The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 45

“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.
“Nothing wrong there either,” she said.
“I ride every day.”