Jennifer Ashley - The Duke’s Perfect Wife

Isabella gave Hart an unworried look from her green eyes. “The decorators have torn up the bedrooms. I told you.”

Yes, Hart knew that. Ian, on the other hand, had a large house on Belgrave Square, which Beth had inherited from the fussy old lady to whom she’d been a companion. Hart knew that Ian and Beth kept the house in good working order for whenever they might take an impulsive trip to town.

Ian, of course, said nothing, turning another page of the newspaper. He wouldn’t explain, even if he did pretend to listen.

Hart thunked his plate to his place at the head of the table. “Where is Eleanor?”

“Sleeping, poor thing,” Isabella said. “She worked like a drudge all day and all night and waved off the last guests with me a few hours ago. Likely she’s also exhausted from the way you pulled her around the dance floor. You know everyone is talking about that, Hart. What do you intend to do about it?”

“Do?” Hart shoveled up a forkful of eggs and thrust them into his mouth. They were cool and congealing, but he chewed and swallowed the mess. “Why should I do anything?”

“My dear Hart, you have the reputation of never taking a lady to a ballroom floor, under any circumstance,” Isabella said.

“I know that.”

Hart had learned a long time ago that singling out this young lady or that one to dance led to expectations. The girls and their mothers started believing he’d propose, or their fathers would use the indication of interest to try to finagle favors. Hart did not have time to dance with all ladies at any given event, and the families of those left out would take it as a slight. Hart had decided early on in his career that if he wanted to keep people dangling on his string, it was best to appear to favor no young ladies at all. He’d danced with Eleanor, and he’d danced with Sarah, and that was all.

“I know you know that,” Isabella said. “Mamas have learned not to push their daughters in front of you at supper balls because the effort is wasted. And then, last night, you pluck out Eleanor and waltz her about with great fervor. You have ripped the lid off the powder keg. Some speculate you did it as vengeance for her jilting you—because now she’ll be talked about. Others speculate that it means you are once again on the marriage mart.”

Hart abandoned the eggs and sliced the sausage. It looked greasy. What had happened to his celebrated cook?

“It is my own business with whom I dance or don’t dance.”

Lord Ramsay looked up from his newspaper, putting his finger on the column where he’d stopped. “Not when you’re famous, Mackenzie. When you are a famous person, everything you do is well picked over. Debated. Discussed. Speculated on.”

Hart did know that, having seen his life and that of his brothers spilled out in newspapers all the years of their lives, but he was too out of sorts to be reasonable.

“Do people not have anything better to talk about?” he grumbled.

“No,” Lord Ramsay said. “They don’t.” He went back to his paper, lifting his finger from the words as he resumed reading.

Isabella rested her arms on the table. Mac kept spreading marmalade, his grin at Hart’s discomfiture irritating.

“I mentioned a powder keg,” Isabella said. “Your dance means that mamas all over London and far beyond are going to assume you fair game. They will try to throw their daughters between you and Eleanor, claiming they have the better match for you. In that case, Hart, we should get you married off quickly and avoid the battles to come.”

“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.

Everyone at the table stopped and stared at him, including Ian. “Do I have to be made a mockery of in my own house?”

Mac leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “Would you prefer we made a mockery of you in the street? In Hyde Park, maybe? In the middle of Pall Mall? The card room at your club?”

“Mac, shut it!”

A faint laugh escaped Lord Ramsay’s mouth, which he covered with a cough. Hart looked down at his plate and noticed the sausage he’d taken a bite from now missing. He hadn’t eaten it.

The sound of breathy chewing came from under the table, and Eleanor looked suddenly innocent.

A shout worked its way up through Hart’s throat, and he couldn’t stop it coming out of his mouth. His voice rang against the crystals of the chandeliers, and Ben stopped crunching.

Hart slammed away from the table, his chair falling over behind him. Somehow he got himself out of the room, walking as swiftly as he could down the hall and toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Eleanor say, “Goodness, what is the matter with him this morning?”

Just as well Hart had gone, Eleanor thought, lifting her fork in an unsteady hand. She felt quite shy with him this morning, after the heady kisses in the laundry room and him holding her on the railing in the upstairs hall. She was wearing the very drawers he’d pulled out of the laundry pile last night, Maigdlin having brought them upstairs this morning.

Maigdlin had said nothing about servants finding the laundry in a sad state, because they hadn’t. Eleanor had stayed behind and refolded every single garment before rejoining Isabella to help her through the rest of the ball.

When Eleanor had slid on the drawers this morning, she’d remembered Hart pressing a kiss to the fabric and telling her to think of him. Eleanor had, and now she swore she could feel the imprint of his lips on her backside.

Eleanor lifted the remaining sausage from Hart’s plate and fed it to Ben. “Why are you writing out potential brides for Hart?”

Isabella laid down her pencil. “I am not. This is all flummery, Eleanor. We all know that you are his perfect match; he just needs a push to get there.”

Eleanor felt chilled. “I believe he is right about one thing, Izzy. This is his business, and mine.”

“Now, don’t go all haughty on me. You know I am right. Am I not right, Lord Ramsay?”

Lord Ramsay folded his paper and laid it on the table, the last page ready to read. “It would not be so bad a thing for you to marry him, El.”

Eleanor stared at him in surprise. “I thought you were happy when I broke the engagement. You stood up to Hart with me.”

“Yes, indeed, I agreed at the time. Hart was arrogant and even dangerous, and you were not well suited. But now, things are different. I am growing old, my dear, and when I die I will leave you penniless. Destitute. I’d rest much easier knowing you had all this.” He waved his hand at the grand dining room.

Eleanor stabbed her fork into her eggs. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you all want, or even what I want. It isn’t up to us, is it?”

Across the table, Ian had fixed his attention on the pot of honey. As though he didn’t realize he was doing it, he reached for it, lifted the dripper, and let the golden stream of honey fall back into the pot.

“What do you think, Ian?” Eleanor asked. At least from Ian, she’d get honesty. Brutal honesty, but that’s what she needed.

Ian didn’t answer. He lifted the dripper again, swirling the sticky honey, watching it fall in a sunlit swath.