The Duke's Perfect Wife

Hart undid the kilt and let it fall, showing her how hard he was for her.

She was a virgin, Hart reminded himself. She’d never known the touch of a man—not until mine—and he knew he’d have to be patient with her. He was prepared to be, looked forward to it.

Eleanor blushed as Hart lay down with her. The feel of her body beneath his sent his heart racing. He could take her now, swiftly, make her understand who she belonged to. This could be quick, satisfying.

But Hart had learned how to give a woman, any woman, perfect pleasure. He did not need exotic techniques and devices—the key was the pleasure.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said.

Eleanor shook her head, smiling a little smile. “I know.”

The trust in her eyes stung his heart. Hart kissed her, and gently, gently touched her, opening her to him very slowly. He went carefully, teaching her about arousal, making her damp enough to take him without hurt. His body shook with the effort of holding himself back, but it was very important that he didn’t rush her.

Her body closed around his with heat that threatened to break his control. He wanted to thrust and thrust into her, to satisfy himself and forget about not rushing.

No. Take the time. Teach her. Later, when Eleanor was used to him, he could show her more interesting things, but today, this was about Eleanor’s first pleasure.

Eleanor was so warm and ready that he slid in the first inch without impediment. Hart stayed there a time, kissing her, coaxing her, letting her get used to him.

Another inch, and again, stopping, teasing, nipping, teaching her what it felt like to have a man inside her. Then came the barrier, which he knew would hurt. Hart took it slowly, a fraction of an inch at a time.

This was a first for him too—he’d never been with a virgin. He feared to break her, to mar her in some unrecoverable way. Then again, Eleanor was resilient. She lifted her body to his, touched his face, nodded when she was ready.

And then Hart was inside her, she squeezing him, a feeling of glory and hot, hot joy.

“El,” he said. “You are so tight. You feel beautiful.”

Eleanor’s body rocked against his, her arms coming around him, her mouth finding his. Wanting, accepting, loving.

The astonishing feeling of her around him made him drop his seed before he was ready. Hart groaned with it, amazed at himself, then he laughed. Hart’s women usually tried every trick they could to make him do their bidding, to lose control to them, and they never succeeded. Eleanor had conquered him by lying there being warm and beautiful.

Hart kissed her, knowing that something exquisite had just happened and not knowing quite what to do about it.

The rest of Act II had been heady. News of the betrothal of Lord Hart Mackenzie and Lady Eleanor Ramsay spread to every corner of the country, filling every newspaper and magazine.

Glorious days. The happiest days of his life, Hart realized now. At the time, the stupid, selfish young man he’d been had only tasted triumph of landing the woman he’d wanted. Eleanor would bring the notorious Mackenzie family a measure of respect, which they badly needed. Hart’s horror of a father had eroded the Mackenzie reputation, as had Ian’s supposed madness, Mac’s running away to live among depraved artists in Paris, and Cameron’s very bad marriage.

But no one could say a wrong word about Eleanor. She sailed above all scandal, her talkative charm melting one and all. Eleanor was kind, generous, strong, and well liked. She’d lead Hart to glory.

Hart told her he loved her, and it was not a lie. But he never gave the whole of himself to her, never believed he needed to. Looking back, Hart realized that he’d kept himself from her out of fear.

And that had been his great mistake.

So stupid was Hart that he didn’t understand what he had to lose, until Act III.

Scene: Eleanor Ramsay’s ramshackle home in autumn, the trees surrounding it having turned brilliant red and gold. Their radiant glory splashed against the dark evergreens that marched across the mountains, silent reminders that the coming winter would be brutal and cold.

Hart had been as buoyant as the cool weather, looking forward to visiting his lady with hair the color of autumn leaves. Earl Ramsay received Hart in the house and told him, in a strangely quiet tone, that Eleanor was walking in the gardens and would see him there.

Hart had thanked the earl, unsuspecting, and had gone to find Eleanor.

The Ramsay gardens had long become overgrown and wild, despite the valiant efforts of their one gardener and his pruning shears. Eleanor always laughed at their unruly patch of land, but Hart liked it—a garden that blended into the Scottish countryside instead of being structured, overly clean, and shutting out true nature.

Eleanor paced the walks in a dress too light for the weather, the shawl too small to keep out the cold. Her hair had come down, the wind tearing at it. When Eleanor saw Hart walking toward her, she turned her back and strode away.

Hart caught up to her, seized her arm, and turned her to face him.

Her stare had made him drop his hold. Eleanor’s eyes were red-rimmed in a face too white, but her glare was angry, an intense rage he’d never seen in her.

“El?” he asked in alarm. “What is it?”

Eleanor said nothing. When Hart reached for her again, she tore herself from his grip. Clenching her teeth, Eleanor yanked off the engagement ring and threw it at him.

The circlet thunked against Hart’s frock-coated chest and fell with a tink to the paving stones.

Hart didn’t bend down for the ring. This was something more than Eleanor’s rare flashes of temper, her frequent exasperation at him, or their teasing arguments about ridiculous things.