The Duke's Perfect Wife

Now trepidation entered her gaze. Good. No more surety that she’d breeze in here and have it all her own way.

“Here? Do not be ridiculous. There’s no need.”

There was need. She’d walked in here, into his trap, and he’d not open it and let her go. “I’m not fool enough to turn you and your unworldly father loose in London. I have plenty of room here, and I’m rarely home. You’ll have the run of the place most of the time. Wilfred is my secretary now, and he will be here to tell you what to do. Take it or throw it away, El.”

Eleanor, for possibly the first time in her life, could not think of what to say. Hart was offering her what she wanted, the chance to help him, and—she hadn’t exaggerated—to bring home some much-needed money. Her father rarely noticed their poverty, but unfortunately, poverty noticed them.

But to live in Hart’s house, to breathe the air he breathed every night… Eleanor wasn’t certain she could do it without going mad. It had been years since their betrothal ended, but in some ways, the time would never be long enough.

Hart had turned the tables on her. He’d give her money to keep her from starving, but on his terms, in his way. She’d been wrong to think he wouldn’t.

The silence stretched. Ben rolled his big body over, groaned a little, and settled back into sleep.

“Are we agreed?” Hart spread his hands on the desk. Firm, strong hands with blunt fingers. Hands that worked hard but could be incredibly tender on a lady’s body.

“Actually, I’d love to tell you to go to the devil and walk off in a huff. But since I need the blunt, I suppose I must say yes.”

“You can say whatever you wish.”

They shared another stare, Eleanor looking into hazel eyes that were almost gold. “I do hope you intend to be away quite a lot,” she said.

A muscle moved in his jaw. “I’ll send someone to fetch your father from the museum, and you can move in at once.”

Eleanor drew her finger across the smooth surface of the desk. The room was dark with old-fashioned elegance but at the same time unwelcoming.

She moved her hand back to her lap and looked again into Hart’s eyes, never an easy thing to do.

“That should be acceptable,” she said.

“He’s making you do what?” Mac Mackenzie turned from his painting, brush out. A glob of Mackenzie yellow spattered on the polished boards at his feet.

“Papa, do be careful,” five-year-old Aimee said to him. “Mrs. Mayhew will scold something rotten if you get paint all over the floor.”

Eleanor cradled little Robert Mackenzie in her arms, his small body warm against her chest. Eileen, Mac and Isabella’s daughter, lay in a bassinet next to the sofa, but Aimee stood near Mac, hands behind her back while she watched her adopted father paint.

“The idea of the post was mine,” Eleanor said. “I can easily type away and earn money for my and my father’s keep. Father’s books are amazing works, but as you know, no one ever buys them.”

Mac listened to her rationale with a stare equal to Hart’s in intensity. He wore his usual painting kilt and boots, a red scarf around his head to keep paint out of his hair. Eleanor knew that Mac liked to paint without his shirt, but in deference to his children and Eleanor, he’d donned a loose smock heavily streaked with paint.

“But he expects you to work for him?”

“Really, Mac, I do it happily. Hart needs much help if his coalition party is to win. I want to help him.”

“So he made you think. My brother does nothing that is not underhanded. What is he playing at?”

“Honestly.” The photograph weighed heavily in her pocket, but Hart had asked her—and she agreed with him—to keep it secret from the rest of the family, for now. They’d be outraged that someone might be trying to blackmail Hart, but they’d also laugh. Hart had no wish to be a family joke. “I want the job,” Eleanor said. “You know how things are for Father and me, and I refuse to take anyone’s charity. Put it down to my Scots stubbornness.”

“He’s taking advantage of ye, lass.”

“He is Hart Mackenzie. He cannot help himself.”

Mac stared at her a moment longer, then he thrust his dripping paintbrush into a jar, strode across the room, and slammed open the door. Eleanor jumped to her feet, still holding the baby.

“Mac! There is no need…”

Her words were drowned out by Mac’s pounding boots on the stairs.

“Papa is angry with Uncle Hart,” Aimee said as the door swung slowly shut again. “Papa is often angry with Uncle Hart.”

“That is because your Uncle Hart is most maddening,” Eleanor said.

Aimee put her head on one side. “What does that mean? Maddening?”

Eleanor shifted Robert, who’d slept soundly through the outburst. Cuddling him filled something empty in her heart. “Maddening is when your Uncle Hart looks at you as though he listens to your opinion, then he turns around and does whatever he pleases, no matter what you’ve said. Your feel your throat closing up, and your mouth tightening, and you want to stamp your feet and shout. And you know that even if you do shout and wave your fists, it will do no good. That is what is meant by maddening.”

Aimee listened, nodding, as though storing the information for future use. She was Mac and Isabella’s adopted daughter, born in France, and hadn’t learned English until she was three. Collecting new words was her hobby.