The Duke's Perfect Wife
He wanted to bathe in her and cleanse himself of all the things he’d done and all the things he would do in the name of making himself prime minister. He’d begun the supper ball as the duke trying to win over those who would help bring him power. He’d segued into the man who’d make a bargain with the devil himself if it would win him his vote.
He did not want to be that person anymore. At this moment, he wanted to be with Eleanor and shut out the world.
Eleanor’s eyes softened as he drew her up to him and kissed her parted lips.
Something jolted between them. Sparks. Always sparks.
Hart kissed across her lower lip, lingering on the place where he’d bitten her. A tendril of darkness danced somewhere inside him, but he wouldn’t let himself ruin this. Not with Eleanor’s lips soft under his, her mouth warm and responding.
Sweet and tender, that was Eleanor, and yet she had a core of steel. Hart kissed her throat and then her shoulder, her skin damp with their wild dancing.
Not enough. It wasn’t enough.
Hart swept her into his arms and deposited her on the low table heaped with laundry. Before Eleanor could protest, he was over her on hands and knees as he laid her back.
“You’ll ruin the linens,” she struggled to say. “They worked so hard on them.”
“I pay my servants the highest wages in London.”
“For putting up with you.”
“For letting me ravish my love on a pile of clean laundry.” Hart plucked a pair of drawers from behind her shoulder, a lady’s drawers, made of thin linen and trimmed with lace. “Your laundry, I believe.”
Eleanor tried to snatch them. “Hart, for heaven’s sake, you can’t be waving my knickers about.”
Hart held them out of her reach. “Why are they so worn out?” The place that cupped her bottom was threadbare, and the lace on the leg openings had been mended many times. He picked up the companion camisole, again of fine fabric but carefully mended over the years. “Isabella needs to outfit you from the skin out.”
“I can do it myself,” proud Eleanor said. “I’ll buy some new smalls out of my wages.”
“You should have a roomful of new ones. Throw these away.”
“I shall have to if you rip them.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Hart drew the camisole across her cheek. “These are linen. I want to see you in silk.”
“Silk is expensive. Lawn is more practical. And you shouldn’t see me in either.”
Hart lifted the drawers again. “When you put them on tomorrow, think of me.” He pressed a kiss to the worn fabric that would go over the round of her bu**ocks.
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Cheek.”
“Cheek? Was that a pun?”
“You’re horrible.”
“I never pretended to be anything else.” Hart dropped the drawers on the pile and lost his smile. “You make me wicked, El. When I walk into a room with you in it, everything and everyone goes to hang.”
“Then you shouldn’t walk into rooms with me in them. You have so much responsibility now.”
“And you danced back into my life just as I’m poised to grab my greatest success. Why?”
“To help you. I told you.”
Hart leaned to her, looking into her blue eyes. “I think God is playing games with me. Having his vengeance.”
Eleanor frowned. “I’m not sure God works quite like that.”
“He does with me, but then I’ve always had the devil in me. Maybe you were sent to save me.”
“I highly doubt that. No one could save you, Hart Mackenzie.”
“Good. I don’t want you to save me. Not right now.”
“Then what do you want?” she asked.
“I want you to kiss me.”
Eleanor’s eyes softened. She wound her arms around his neck, and Hart forgot about darkness, forgot about Neely, forgot about everything but Eleanor.
Their mouths met in the silence of the room, Eleanor’s a point of warmth. The laundry slipped and slid beneath them as Hart laid her down all the way and pressed his knee between her skirts.
He longed to wrest off the skirts and the cage of the bustle that kept him from her. From there, it would be easy to remove her drawers and be inside her in one swift thrust. And then he could be with her, complete. Finding her heat, becoming one with the woman he’d always wanted. Craved. For years.
If he asked politely, she’d say no. So, he’d have to be impolite.
Hart tugged her glove the rest of the way off and pressed a hard kiss to her palm. He wrapped the glove once around her wrist and then around his.
Eleanor watched, startled, not sure what he meant by it. Hart wasn’t certain either. He only wanted her close, and to stay.
The strange binding of the glove licked heat through Eleanor’s body. Hart was heavy on top of her, and the glove around both wrists bound him to her, she to him.
He’d taught Eleanor to kiss long ago. Showed her how to part her lips, how to let him inside her mouth. She’d let this man slowly, slowly take all her innocence. Seducing her, teaching her to give in to her desires and not be afraid.
“El,” he whispered.
Breathing hurt. Hart had said her name like that on the day in the summerhouse in Scotland when he’d laid her down and kissed her in the sunshine. He’d told her that he wanted her and exactly how he’d wanted her. Eleanor had laughed, pleased with her power. Eleanor Ramsay, bringing the great Hart Mac-kenzie to his knees.