Jennifer Ashley - The Duke’s Perfect Wife

I finally got the shotgun turned around, and now the barrel faced him.

I can lie and tell myself that it was an accident. That I was fighting for the gun and it went off. But I had it in my hands, El. I saw in my mind’s eye, in the split second before I pulled the trigger, the years of terror we’d have to endure if he went on living. Our father was a devious and insane man, and God help us, we inherited our bits of insanity from him. I saw that Ian would never be safe from him, no matter how diligent I was, if I did nothing.

I ended that hell in the woods. I pulled the trigger and shot him in the face.

The ghillie came running, of course. I was holding the gun by the barrel, looking horrified. It had jammed, I said. Backfired when it had gone off.

The ghillie knew, I know he did, but he said that, aye, His Grace must have failed to check that the barrel was clear before he fired at a stray bird. Accidents happened.

And so, the thirteenth Duke of Kilmorgan is gone. My brothers suspect the truth, just as the ghillie did, but they have said nothing, and I have not enlightened them. I vowed in that woods that they would never have to pay for what I’ve done.

Tonight, I confess my sins to you, Eleanor, and to you alone. Tomorrow, Ian comes home. Perhaps the Mackenzies can find some peace, though I doubt it, dear El, because we are so very bad at peace!

Thank you for listening. I can almost hear you saying, in that clearheaded way of yours: “You did what you have done. Let that be an end to it.”

I wish I could hear you say it, in your voice like a soothing stream, but do not worry. I will not rush to Glenarden and throw myself at your feet. You deserve peace as well.

God bless you.

Hart heard a faint sound. He looked up from the letter, tears in his eyes, to see Eleanor standing in the doorway, prim and proper in a dress buttoned to her chin, her lips parted as she stared back at him.

“You were supposed to burn this,” Hart said. He couldn’t get up, could not move, drained from what he’d just read.

Eleanor closed the door and came to the table littered with the letters. “I couldn’t, somehow.”

He noticed that she did not need to ask which letter he meant. “Why not?”

“I don’t know, really. I suppose, because, of all the people you could have told, you chose to tell me.”

“There was no other person,” Hart said. “No one in the world.”

It hung there. Hart closed the book and stood up, his feet heavy. He needed to touch her. She watched him come to her, said not a word when he cupped her face in his hands and leaned to kiss her.

She tasted of sunshine. Hart didn’t pause to wonder why she’d come upstairs, whether Isabella expected her to rush right back down. Hart only cared that Eleanor was here, that he had the warmth of her under his hands, the woman who knew his direst secrets and had never told a soul.

He felt strong again in her embrace, his hurts flowing away under Eleanor’s caress. He waited for dark needs to grip him, to ruin this moment, but they didn’t come.

He feathered kisses across her cheek, catching the freckles that he held so dear. “El…”

“Shh.” Eleanor pulled him all the way into her arms and rested her head on his shoulder. “Say nothing. There’s nothing to be said.”

Hart pressed a kiss to the top of her head, loving the satin warmth of her hair. His heart was sore, but Eleanor was soothing away the hurt.

“You pasted the photographs into a book,” he said. “A book about me.”

Eleanor raised her head. She caught the look in his eye, and her face flamed as red as her hair. “Well, I…”

Hart felt light as he watched her struggle for an explanation. He saw her go through several, then she grew redder still, and said in a tiny voice, “You are very fine to look at.”

Hart wanted to laugh, mirth being all the brighter after the memories the letters had forced upon him.

Eleanor frowned suddenly, touching his face where the chipped stone had cut him. “What happened?”

“Nothing important. Don’t change the subject.”

Her fingers were soft. “Even marred, you are a handsome man. You must know that.”

Many women had told Hart so, but he’d never let himself wallow in their praise. Riches and position could tinge the perspective, rendering the unpleasant beautiful.

“I don’t want you to keep the photographs Mrs. Palmer took,” he said. “Burn them.”

“Don’t be daft. They’re finely done. And besides, if I grow angry enough at you, I’m sure I could sell them for quite a lot of money.”

Hart lost his smile. “You would do that?”

She pretended to consider. “Perhaps, if you keep telling me not to search certain places for who sent them—or to do anything I please, for that matter.”

Her teasing melted him. “I was right. You are a bold lady. You haven’t changed since you lured me into that boating house.”

“Lured you? I believe I was minding my own business, and you stalked me there.”

“An argument that could last ages. But no matter.” He snatched up the book. “I’ll just burn the entire thing.”

Eleanor lunged for it. “Don’t you dare.”

Hart swung around and headed for the coal stove, its warm glow and Eleanor pumping life back into him.

Eleanor ran after him and grabbed the book, and Hart pretended to wrestle her for it. She knew he pretended, because Hart could have snatched the book out of her hands any moment he wanted to. She yanked, and he released it suddenly, sending her a few scuttling steps back.

She didn’t fall, because Hart steadied her as she teetered on her heels. He ripped the book out of her hands, dumped it to the writing table, and then caught her around the waist and lifted her with ease onto the bed.

Eleanor squirmed against him as he came with her onto the mattress. But she didn’t struggle as much as she perhaps should have, because Hart was laughing.

Hart, who never laughed these days, was doing it now as he lowered her onto her back, his kilt spilling over her skirts. His eyes sparked with deviltry, and he laughed.

Eleanor sank beneath him with pleasure but discovered an impediment. “Ow, oh. Dratted bustle.”

