The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 44
“You were supposed to burn this,” Hart said. He couldn’t get up, could not move, drained from what he’d just read.
Eleanor closed the door and came to the table littered with the letters. “I couldn’t, somehow.”
He noticed that she did not need to ask which letter he meant. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, really. I suppose, because, of all the people you could have told, you chose to tell me.”
“There was no other person,” Hart said. “No one in the world.”
It hung there. Hart closed the book and stood up, his feet heavy. He needed to touch her. She watched him come to her, said not a word when he cupped her face in his hands and leaned to kiss her.
She tasted of sunshine. Hart didn’t pause to wonder why she’d come upstairs, whether Isabella expected her to rush right back down. Hart only cared that Eleanor was here, that he had the warmth of her under his hands, the woman who knew his direst secrets and had never told a soul.
He felt strong again in her embrace, his hurts flowing away under Eleanor’s caress. He waited for dark needs to grip him, to ruin this moment, but they didn’t come.
He feathered kisses across her cheek, catching the freckles that he held so dear. “El…”
“Shh.” Eleanor pulled him all the way into her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “Say nothing. There’s nothing to be said.”
Hart pressed a kiss to the top of her head, loving the satin warmth of her hair. His heart was sore, but Eleanor was soothing away the hurt.
“You pasted the photographs into a book,” he said. “A book about me.”
Eleanor raised her head. She caught the look in his eye, and her face flamed as red as her hair. “Well, I…”
Hart felt light as he watched her struggle for an explanation. He saw her go through several, then she grew redder still, and said in a tiny voice, “You are very fine to look at.”
Hart wanted to laugh, mirth being all the brighter after the memories the letters had forced upon him.
Eleanor frowned suddenly, touching his face where the chipped stone had cut him. “What happened?”
“Nothing important. Don’t change the subject.”
Her fingers were soft. “Even marred, you are a handsome man. You must know that.”
Many women had told Hart so, but he’d never let himself wallow in their praise. Riches and position could tinge the perspective, rendering the unpleasant beautiful.
“I don’t want you to keep the photographs Mrs. Palmer took,” he said. “Burn them.”
“Don’t be daft. They’re finely done. And besides, if I grow angry enough at you, I’m sure I could sell them for quite a lot of money.”
Hart lost his smile. “You would do that?”
She pretended to consider. “Perhaps, if you keep telling me not to search certain places for who sent them—or to do anything I please, for that matter.”
Her teasing melted him. “I was right. You are a bold lady. You haven’t changed since you lured me into that boating house.”
“Lured you? I believe I was minding my own business, and you stalked me there.”
“An argument that could last ages. But no matter.” He snatched up the book. “I’ll just burn the entire thing.”
Eleanor lunged for it. “Don’t you dare.”
Hart swung around and headed for the coal stove, its warm glow and Eleanor pumping life back into him.
Eleanor ran after him and grabbed the book, and Hart pretended to wrestle her for it. She knew he pretended, because Hart could have snatched the book out of her hands any moment he wanted to. She yanked, and he released it suddenly, sending her a few scuttling steps back.
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.”
Eleanor closed the door and came to the table littered with the letters. “I couldn’t, somehow.”
He noticed that she did not need to ask which letter he meant. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, really. I suppose, because, of all the people you could have told, you chose to tell me.”
“There was no other person,” Hart said. “No one in the world.”
It hung there. Hart closed the book and stood up, his feet heavy. He needed to touch her. She watched him come to her, said not a word when he cupped her face in his hands and leaned to kiss her.
She tasted of sunshine. Hart didn’t pause to wonder why she’d come upstairs, whether Isabella expected her to rush right back down. Hart only cared that Eleanor was here, that he had the warmth of her under his hands, the woman who knew his direst secrets and had never told a soul.
He felt strong again in her embrace, his hurts flowing away under Eleanor’s caress. He waited for dark needs to grip him, to ruin this moment, but they didn’t come.
He feathered kisses across her cheek, catching the freckles that he held so dear. “El…”
“Shh.” Eleanor pulled him all the way into her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “Say nothing. There’s nothing to be said.”
Hart pressed a kiss to the top of her head, loving the satin warmth of her hair. His heart was sore, but Eleanor was soothing away the hurt.
“You pasted the photographs into a book,” he said. “A book about me.”
Eleanor raised her head. She caught the look in his eye, and her face flamed as red as her hair. “Well, I…”
Hart felt light as he watched her struggle for an explanation. He saw her go through several, then she grew redder still, and said in a tiny voice, “You are very fine to look at.”
Hart wanted to laugh, mirth being all the brighter after the memories the letters had forced upon him.
Eleanor frowned suddenly, touching his face where the chipped stone had cut him. “What happened?”
“Nothing important. Don’t change the subject.”
Her fingers were soft. “Even marred, you are a handsome man. You must know that.”
Many women had told Hart so, but he’d never let himself wallow in their praise. Riches and position could tinge the perspective, rendering the unpleasant beautiful.
“I don’t want you to keep the photographs Mrs. Palmer took,” he said. “Burn them.”
“Don’t be daft. They’re finely done. And besides, if I grow angry enough at you, I’m sure I could sell them for quite a lot of money.”
Hart lost his smile. “You would do that?”
She pretended to consider. “Perhaps, if you keep telling me not to search certain places for who sent them—or to do anything I please, for that matter.”
Her teasing melted him. “I was right. You are a bold lady. You haven’t changed since you lured me into that boating house.”
“Lured you? I believe I was minding my own business, and you stalked me there.”
“An argument that could last ages. But no matter.” He snatched up the book. “I’ll just burn the entire thing.”
Eleanor lunged for it. “Don’t you dare.”
Hart swung around and headed for the coal stove, its warm glow and Eleanor pumping life back into him.
Eleanor ran after him and grabbed the book, and Hart pretended to wrestle her for it. She knew he pretended, because Hart could have snatched the book out of her hands any moment he wanted to. She yanked, and he released it suddenly, sending her a few scuttling steps back.
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.”
