The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 55
Eleanor’s fingers curled into his shoulders as she kissed him back. He kissed her harder, tasting her mouth, licking the rain from her lips. Eleanor ran her hands down his naked back, feeling hot, smooth skin.
Her body was on fire. Eleanor kissed his warm lips, chasing his tongue with her own. She felt the top buttons of her bodice open, then Hart’s fingers, easing the placket apart. His palm slid behind her bared neck, strong and warm, holding her.
He broke the kiss to swiftly unbutton the rest of her bodice and peel it down her arms. He didn’t pull off the bodice entirely—his eyes darkened as her arms were pinned to her sides by the fabric. Hart growled softly and kissed her again, she lifting her hands as much as she could to place them at his waist. She felt the in and out movement of his breath, the warm wool waistband of his kilt, the hotter skin of the man inside it.
“Eleanor. El.” He raised his head, eyes dark in the shadows of his damp hair. The smile, when it came, was sinful. “I keep having visions of you in nothing but your corset.”
Eleanor’s heart beat faster, a tingle of heat racing through her. “I’ve been having visions of you in nothing but your kilt. In fact, I have photographs to pore over if necessary.”
His smile went wider, and the Hart Mackenzie she’d fallen in love with years ago shone through. “What am I going to do with you, minx?”
“My father sent for some photographic apparatus so he can take pictures of the Berkshire flora. Perhaps he will let me borrow the camera.”
Hart stopped, and then his wicked grin returned. “Do your worst. But only…” He pulled her bodice all the way off, then slid his hand behind her back and smoothly untied the cord that closed her corset. The laces loosened and spread under his fingers. “Only if you do the same for me.”
“Pose for pictures for you? Good heavens, no. I’m far too modest.”
The laces came undone, the little straps that held the corset over her shoulders sliding off under Hart’s large hands. He leaned close.
“These will be private photographs. Very private. Only you and only I will see them.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I will think on it.”
Hart smiled against her mouth, followed by a lick across her lips. “If you want me in only my kilt, you must agree to the terms.”
Eleanor’s face heated. “I told you I’d think on it.”
“I knew the moment I kissed you in that boathouse that you were a wicked lass. Prim and proper for the world, wild with passion behind closed doors. The perfect lady for me.”
“I’ve only ever been wild with you, Hart. You taught me.”
“Did I?” Hart was laughing, hands on her back, nothing between him and her but the thin linen of her camisole. “You were eager to learn.”
“You were an interesting… instructor.”
He smiled, his forehead against hers. “El, you make me young again. You make me…”
His smile died with his words. Hart’s hands went to her waist, fingers unfastening her skirt and the petticoat beneath. Eleanor’s skirts fell—she’d donned no bustle to wander the rainy meadow this morning.
“I make you what?” she whispered.
Hart’s warm hands glided to her bu**ocks, his laughter completely gone. She saw stark need in his eyes, and loneliness, and fear. Fear of many things, all complicated, all too real.
“I can’t do this alone,” he said. “I need you, El.”
She knew he didn’t mean for ravishing in a canal boat while the Romany raced off to see Cameron work the horses.
“I… need… you.” The words tore from him, this man who never dared voice weakness to anyone.
Eleanor slid off her camisole and twined her arms around Hart’s neck.
“I’m here,” she said.
Hart slid his thumb across Eleanor’s lower lip, in wonder, as always, at her softness. He was a hard, hard man, and Eleanor was all things warmth and comfort. He’d been a fool to let her walk away.
He drew her up to him and sank himself into another kiss. She tasted like rainwater, heat, and desire.
He’d taught her, yes, he’d taught her. Not everything—not by a long way—but he’d taught her.
Eleanor looked up at him with her warm blue eyes, her passion shining unashamed. He loved that about her—Eleanor had never seen any shame in her need.
Her skirts were on the floor, she standing in nothing but her drawers. Hart smoothed the fabric that cupped her bu**ocks, linen so fine it was almost silk. She’d obeyed him and gotten new ones.
He ached for her, his cockstand berating him to get on with it. But he did not want to go too fast, did not want to rush. The Romany and Ian had given Hart this gift—a gift of time with Eleanor.
More than that. Eleanor might consider this a stolen moment, but Hart was not going to keep it to a moment. He had to keep her safe from the world, and now from Sinclair bloody McBride. McBride was a handsome Scot with two small children and badly in need of a wife, and here was Eleanor ripe for the plucking. He saw what Ainsley was up to, asking him here.
Hart had to move swiftly, never mind his plans. No more waiting.
He untied the tapes that held her drawers closed and slid his hands inside them. Softness met his fingers, the silk of Eleanor. He circled his thumbs on her skin as he kissed her, then moved one hand to the warmth between her thighs.
She was hot, wet, ready, as needy as Hart was. He moved his fingers, rewarded by her little noise of pleasure as her body loosened. Anything maidenly and resistant in her dissolved and floated away. The prim young spinster vanished, and Eleanor the passionate woman filled her place.
