hell wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you look very red and will break the wood if you’re not careful.”
“I’ll be better the minute you are out of this house!”
Eleanor spread her hands in her dove-colored gloves. “When I’m finished searching.”
Hart roared. He grabbed the chest of drawers and overturned it, the thing crashing to the floor. At the same time, the doorway darkened and Ian strode in, his Mackenzie scowl all for Hart.
Eleanor turned to Ian, giving him a bright smile. “There you are, Ian. Will you please take Hart downstairs? I will finish much more quickly if he’s not up here throwing the furniture about.”
Hart went for her. Ian tried to stop him, but Hart shoved Ian out of the way and lunged at Eleanor.
She shrieked. Hart didn’t care. He lifted her and tucked her over his shoulder, then he pushed past Ian—who had decided to step back and let this happen—and carried Eleanor bodily down the stairs.
“Ian, bring my package!” Eleanor shouted back over his shoulder. “Hart, put me down. This is absurd.”
Hart’s town coach was pulling to a halt under the gaslights, which were turning the now-misty air a sickly yellow. Hart at least set Eleanor on her feet before he guided her down the steps to the street, hand on her elbow, pushing her at the car-riage.
Instead of fighting him, Eleanor subsided after one “Really, Hart.” He saw her glance at the passersby and decide not to make a scene.
Hart shoved her into the coach that his footmen hastily opened. He climbed up beside her and directed his coachman to Grosvenor Square, knowing good and well that Eleanor would never stay in the carriage if he didn’t hold her there all the way home.
