The Duke’s Perfect Wife

away.

Hart stood up. He walked to his father’s portrait, a copy of the one that hung in the great stairwell down the hall. Tradition had it that the current duke hung on the first landing, the former duke on the second, and so on to the top of the house. When Beth had first moved in with Ian, she suggesting consigning the lot of them—including Hart, no doubt—to the attic.

Hart had thought Beth too full of her own opinion at the time, but now, he agreed with her. Changes would be made at Kilmorgan forthwith.

Hart gazed up at his hated father, His Grace of Kilmorgan, Daniel Fergus Mackenzie. And stopped. Clouds outside had parted, and a beam of sunshine slanted onto the portrait to show Hart something he hadn’t been able to see from his desk.

Hart stared at it for some time. Then he started to laugh.

Still laughing, he tugged the bellpull, and when a footman answered, he sent him to fetch Eleanor.

Eleanor found Hart sitting at his desk, leaning his chair back on two legs, his booted feet crossed on the desk’s surface. His kilt slid up to reveal his strong thighs, and he had a grin of delight on his face.

“Eleanor,” he said pointing. “Did you do that?”

Eleanor turned to look at what he indicated. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

“That’s a valuable painting.”

“You have another by the same artist hanging in the hall. Not to mention the Manet in London.”

“Tell me why.”

Eleanor glanced up at the old duke. She’d come in here with Hart when they’d arrived back at Kilmorgan a few days ago, and she’d seen Hart flinch under the scrutiny of those eyes.

Later, Eleanor had marched upstairs and gotten a drawing pencil, come back down, climbed up on a chair, and in a fit of pique, did her damage. The old duke now sported devil horns and round spectacles.

Hart’s grin warmed his face. “Come clean, El. Tell me.”

Eleanor clenched her hands. “I was so angry with him. You have always been so afraid you’d become like him, and he made you fear that. But you’re not a bit like him at all. You have a temper, yes, but you’re generous and strong and protective. So very protective. Your father was none of that. I got tired of him upsetting you.” She looked at Hart, who had his hands behind his head. He’d shaved the beard, now her clean-shaven, hard-faced man again, but she might try to persuade him to grow the beard back. She’d rather liked the feel of it against any part of her he kissed.

She went on. “I’ve always thought you much more like your great-great-grandfather, Old Malcolm. He must have been a terror, and yet, his lady loved him. She described him well in her diaries—I read them. The things she says of him remind me of you.”

Hart looked thoughtful. “Old Malcolm? I thought he was a ruthless bastard.”

“Can you blame him? His four brothers and father dead at Culloden? Poor man. At least he found Mary and eloped with her. Very romantic.”

“Mackenzies were romantic in those days.”

“Mackenzies still are.”

Hart came out of the chair with the same controlled precision he gave everything else. “Are we, now, lass?”

“I think so.” Eleanor thought about the exciting things Hart had been teaching her in bed the last few days, things that made her blush, but gave her a little shiver of pleasure to think on. Hart certainly knew exotic things, but he was patient, never rushing her, always making certain she was unafraid before he proceeded. He was a wicked, wicked man, but one with a heart so full, and now he belonged to her.

She slid her hand into his and gave it a squeeze. “Of course you’re romantic. Look at how pleased you are that your brothers are happily married off.”

“I am.” Hart made an exasperated noise. “But now I have the whole confounded lot of them here. No privacy in this house.”

“They’ve gone fishing,” Eleanor said. “With the children. They won’t be back for some time. Perhaps we can take the opportunity for you to show me more of your… unconventional passions.”

“Mmm.” Hart ran his hands down her arms to move his thumbs over the insides of her wrists. “I have a few new things to play with. I got them just for you.”

Her heart beat faster. “Oh?”

“No more makeshift tethers. I have real ones now.”

“Do you? How splendid. I look forward to seeing you in them.”

Hart started, eyes widening. “What?”

Eleanor wanted to laugh. “Yes, indeed. My bonny, braw Scotsman, perhaps in only his kilt, with his wrists bound together, waiting for me?”

Hart stared at her for a long moment, then his sinful smile spread across his face. “Bold minx. You’ve been learning your lessons well.”

“I believe that would make a good photograph, do you not?”

Hart opened his mouth to answer. Then he closed it. Then he growled.

Her bonny, braw Scotsman jerked her up to him, and his kiss took her breath away. “My Eleanor,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Hart Mackenzie.”

His grin returned. “You should know better than to challenge me. I’ll answer with a challenge of my own.”

“Well, I should hope so,” Eleanor said.

Hart growled again, then he lifted her in his arms, kicked open the door, and ran with her out of the room.

Epilogue

JUNE 1885

Hart had no interest in more official portraits of him, but Eleanor insisted. “Not just you,” she’d said. “The entire family.”

And so, on a fine day when Hart would have preferred to be fishing with Ian, he traipsed out onto the terrace with his brothers and their families to have their portraits taken. A photographer who’d come from Edinburgh busied himself readying the camera, his tripod, and his collection of glass plates.

First to be photographed was the Cameron Mackenzie family, only because Cameron marshaled his troops the fastest. Cameron sat on a chair, and Ainsley stood on his right, her hand on his shoulder. Daniel was on his left, and Gavina, nearly two years old now, sat on Cameron’s lap. Something dribbled out of Gavina’s mouth, and Cameron swiftly caught the drool on his handkerchief, wiping her clean before the camera’s shutter closed.

Next came Ian and Beth. Ian sat in the chair, his kilt draped over his knees. Beth stood regally beside him in her dress of Mackenzie plaid. She held Belle in her arms, while three-year-old Jamie perched on Ian’s lap. The camera caught Ian looking, not at the lens, but up at his wife, his face soft with happiness. Beth was looking back down at him, his fingers on her hand. A beautiful portrait.

Ian and Beth took the children down to the lawn to play while Mac at last got his brood chivied into place. Mac took his place in the chair, with six-year-old Aimee on his left, and Isabella standing at his right shoulder. Eileen, three now, stood leaning back against her mother, Isabella holding her hand. Two-year-old Robert, in a kilt, sat on his father’s lap.

The camera caught them laughing. Sun shone on Isabella’s red hair and her smile, but Mac was out and out laughing. “Papa,” Aimee said. “You’ll spoil it.”

They took another, more dignified photograph this time, but smiles underlay all expressions.

Eleanor bounced baby Hart Alec Graham Mackenzie in her arms, and Hart said, “Enough. Let us finish this.”

Mac herded his three children away, Eileen running screaming after her cousin Jamie. Aimee hurried