Her body was on fire. Eleanor kissed his warm lips, chasing his tongue with her own. She felt the top buttons of her bodice open, then Hart’s fingers, easing the placket apart. His palm slid behind her bared neck, strong and warm, holding her.
He broke the kiss to swiftly unbutton the rest of her bodice and peel it down her arms. He didn’t pull off the bodice entirely—his eyes darkened as her arms were pinned to her sides by the fabric. Hart growled softly and kissed her again, she lifting her hands as much as she could to place them at his waist. She felt the in and out movement of his breath, the warm wool waistband of his kilt, the hotter skin of the man inside it.
“Eleanor. El.” He raised his head, eyes dark in the shadows of his damp hair. The smile, when it came, was sinful. “I keep having visions of you in nothing but your corset.”
Eleanor’s heart beat faster, a tingle of heat racing through her. “I’ve been having visions of you in nothing but your kilt. In fact, I have photographs to pore over if necessary.”
His smile went wider, and the Hart Mackenzie she’d fallen in love with years ago shone through. “What am I going to do with you, minx?”
“My father sent for some photographic apparatus so he can take pictures of the Berkshire flora. Perhaps he will let me borrow the camera.”
Hart stopped, and then his wicked grin returned. “Do your worst. But only…” He pulled her bodice all the way off, then slid his hand behind her back and smoothly untied the cord that closed her corset. The laces loosened and spread under his fingers. “Only if you do the same for me.”
“Pose for pictures for you? Good heavens, no. I’m far too modest.”
The laces came undone, the little straps that held the corset over her shoulders sliding off under Hart’s large hands. He leaned close.
“These will be private photographs. Very private. Only you and only I will see them.”
“Hmm,” she said. “I will think on it.”
Hart smiled against her mouth, followed by a lick across her lips. “If you want me in only my kilt, you must agree to the terms.”
Eleanor’s face heated. “I told you I’d think on it.”
“I knew the moment I kissed you in that boathouse that you were a wicked lass. Prim and proper for the world, wild with passion behind closed doors. The perfect lady for me.”
“I’ve only ever been wild with you, Hart. You taught me.”
“Did I?” Hart was laughing, hands on her back, nothing between him and her but the thin linen of her camisole. “You were eager to learn.”
“You were an interesting… instructor.”
He smiled, his forehead against hers. “El, you make me young again. You make me…”
His smile died with his words. Hart’s hands went to her waist, fingers unfastening her skirt and the petticoat beneath. Eleanor’s skirts fell—she’d donned no bustle to wander the rainy meadow this morning.
“I make you what?” she whispered.
Hart’s warm hands glided to her bu**ocks, his laughter completely gone. She saw stark need in his eyes, and loneliness, and fear. Fear of many things, all complicated, all too real.
“I can’t do this alone,” he said. “I need you, El.”
She knew he didn’t mean for ravishing in a canal boat while the Romany raced off to see Cameron work the horses.
“I… need… you.” The words tore from him, this man who never dared voice weakness to anyone.
Eleanor slid off her camisole and twined her arms around Hart’s neck.
“I’m here,” she said.
Hart slid his thumb across Eleanor’s lower lip, in wonder, as always, at her softness. He was a hard, hard man, and Eleanor was all things warmth and comfort. He’d been a fool to let her walk away.
He drew her up to him and sank himself into another kiss. She tasted like rainwater, heat, and desire.
He’d taught her, yes, he’d taught her. Not everything—not by a long way—but he’d taught her.
Eleanor looked up at him with her warm blue eyes, her passion shining unashamed. He loved that about her—Eleanor had never seen any shame in her need.
Her skirts were on the floor, she standing in nothing but her drawers. Hart smoothed the fabric that cupped her bu**ocks, linen so fine it was almost silk. She’d obeyed him and gotten new ones.
He ached for her, his cockstand berating him to get on with it. But he did not want to go too fast, did not want to rush. The Romany and Ian had given Hart this gift—a gift of time with Eleanor.
More than that. Eleanor might consider this a stolen moment, but Hart was not going to keep it to a moment. He had to keep her safe from the world, and now from Sinclair bloody McBride. McBride was a handsome Scot with two small children and badly in need of a wife, and here was Eleanor ripe for the plucking. He saw what Ainsley was up to, asking him here.
Hart had to move swiftly, never mind his plans. No more waiting.
He untied the tapes that held her drawers closed and slid his hands inside them. Softness met his fingers, the silk of Eleanor. He circled his thumbs on her skin as he kissed her, then moved one hand to the warmth between her thighs.
She was hot, wet, ready, as needy as Hart was. He moved his fingers, rewarded by her little noise of pleasure as her body loosened. Anything maidenly and resistant in her dissolved and floated away. The prim young spinster vanished, and Eleanor the passionate woman filled her place.