Hart locked his feet around hers and rolled over with her in the big bed. Eleanor landed on top of him, the bustle creaking as it righted itself like a ship from stormy water.

Eleanor looked down at him, her laughing, teasing Highlander, and fell in love all over again.

Hart skimmed his hands along her back, palms warm even through her clothes. She tried not to feel a tingle of excitement to feel his hardness obvious through his kilt.

She bent her knees and waved her feet in her high-heeled, buttoned boots. “I must get up. My governess taught me never to lie on a bed in my shoes.”

His smile turned wicked. “I’ll teach you to lie on it in nothing but your shoes.”

Pleasant heat spun through her. “That would be… very naughty.”

“Of course it would be. That is the point.”

Eleanor tapped the end of his nose. “I admit that when I am with you, I find myself becoming naughty indeed.”

“Good.”

“I must be a very bad woman, mustn’t I, to let you take such liberties?”

He grinned, his eyes alight. “El, your innocence rings to the skies.”

“Not so innocent.” She gave him a mock frown. “Remember that I grew up with a father who thought nothing of discussing the reproductive habits of every living creature—including human ones—over the soup.”

“Your mother must have been a patient woman.”

“My mother loved him to pieces.” Eleanor felt a bite of sadness as she always did when her mother came into her thoughts, the woman dying, ill, when Eleanor had been eight years old.

Hart’s eyes darkened. “I always envied you that. Your father and mother actually loving each other. Your happy childhood home.”

“Yes, it was happy,” Eleanor said. “And then sorrowful.”

Hart wrapped his arms around her. “I know.”

“At least Father and I have rubbed along well all this time. Which brings me around again to my knowledge of mating habits. You may think me innocent, but I am quite worldly, in my own way.”

“I know that. You keep nude photographs of a man hidden in your corset drawer.”

“Which you snooped through, drat you.”

“Giving me some idea of the state of your wardrobe. You have not instructed Isabella to dress you as I asked. Your gowns are horrible.”

“Well, thank you very much.”

He touched the pad of her lower lip. “Nip your pride in the bud, lassie. If you’re to parade about with this family, you’ll need decent clothes or you’ll stand out like a beacon. Isabella will outfit you and send me the bill.”

“Indeed, no. People will say I’m your fancy woman.”

He chuckled. “What an expression. I pay you wages.”

“For typing. An honest wage for an honest job.”

“Consider it a clothing allowance. I’ll not have my employees looking drab. My housekeeper dresses better than you do.”

“Insult heaped on top of insult.”

“Truth. Now I want truth from you—why did you keep all that trash about me?”

“To feed your pride, obviously.”

Hart laughed again. It felt good to have him shaking under her, true mirth in his eyes, not the bleakness she’d seen when she’d walked into the room. As though reading his letters had ripped the dressing from a wound, he’d bled, and now, she hoped to God, he could let himself heal.

Or at least lie on the bed with her and tease her as though they were dear friends or casual lovers. He’d been like this when he’d courted her, laughing, teasing, goading her into admissions one moment, becoming incredibly tender the next.

At this moment, he tickled her.

“Stop.” Eleanor drummed her hands on his chest. “No wonder people fear the great Hart Mackenzie—vote for me, or I’ll tickle you to death.”

“I’d do it, if it worked.” His smile faded. “Burn those photos, El. They’re terrible.”

On the contrary, they were beautiful. She did not at all like the fact that Mrs. Palmer had taken them, but Eleanor could find no fault with the results.

“No, indeed,” she said. “The well-wisher sent the photographs to me, not you, and I paid a solid guinea for the others. I’ll not burn them. They’re mine.”

Hart tried the scowl, the Mackenzie glare, the little growl. Heaps more effective if he hadn’t been flat on his back, his kilt spread, his hair a mess. As it was, Eleanor kissed the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll only get rid of them if they are replaced,” she said. “Use my clothing allowance to buy me photographing apparatus and have more photos done, ones only for me.”

Hart’s scowl died, and his eyes took on, of all things, embarrassment. “Who would take these photographs?”

“Me, of course. I know how to work photographing apparatus. My father hired a camera once, and all the chemicals and machines for a darkroom, so we could make plates of local flora for one of his books. I quite enjoyed it. I’m a dab hand, I must say.”

“You can type, you can photograph. What can’t you do, paragon?”

“Embroider.” Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “I’m very bad at it. And I never did learn to play the piano. In the maidenly pursuits, I’m not much good. I seem to do better at masculine pursuits.”

Hart’s smile reappeared. “I’d say you were excellent at pursuing the masculine.”

“Oh, very funny, Your Grace. What about the camera?”

“You truly want to take photographs of me?” He sounded… shy.

“I do indeed,” she said. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“I’m much older now.”

Eleanor let her smile grow. She moved her gaze over his face with its healing cuts, his throat damp behind his pulled-askew cravat, his broad chest under shirt and waistcoat, his flat abdomen. She knelt back to continue looking at him, taking in his tight hips and thighs outlined by the crumpled kilt. The plaid had dragged a little above his knees to show her brawny muscle above his thick wool socks.

She heaved a pleased little sigh. “I don’t see that there’s much wrong with you, Hart Mackenzie.”

“Because I’m fully dressed. Fine feathers.”

An intense and uncontrollable daring gripped her. Before Eleanor could stop herself, she grasped the hem of the kilt and inched it upward until it bared his thighs. Hart lay very still, one arm behind his head, as she looked him over.