The Duke's Perfect Wife

He’d been beautiful. She wanted him to bare his body for her again—for her, and for no one else.

Eleanor knew exactly why Lady Murchison had let her hand wander to his backside. Eleanor slid her fingers there now, brushing past the formal frock coat and finding the finely spun wool of the plaid. Hart must be wearing something under it, but if so, it was something rather thin. Eleanor cupped the firmness of his bu**ocks, agreeable warmth shooting through her as she felt strong muscle beneath the wool.

Hart raised his head. His gentle look fled, and the sinful smile of the young Hart Mackenzie spread across his face.

“Devil,” he said.

“You are still rather attractive, Hart.”

“And you still have fire in you.” Hart brushed a fingertip over her lashes. “I see it.”

“On the contrary. Things have been rather chilly in Aberdeen.”

“And you came to London to warm yourself? Wicked lass.”

Eleanor squeezed his bu**ocks again, unable to help herself. “Why do you think I came to London?”

Uncertainty sparkled in his eyes, and his brows came down. Eleanor remembered the heady power she’d felt when turning his teasing back on him. Hart wasn’t used to that—he wanted to be master of all situations. When he didn’t know what Eleanor was thinking, it made him wild.

“Because of the photographs, you said. And you told me you wanted a job.”

“I could have taken a typing post in Aberdeen. I didn’t have to come all the way to London for it.”

Hart touched his forehead to hers. “Don’t do this to me, El. Don’t tempt me with what I can’t have.”

“I have no intention of tempting you. But you wonder why, don’t you? I see it every time you look at me.”

Hart’s hand came around her jaw again. “You disregard your danger. I’m a dangerous man. When I know what I want, I take it.”

“You didn’t want Lady Murchison?” Eleanor let her eyes go wide.

“She’s a harpy. The wine wasn’t necessary.”

“I disliked watching her touch you.”

Hart squeezed Eleanor’s mouth the slightest bit, making a pucker, which he kissed. “I like that you disliked that. Saving me for you to touch?”

Eleanor pressed his backside again. “It seems that you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind. I never minded.” Another soft kiss. “You have clever fingers, El. I remember.”

Eleanor wanted to collapse, like the shawl around her feet. Hart Mackenzie was expert at teasing—but what they’d shared in the past made this real. If she asked him, would he accompany her to her room on the upper floor, would he spend the rest of the night in her bed, while they remembered how they’d enjoyed learning each other’s bodies?

Before she could speak, Hart lifted her from her feet and sat her on the landing’s railing. Eleanor gasped, feeling empty air behind her back, but Hart’s strong arms held her safely. He pressed aside her skirts as he stepped between her legs, the shawl forgotten behind him on the floor.

“You make me come alive,” Hart said.

Eleanor’s voice shook. “Is that so bad a thing?”

“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “I succeed because I focus. I fix on one thing and do anything to obtain that thing. Come hell or high water. You…” He held her with one arm while he touched a finger to her lips. “You make me break that focus. You did it before, and you’re doing it now. I should send you back down to the ballroom and out of my sight, but right now, all I want to do is count your freckles. And kiss them. And lick them…”

Hart brushed a kiss to her cheekbone, and another, and another. He was doing it, kissing every one of her freckles. Eleanor leaned back in his arms a little, knowing he wouldn’t let her fall.

She felt hot, wild as he always had made her. Eleanor the prim and proper spinster, helper to her widowed father, paragon of Glenarden, knew she’d let Hart do to her anything he wanted, and worry about consequences when it was time for consequences.

His lips found hers again, his strong, mastering mouth caressing. Eleanor wound her arms around him and let herself kiss him back. Their mouths met, and met again, the soft noise of kisses drifting through the stairwell. Eleanor twined one leg around his and slid a slippered foot up his hard, hard thigh.

He drew back a little, eyes glinting with his smile. “There’s my wicked lass,” he whispered. “I’ve never forgotten you, El. Never.”

Eleanor felt as wanton as he called her. But what of it? They were rather elderly, weren’t they? A widower and a spinster, past the age of scandal. What harm was a little kissing on the staircase?

But this was not harmless, and Eleanor knew it. Her twining leg opened her to him, and Hart knew how to step between her so that his hardness wedged exactly to the right place…

“Mackenzie?” A voice drifted upward through the banisters, one slurred but holding a note of surprise.

Eleanor gasped and jumped, and would have fallen but for Hart’s iron-strong arms around her. The real world swirled back at her like a cold wind, but Hart merely raised his head and looked down the stairs in impatience.

“Fleming,” he said. “What do you want?”

“Many apologies for interrupting,” came the sardonic reply. “Put it down to my remarkably bad timing.”

Eleanor recognized the voice. He was David Fleming, one of Hart’s oldest friends and political cronies. When Hart had begun courting Eleanor, David had declared himself in love with Eleanor as well—openly and without shame. To his credit, he’d never tried to interfere with the courtship or steal Eleanor from Hart, but after Eleanor had broken the engagement, David had rushed to Glenarden and asked Eleanor to marry him. Eleanor had given him a polite, but firm, no.