The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 95
Hart had found happiness. With Eleanor. But he’d decided to go on serving his obsessive ambition, setting her to one side, and assuming he’d have plenty of time for her when he finished.
Fool. Reeve had the right of it. Backbreaking work all hours of the day and night, shut away and never watching your boy grow up. Freedom, that’s worth all them plates of silver and a fine palace.
A factory or the Houses of Parliament—it was all the same.
He needed to see Eleanor. He needed to bury himself in her softness and beg her forgiveness. He knew well and good that he’d sent the flower to her for another reason—he feared that if she believed him dead, she’d turn to another, David Fleming, perhaps, for comfort. Eleanor was beautiful, young, and now a very, very rich widow. The predators would be coming out of the woodwork.
It was time to go home.
Hart looked up from the newspaper, his world changed. The denizens of the pub went on talking and laughing with their friends, some quietly, some loudly. The Duke of Kilmorgan, the entirety of the British peerage, were nonentities here. For the first time in his life, Hart had no power at all.
Thank God.
Hart remained at the pub with Reeve, sitting quietly while his mind spun with plans for getting himself back home—Kilmorgan would be the best place for staging his resurrection—until the publican closed up for the night. Reeve said good-bye to his mates, and he and Hart turned in the darkness toward Blackfriars Bridge. Reeve walked unsteadily.
A hand reached out of a dark passage and landed on Hart’s shoulder. Hart spun around, fist swinging in a perfect pugilist’s right hook. The punch was caught with equal skill in a hand that was as big as his own. Eyes the color of Mackenzie singlemalt regarded Hart in the dim light of Reeve’s lantern.
Hart looked back at Ian Mackenzie, face smudged and bearing lines of exhaustion. Ian put both hands on Hart’s shoulders, and his fingers dug through Hart’s coat.
“I found you,” Ian said, his voice low and fierce. “I found you.” He put his arms around Hart, and Hart for a moment sank into the strength that was his youngest brother. “I can always find you,” Ian whispered.
“Come with me.”
Eleanor looked up from the desk in the main study in the Grosvenor Square mansion, the house quiet, since the rest of the family, excepting herself, Ian, and Beth, had departed for Scotland. It was very late, and Beth and her children were asleep.
“Good heavens,” she said. “Are you still up and about, Ian?”
Ian, being Ian, did not bother to answer the question. He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
He was breathing hard, his eyes alight. Ian didn’t smile, but Eleanor sensed his excitement, even joy, behind his still face.
“Where is he?” Eleanor asked, rising.
“Come with me.”
That was enough for Eleanor. She snatched up her shawl, took Ian’s hand, and let him lead her out.
Hart waited in the noisome darkness by Reeve’s boathouse, listening to the Thames lap the bank not far away. Too many people lingered near Reeve’s boat down the Strand—a few of Reeve’s mates from the pub had come to visit, even this late—but the boathouse was deserted. Rats and thieves, those were the only things to be found on the shore of the Thames tonight. And Hart.
Hart saw them come. Swiftly and silently, the bulk of his brother came across the littered Strand, pulling a woman in a dark shawl with him.
“Do slow down a tiny bit,” Eleanor’s voice came to him. “These rocks are slippery, and I’m certain I’ve stepped in something nasty. I understand why we can’t have a light, but, gracious, can we pretend that we need to go carefully?”
Ian never responded or looked around at her. He kept propelling her onward, and Hart stepped out of the shadow of the boathouse.
Eleanor dropped Ian’s hand. She froze, a slender upright against what light drifted down to the river, then she was running toward him, skirts swirling. Hart knew he should stay hidden, but he couldn’t stop himself going to meet her—four steps, five, six, seven.
Then she was in front of him. Hart caught and lifted her, spinning her around with him. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her goodness, feeling her warm against him. Safe. I’m safe. Hart’s body shuddered once with a great, wrenching sob.
Eleanor was crying, her hands coming up to cup his face. She stroked his beard, staring at him in wonder.
“What happened, Hart? What happened to you? My goodness, but you look awful.”
Eleanor’s heart flooded with happiness. He was here, whole, with her. The flower had told her he was all right, but she needed to touch him to believe it.
She caressed his face and the strange beard, Hart looking so different and yet the same. His eyes still blazed like golden fire, even though his clothes were rough, and he smelled of the river. She put her arms around him and held on, so happy she couldn’t speak.
“El,” he whispered. “My El.”
He turned her face up to his and kissed her. The taste of him, so familiar, so much a part of her, broke her heart.
She squirmed out of his arms and thumped her fists to his chest. “Why the devil didn’t you send word? I was sick with worry, waiting and waiting…”
He had the gall to look surprised—so like him. “I sent the signal. I know you saw it.”
“Oh, do you? You were watching me?”
“Had someone watching you,” he said.
