The Duke’s Perfect Wife

Yes, she’d whisper.

He’d bring her to pleasure again and again, and when she was warm and smiling, he’d climb onto her and inside her. He’d have her in this room, and banish his ghosts.

The vision gave him hard, aching pleasure. Hart knew he was standing in the study, the desk between himself and Eleanor, she fully dressed, but he could feel every touch, every kiss, every breath.

“Hart?” she asked. “Are you all right?”

The tug of concern in her voice undid him. Hart stood up and removed his fists from the desk. It hurt, his whole body hurt to leave while Eleanor watched with worry in her blue eyes, but he knew he had to get out of this room.

Hart made himself go to the door, open it, and walk out, without stopping to look back at her. He walked around the landing, sidestepping Ben in the middle of it. He continued to his own bedroom, entering it by nearly ripping open the door.

Marcel, who was brushing one of Hart’s coats, looked up in surprise.

“Draw me a bath, Marcel,” Hart growled as he tore off his cravat and opened his shirt. “Make it a cold one.”

Hart managed to keep himself away from Eleanor for three days. He rose and left the house before she awakened and returned when he was certain she’d be in bed.

Hart filled his days with meetings and debates, arguments and committees. He tried to plunge himself into the troubles of the country and the empire, to wipe away any thought of his domestic life. It worked when he was in a shouting match with his opposition, when he tried to persuade yet another MP to lean to his side, and when he adjourned with Fleming to their club or a gaming hell to continue the battle for political domination there.

But as soon as Hart descended at his doorstep in Grosvenor Square, knowing Eleanor was in the room above, her body damp with sleep, the visions of her returned and would not be banished.

He spent more and more time away from home, staying very late at meetings and creating meetings so that he could stay late. It was after one very late evening that the assassination attempt was made.

Chapter 10

It was inky dark, Hart emerging from the Parliament buildings in the wee hours, still arguing with David Fleming about some point.

Hart heard a loud bang, then shards of stone flew from the wall beside him. Instinct made him drop and pull David down with him. Hart heard the bull-voiced shouting of his coachman and the running footsteps of his large footmen.

David got to his hands and knees, eyes wide. “Hart! Are you all right?”

Hart felt a sting on his face from the stone and tasted blood. “I’m fine. Who fired that shot? Did you grab him?”

One of Hart’s former prizefighters panted up to him. “Got away in the dark, sir. You’re bleeding, Your Grace. Were you hit?”

“No, the wall was hit and the stone lashed out at me,” Hart said with grim humor. “You all right, Fleming?”

Fleming ran his hand through his hair and reached for his flask. “Fine. Fine. What the devil? I told you the Fenians would be hot to kill you.”

Hart dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief, heart hammering in reaction, and didn’t answer.

Fenians were Irish who’d emigrated to America, formed the group dedicated to freeing the Irish from the English, and sent the members off to do their worst. A newspaper had proclaimed this morning that Hart would try to defeat the Irish Home Rule bill in order to push out Gladstone, and the Fenians had reacted strongly.

Hart’s action did not mean he was against Irish independence—in fact, he wanted Ireland completely free of the English yoke, because this would pave the way for Scottish independence. He simply thought Gladstone’s version of the bill was ineffectual. Under Gladstone’s bill, Ireland’s independence would be marginal—they’d be allowed to form a parliament to settle Irish matters but it would still be answerable to the English government.

Hart knew that if he forced Gladstone to call a vote on the bill, the man would not have enough support to pass it, which would then lead to a vote of no confidence, and Gladstone’s resignation.

Once Hart was in power, he’d put forth ideas to free Ireland completely. He would do all it took to shove Irish Home Rule down Englishmen’s throats and then shove Scottish independence—his true goal—down their gullets as well.

But the newspapers printed what they wanted, and angry Irishmen, not knowing what was in Hart’s head, had started making threats.

Hart sent his footmen to search the area and round up any passing policeman, then got into his coach with David, David imbibing heavily from his flask.

When Hart reached the house after depositing David at his flat, he told his footmen and coachman not to gossip about the shooting and upset Eleanor and her father with it. Hart had experienced assassination attempts several times in his career, with the same lack of marksmanship—someone was always angry at him. He’d have policemen try to find the shooter and watch the house, but the routine wasn’t to be disrupted. However, if his household guests went anywhere, they were never to be without at least two bodyguards to protect them, and never without the carriage. His men agreed, shaken themselves.

Irish separatists were not the only possible assassins. Hart wondered, as he entered his quiet house, whether the person sending Eleanor the photographs had any connection with this shooting. The letters hadn’t seemed threatening, and there might be no connection at all. However, Hart had a renewed desire to look at the photographs and letters Eleanor had collected.

The thought of leaning over the evidence side by side with Eleanor, her sweet breath touching his skin, made his heart pump faster than it had when the bullet had sailed past him. Best not to risk it.

Hart could demand that Eleanor bring him the photographs so he could look at them alone, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Eleanor would never agree. She’d become extremely proprietary about the photographs—why, Hart couldn’t imagine. But, no matter; he’d acquire them by stealth.

The next day, Hart waited until Eleanor and Isabella were ensconced in the downstairs drawing room, planning Hart’s next lavish entertainment, Mac safely in his studio, and the earl writing in the small study, before he quietly mounted the stairs to the floor above his study and entered Eleanor’s room.

Eleanor’s bedchamber was empty, as Hart knew it would be, the maids already finished there. Hart strode to Eleanor’s small writing table and began opening drawers.

He did not find the photographs. He found that Eleanor kept writing paper neatly in one drawer, envelopes in another, pens and pencils, separate from each other, in yet another. Letters she’d received from friends—Eleanor had many friends—were bundled in the fourth drawer. Hart leafed quickly through the letters, but none contained the photographs.

Where had she put the bloody things? He knew he had only a few minutes before Eleanor or Isabella would want to dash up here for something or other.

With mounting frustration, Hart searched the tables on either side of the bed, but she hadn’t tucked the pictures into either of them. Her armoire revealed garments neatly hung or folded—plain gowns in drab colors, and not many of them. The deep drawer beneath held a bustle encased in tissue and that was all.

The chest of drawers on the other side of the room was more of a lingerie chest—the top drawers held stockings and garters; the next, camisoles and knickers; then came a drawer with a corset made of plain lawn, well mended.

Hart made himself cease lingering to imagine Eleanor in the underwear and concentrate on searching. He was rewarded when, under the corset, he found a book.

The book was large and long, the kind in which ladies pasted mementos of special occasions or memorable outings. This particular book was fat, plumped out with whatever Eleanor had thought worth preserving. Hart