The Duke's Perfect Wife

“No,” Hart said.

Mac broke in. “Your own fault, my brother. You raised Isabella’s expectations at Ascot last year, declaring you were thinking about taking a wife. She grew quite excited, but since then, you’ve done nothing about it.”

In the box at Ascot, Hart had known exactly what he was doing. He supposed his brothers had come up with the romantic idea that he’d ride up to Eleanor’s dilapidated estate, beating his way through the overgrown garden to find her, and carry her off. Never mind how much she protested—and Eleanor would protest.

No, he would go about taking her as wife as thoroughly and deliberately as he ran one of his political campaigns. Overt courting would come later, but it would come. For now, having her live in his house and help Wilfred and Isabella organize his life was getting her used to the demands of it. He’d have Isabella coax her to a dressmaker’s so that Eleanor would grow used to pretty things and find it too much of a wrench to give them up. He would indulge her father in all the books, museums, and conversation with experts he could want, so that Eleanor would not have the heart to take it all away from him again. After a time, Eleanor would find herself so entrenched in Hart’s life that she’d not be able to walk away.

The dance last night had been a whim—no, not a whim, a voice said inside him. A burning hunger.

Whatever Hart’s reasoning had been, he’d use the dance to indicate to the world that he had set his sights again on Eleanor. Hart’s party would take the country by storm soon, the queen would ask Hart to form a government, and Hart would lay his victory at Eleanor’s feet.

“I told you, Mac,” Hart said. “That is my own business.”

“Marrying quickly will also save Eleanor from scandal,” Isabella said, ignoring both of them. “Attention will focus on your new bride-to-be, and the impromptu dance with Eleanor will be forgotten.”

No, it wouldn’t. Hart would make certain that it wouldn’t.

Isabella turned a page in her notebook and applied her pencil. “Let me see. The lady must be, first, Scottish. No English roses for Hart Mackenzie. Second, of the right lineage. I’d say earl’s daughter or above, don’t you agree? Third, she must be beyond reproach. No scandals attached to her name. Fourth, not a widow—that way you avoid her former husband’s family suddenly wanting favors or making trouble for you. Fifth, she should be well liked, able to smooth people over after you irritate them to death. Sixth, a good hostess for the many soirees, fˆetes, and balls you will have to host. Knowing who should not sit by whom, and so forth. Seventh, she must be well liked by the queen. The queen is not fond of Mackenzies, and a wife she likes will help things along for you when you become prime minister. Eighth, the young lady ought to be fine-looking enough to draw admiration, but not so showy as to incite jealousy.” Isabella lifted her pencil from the page. “Do I have everything? Mac?”

“Nine: Able to put up with Hart Mackenzie,” Mac said.

“Ah, yes.” Isabella wrote. “And I’ll add strong-minded and resolute. That will be number ten, a nice round number.”

“Isabella, please stop,” Hart said.

Isabella, amazingly, ceased writing. “I am finished for now. I’ll draw up a list of names of young ladies who fit the criteria, and then you can begin courting them.”

“The devil I will.” Hart felt something cold and wet bump his knee. He looked down to see Ben looking up at him, heard his tail thump the floor. “Why is the dog under the table?”

“He followed Ian,” Isabella said.

“Who followed Ian?” Eleanor’s voice preceded her into the room.

Did Eleanor look exhausted from her long night, from her exuberant dance with Hart, from Hart kissing her first in the stairwell and then on the pile of laundry? No, she looked fresh and clean, and smelled of the lavender soap she liked as she went around Hart to the sideboard. Lavender—the scent always meant Eleanor to him.

Eleanor filled her plate, then brought it back to the table, kissed her father’s cheek, and sat down between him and Hart.

“Old Ben,” Isabella said. “He likes Ian.”

Eleanor peeped under the table. “Ah. Good morning, Ben.”

She says good morning to the dog, Hart thought irritably. No words for me.

“Eleanor, what do you think of Constance McDonald?” Isabella asked.

Eleanor began eating the cold eggs and greasy sausage as though they were the headiest ambrosia. “What do I think of her? Why?”

“As a potential wife for Hart. We are making a list.”

“Are we?” Eleanor ate, her gaze on Ian and his newspaper. “Yes, I think Constance McDonald would make him a fine wife. Twenty-five, quite lovely, rides well, knows how to wrap stuffy Englishmen around her finger, is good with people.”

“Her father’s Old John McDonald, remember,” Mac said. “Head of the McDonald clan and a right ogre. Many people are afraid of him. Including me. He nearly thrashed the life out of me when I was a callow youth.”

“That’s because you got drunk and half trampled one of his fields,” Isabella said.

Mac shrugged. “That’s a truth.”

“Do not worry about Old John,” Eleanor said. “He’s a sweetie if handled correctly.”

“Very well,” Isabella said. “On the list Miss McDonald goes. What about Honoria Butterworth?”

“For God’s sake!” Hart sprang to his feet.