The Duke's Perfect Wife
Page 70

“You’re proud of it, aren’t you?” Eleanor said, coming to rest next to him. “In spite of you sneering that it’s a ridiculous English affectation your father built, you like it. You would not have brought me here otherwise.”
“I brought you for the view.” Hart lifted Eleanor’s riding hat from her head and set it out of the wind. “And for this.”
He slid his arms around her waist from behind. Eleanor closed her eyes as he kissed her neck, wisps of red curls silken under his lips. Hart let his fingers drift to the buttons that closed her habit in front.
Eleanor only sighed as he unbuttoned her, her head resting against his cheek. Hart parted her placket and nibbled her bared neck.
“What are you doing to me, El?” he whispered into her ear. “I think you’re breaking me.”
“Hardly,” she murmured. “Hart Mackenzie is far too wicked for the likes of me to tame.”
“But I’d like to let you try.”
He turned her around. His gaze roved her mussed hair, her parted red lips, the bodice gaping to show her damp throat. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
He was not supposed to do this now. He’d planned to take her to London, to the elegant house in Grosvenor Square, to bring out the old and valuable Mackenzie jewels, and promise them to her if she’d agree to become his wife. Formally done, in the drawing room, his hand on his heart, dazzling her with diamonds so that she would not say no. Women would do anything for diamonds.
Up here in the summerhouse, with the jewels locked far away in the vault in Edinburgh, Hart had nothing to offer. Only the view—how bloody romantic and stupid.
But he had the feeling that if he didn’t speak now, secure her now, his chance would slip away. Eleanor was twenty, an earl’s daughter, and lovely. If he didn’t lock her into an agreement, she would be fair game for every other lovelorn gentleman out there. Her poverty wouldn’t matter to a nabob wanting to better his connections through her family. She had charm and grace to go with her lineage, the perfect wife for Hart Mackenzie. Hart Mackenzie would have her.
It was too soon. He should use the beautiful view from the folly as one more enticement in a string of enticements in this courtship, so that when he finally asked for her hand, Eleanor would have no reason to say no. Hart would have woven his web so tightly she’d not want to break free. If he asked her here, now, Eleanor could turn him down, and he’d have no more chance to convince her.
But Hart felt his mouth open, heard the words come out in a rush. “Marry me, Eleanor.”
Eleanor’s eyes widened, and she took a step back. “What?Why?”
The question stirred his anger. Hart seized her hands and forced a smile. “Why does a man wish to marry a woman? Does there have to be a logical reason?”
Eleanor blinked those big blue eyes at him. “I’m not much bothered about why any man wishes to marry any woman, in general. I’m sure there are dozens of theories, if one wanted to debate. What I would like to know is why you wish to marry me.”
Hart clamped down on his impatience. “So that I may kiss you,” he said, voice light. “I plan to kiss every inch of you, Eleanor, and if I do that, we’d better marry.”
He saw a flicker of delight in her eyes, but Eleanor didn’t melt. Dear God, she was stubborn.
“But I mean, why me? I’m not vain enough to believe that no other young lady in Scotland is good enough for the attentions of Hart Mackenzie, for kissing or otherwise. I have a pedigree, but so do others, and my family is a bit down at the heel. You could have any lady you wanted with the snap of your fingers.” Eleanor snapped in demonstration, even though Hart still had hold of her wrist.
“I do not want any other lady in Scotland. I want you.”
“You flatter me.”
“God’s balls, woman,” he shouted. “I’m not asking you to marry me out of flattery.” Hart’s words echoed from the hills around them. “I’m asking you because I can’t do this without you. I can’t face my father, or the world. When I’m with you, all that doesn’t matter. I need you, El. How the devil can I make you understand that?”
Eleanor stared up at him, lips parted. Any moment she’d laugh at him, sneer at him for being so sentimental. He sounded like a lovesick fool, God help him.
“That is all I wanted to know,” she said softly.
“If you marry me, Eleanor Ramsay, I promise to give you everything you ever wanted.”
Eleanor smiled suddenly, looked into his eyes, and said, “Yes.”
Hart’s heart pounded so hard it hurt. He gathered her into his arms, trying to remember how to breathe. She was like a rock in a raging river, and he clung to her as though she was the only thing between him and drowning.
His first kiss opened her lips, Hart tasting the woman he’d conquered. It was heady, joyous.
He’d had his valet pack a blanket for their picnic. Hart now spread the blanket on the summer-warm stones and began to undress her.
Eleanor said not a word, offered no protest. She smiled as her habit came open, shivered as Hart spread the laces of her corset. Her eyes went soft when he parted and removed the camisole beneath, helped her out of her skirts, and laid her on the blanket in the sunshine.
Hart gazed down at her, bare but for her stockings and prim riding boots, a beautiful woman he’d a moment ago made his. Triumph beat through him.
Hart stripped off his coat and waistcoat, shirt and boots, then underbreeches, saving the kilt for last. He liked how Eleanor watched him, not shy, wanting to look at him as much as he wanted to look at her.