“Of course you did. Then why did you not let me send a message back? I scoured the square for any sign of who had left the flower, but no one noticed anything. Useless of them.”
Fool. Reeve had the right of it. Backbreaking work all hours of the day and night, shut away and never watching your boy grow up. Freedom, that’s worth all them plates of silver and a fine palace.
A factory or the Houses of Parliament—it was all the same.
He needed to see Eleanor. He needed to bury himself in her softness and beg her forgiveness. He knew well and good that he’d sent the flower to her for another reason—he feared that if she believed him dead, she’d turn to another, David Fleming, perhaps, for comfort. Eleanor was beautiful, young, and now a very, very rich widow. The predators would be coming out of the woodwork.
It was time to go home.
Hart looked up from the newspaper, his world changed. The denizens of the pub went on talking and laughing with their friends, some quietly, some loudly. The Duke of Kilmorgan, the entirety of the British peerage, were nonentities here. For the first time in his life, Hart had no power at all.
Thank God.
Hart remained at the pub with Reeve, sitting quietly while his mind spun with plans for getting himself back home—Kilmorgan would be the best place for staging his resurrection—until the publican closed up for the night. Reeve said good-bye to his mates, and he and Hart turned in the darkness toward Blackfriars Bridge. Reeve walked unsteadily.
A hand reached out of a dark passage and landed on Hart’s shoulder. Hart spun around, fist swinging in a perfect pugilist’s right hook. The punch was caught with equal skill in a hand that was as big as his own. Eyes the color of Mackenzie singlemalt regarded Hart in the dim light of Reeve’s lantern.
Hart looked back at Ian Mackenzie, face smudged and bearing lines of exhaustion. Ian put both hands on Hart’s shoulders, and his fingers dug through Hart’s coat.
“I found you,” Ian said, his voice low and fierce. “I found you.” He put his arms around Hart, and Hart for a moment sank into the strength that was his youngest brother. “I can always find you,” Ian whispered.
“Come with me.”
Eleanor looked up from the desk in the main study in the Grosvenor Square mansion, the house quiet, since the rest of the family, excepting herself, Ian, and Beth, had departed for Scotland. It was very late, and Beth and her children were asleep.
“Good heavens,” she said. “Are you still up and about, Ian?”
Ian, being Ian, did not bother to answer the question. He held out his hand. “Come with me.”
He was breathing hard, his eyes alight. Ian didn’t smile, but Eleanor sensed his excitement, even joy, behind his still face.
“Where is he?” Eleanor asked, rising.
“Come with me.”
That was enough for Eleanor. She snatched up her shawl, took Ian’s hand, and let him lead her out.
Hart waited in the noisome darkness by Reeve’s boathouse, listening to the Thames lap the bank not far away. Too many people lingered near Reeve’s boat down the Strand—a few of Reeve’s mates from the pub had come to visit, even this late—but the boathouse was deserted. Rats and thieves, those were the only things to be found on the shore of the Thames tonight. And Hart.
Hart saw them come. Swiftly and silently, the bulk of his brother came across the littered Strand, pulling a woman in a dark shawl with him.
“Do slow down a tiny bit,” Eleanor’s voice came to him. “These rocks are slippery, and I’m certain I’ve stepped in something nasty. I understand why we can’t have a light, but, gracious, can we pretend that we need to go carefully?”
Ian never responded or looked around at her. He kept propelling her onward, and Hart stepped out of the shadow of the boathouse.
Eleanor dropped Ian’s hand. She froze, a slender upright against what light drifted down to the river, then she was running toward him, skirts swirling. Hart knew he should stay hidden, but he couldn’t stop himself going to meet her—four steps, five, six, seven.
Then she was in front of him. Hart caught and lifted her, spinning her around with him. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her goodness, feeling her warm against him. Safe. I’m safe. Hart’s body shuddered once with a great, wrenching sob.
Eleanor was crying, her hands coming up to cup his face. She stroked his beard, staring at him in wonder.
“What happened, Hart? What happened to you? My goodness, but you look awful.”
Eleanor’s heart flooded with happiness. He was here, whole, with her. The flower had told her he was all right, but she needed to touch him to believe it.
She caressed his face and the strange beard, Hart looking so different and yet the same. His eyes still blazed like golden fire, even though his clothes were rough, and he smelled of the river. She put her arms around him and held on, so happy she couldn’t speak.
“El,” he whispered. “My El.”
He turned her face up to his and kissed her. The taste of him, so familiar, so much a part of her, broke her heart.
She squirmed out of his arms and thumped her fists to his chest. “Why the devil didn’t you send word? I was sick with worry, waiting and waiting…”
He had the gall to look surprised—so like him. “I sent the signal. I know you saw it.”
“Oh, do you? You were watching me?”
“Had someone watching you,” he said.
“Of course you did. Then why did you not let me send a message back? I scoured the square for any sign of who had left the flower, but no one noticed anything. Useless of them.”
