The Duke’s Perfect Wife

pulled it out of the drawer, set it on her writing table, and opened it.

The book was all about him.

Every page had been covered with a chronology of Hart Mackenzie. Newspaper and magazine articles provided the text and photographs of Hart the businessman, Hart the politician, Hart the duke’s son, and then Hart the duke. Society pages showed Hart at gatherings hosted by the Prince of Wales, at charity banquets, at clan gatherings where he reproclaimed his loyalty to the leader of clan Mackenzie.

She’d pasted in newspaper photographs of Hart speaking with the queen, with various prime ministers, and with dignitaries from around the world. The story about Hart becoming Duke of Kilmorgan and taking his seat in the House of Lords was here, including a history of the dukes of Kilmorgan back to the 1300s.

Eleanor Ramsay had collected Hart Mackenzie’s entire life and pasted it into a memory book. She’d carried the book down here from Scotland and kept it hidden like a treasure.

The announcement of Hart’s marriage to Lady Sarah Graham in 1875 occupied its own page. Eleanor had written in colored pencil next to a newspaper drawing of Hart and Sarah in their wedding finery: It is done.

The rest of that page was blank, as though Eleanor had meant to stop the book there. But Hart turned the page and found more articles about his burgeoning political career, about the festivities he and his new wife hosted both in London and at Kilmorgan.

The announcement of Sarah’s death and the death of baby Hart Graham Mackenzie was surrounded by a wreath of flowers cut from a card. Eleanor had written next to it: My heart is heavy for him.

More articles followed about Hart coming out of mourning to pursue his career even more obsessively than before. He means to be prime minister, one journalist wrote. England will tremble under this Scottish invasion.

On the page after the last article, Hart found his photographs.

Eleanor had collected fifteen so far. She’d pasted each carefully into the book and outlined them in colored pencil—red, blue, green, yellow—she’d chosen arbitrarily. Notes appeared under each: Received by hand February 1, 1884, or Found in Strand shop, February 18, 1884.

There were photos of Hart facing the camera, or with his back to the camera, or in profile; Hart in only a kilt, Hart naked, Hart smiling, Hart trying to give the camera an arrogant Highland sneer. The one of Hart in his kilt, laughing, telling Angelina not to close the shutter, had been surrounded by curlicues. The best, Eleanor had written.

Hart turned the last few pages, which were blank, ready for more photographs. He started to close the book but noticed that the back cover itself bulged. Investigating, he found that something had been slid behind the endpaper and the cover, the endpaper carefully pasted back into place. It did not take Hart long to peel the black paper down, and behind it, he found the letters.

There weren’t many, perhaps a dozen in all, but when Hart unfolded one, his own handwriting stared back up at him.

Eleanor had kept every letter Hart had ever written to her.

Hart sank into a chair as he leafed through them. He saw that she’d even kept his first stiff missive, sent to her the day after he’d contrived his initial meeting with her:

Lord Hart Mackenzie requests the pleasure of Lady Eleanor Ramsay’s company for a boating party and picnic on August 20th, below the grounds of Kilmorgan Castle. Please respond to my messenger, but don’t give him a tip, because he’s already gouged me extra for carrying this to you, as well as using it as an excuse to visit his mother.

Your servant,

Hart Mackenzie

He remembered clearly every word of her written reply.

To my mere acquaintance, Lord Hart Mackenzie:

A gentleman does not write to a lady to whom he is not related or betrothed. Kissing me at the ball is hardly the same thing. I think that our shocking enjoyment of said kiss should not be repeated on the riverbank below Kilmorgan, no matter how idyllic the setting, as I believe there is a rather public view of it from the house. Add to that, a gentleman should not invite a lady to a boating party himself. A maiden aunt or some such should pen the letter for him and assure the young lady that said maiden aunt will be there to chaperone. I will instead invite you to take tea here at Glenarden; however, by the same rules, I cannot properly ask an unrelated gentleman to take tea with me, so I will have my father write you a letter. Do not be alarmed if this invitation wanders off into the medicinal properties of blue fungus or whatever has taken his interest by then. That is his way, and I will endeavor to keep him to the point.

Hart had laughed loudly over the charming letter, and responded.

A lady does not write to a gentleman either, bold minx. Bring your father to the boating party, if you please, and he can root around in all the fungi he wants. My brothers will be there, along with neighbors, which include a pack of society matrons, so your virtue will be well guarded from me. I promise I have no intention of kissing you on the riverbank—I will take you deeper into the woods for that.

Your servant and much more than mere acquaintance,

Hart Mackenzie

Hart folded the letter, remembering the joy of the boating party. Eleanor had come with Earl Ramsay, and then driven Hart insane by planting herself in the middle of the matrons, flirting with Mac and Cameron, and daring Hart to try to get anywhere near her.

She’d carefully not let him corner her until she’d gone back to the boathouse to fetch an elderly woman’s forgotten walking stick. Being kind had been her downfall, because Hart had caught her alone in the boathouse.

Eleanor had given him a wide smile and said, “Not fair. This isn’t the woods,” before Hart had kissed her.

The walking stick had fallen from Eleanor’s hands as her head went back, her eyes drifted closed, and Hart opened her lips. He’d tasted every corner of her mouth, let his hand rove until it cupped her breast through the thick fabric of her bodice.

When she’d tried to step away in weak protest, Hart had given her a wicked smile and told her he would leave her the second she told him to. Forever, if she wished it.

Eleanor had met his gaze with her very blue eyes and said, “You’re right, I am a bold minx,” and pulled him down for another kiss.

Hart had lifted her onto a workman’s bench and hooked one arm under her knee, showing her how to twine her leg around his. As Eleanor had stared up at him, he’d seen it dawn on her that whatever relations she had with Hart Mackenzie would not be conventional. He saw her desire ignite, saw her decide that she would allow herself to enjoy whatever he intended to show her.

That tiny moment of surrender had made his heart—and other parts of him—swell. Hart had thought, at that moment, that he’d caught her, but he’d been a fool.

The next letter was full of teasing by Hart about their brief moment in the boating house, with some inane innuendo about the walking stick. Eleanor had written him a saucy letter back, which had heated Hart’s blood and made him wild to see her again.

He found the letter he’d written after she’d accepted his proposal, made in the summerhouse at Kilmorgan.

Seeing you bare in the sunshine, with the Scottish wind in your hair, sent all my tactics for winning you to the devil. I knew that if I asked you then, your answer would be final. No going back. I knew I should leave it alone, but I went ahead and asked the foolish question anyway. Lucky man that I am, you gave me the answer I longed to hear. And so, as promised, you will have everything you ever wanted.

Young and arrogant, Hart had thought that if he offered Eleanor riches on a silver platter, she would fall at his feet and be his forever. He’d read her very wrong.