The Duke’s Perfect Wife

Westlock and Scottish nannies in the back.

The front corner of the room had been partitioned off with chairs and velvet ropes. Behind this barricade sat the Queen of England herself. She was in black, as usual, but wore a plaid ribbon pinned to her veil, and her daughter Beatrice was in Scots plaid.

In deference to the queen, everyone stood.

Every person in the room, including the queen, turned to stare as Eleanor entered on her father’s arm. Eleanor halted for an instant, all those eyes on her unnerving.

They were speculating—why had Eleanor Ramsay changed her mind after so many years and agreed to marry Hart Mackenzie? And why had he decided that a spinster of thirty-odd years, daughter of an impoverished and absentminded earl, was a better match than the quantity of eligible ladies in Britain? A marriage of convenience—it had to be.

“The best thing is to ignore them,” Earl Ramsay whispered to Eleanor. “Let them think what they want and pay no attention. I’ve been doing that for years.”

Eleanor dissolved into laughter and kissed the earl on the cheek. “Dear Father. Whatever would I do without you?”

“Muddle along, I expect. Now let’s get you married off so I can go home in peace.”

Thinking of her father returning to Glenarden alone—with Eleanor not there to take tea with him, to listen to him read from the newspapers, to discuss bizarre and esoteric topics with him—made her eyes fill. Though she reminded herself that her marriage ensured that her father could go on writing his obscure books and eating scones with his tea in a well-repaired house, saying good-bye to him would hurt.

Eleanor lifted her chin, following her father’s advice about ignoring everyone, and she and her father walked forward.

Eleanor swished past them all in her glorious dress, following Aimee, who scattered rose petals along the way. There was no music, Isabella declaring that it was not in the best of taste. The orchestra would play afterward.

Isabella, Beth, and Ainsley stood in the front row near the queen, all three radiant and smiling at Eleanor. On the other side of the aisle, mirroring them, stood Mac, Cameron, and Daniel, tall and formidable in kilts and black coats, the plaid of the Mackenzies swathing their shoulders. They were proud and handsome, with eyes of various shades of amber—Daniel and Cameron, the same height now, looked heartbreakingly alike. Mac reached around the earl and clasped Eleanor’s shoulder, gladness and strength pouring through his touch.

At the very front of the room, standing to one side of the minister, stood Ian Mackenzie, Hart’s second, also dressed in kilt and plaid. Ian glanced once at Eleanor before his gaze was pulled back to that which he liked to look at most: his wife.

Next to Ian, Hart. Hart’s gaze fell on Eleanor, and the world went away.

He wore his kilt and plaid, the ducal sash of the Kilmorgans across his chest. He’d brushed back his dark red hair, which emphasized his hard, handsome face, honed with time and the brutal decisions he’d had to make. Ian at Hart’s side was as handsome as his brother, but Hart commanded the room.

Hart had won. Everything. The dukedom, the nation, his wife.

Eleanor curtseyed to the queen, and her father bowed, then the earl relinquished Eleanor, looking quite cheerful about it, to Hart.

She whispered to Hart as he took her hand, “Don’t look so bloody pleased with yourself.”

Hart’s answer was a smile, wicked and swift.

The ceremony began. Hart stood like a rock at Eleanor’s side as the minister droned the service in a thick Scots accent. The room was warm from the heat of pressing bodies, and droplets of perspiration slid from under Eleanor’s veil and down her cheek.

When the minister asked whether anyone knew of a reason why Eleanor and Hart could not marry, Hart turned and glared down the room so intensely that Daniel and Mac both chuckled. No one answered.

The ceremony was far too short. Eleanor found herself saying her vows, promising to give herself entirely to Hart and to let him worship her body, in sickness and health, in good times and terrible ones, through thick and thin, forever and ever, amen. Hart’s smile when he cupped her face in his hands to kiss her was triumphant.

Eleanor Ramsay was married, and now the Duchess of Kilmorgan. The orchestra played, and over it, Eleanor heard Daniel shout, “That’s forty guineas you owe me, Fleming.”

David shrugged, looking none too worried, and pulled out a sheaf of banknotes.

Quite a lot of money seemed to be changing hands. The three Mackenzie men were the worst, but even Patrick McBride, Ainsley’s oldest brother, was collecting banknotes, and so—the cheek of her—was Ainsley. Daniel seemed to have placed the most bets, followed by Mac, who had switchedsides and wagered that Eleanor would see Hart fairly married.

“I ought to have formed a pool,” Eleanor said to Hart. “I might have won a bundle.”

Before Hart could turn Eleanor and parade her back down the room, Ian stepped close and touched Eleanor’s elbow. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then he was gone, back to Beth and to scoop up his children.

Hart propelled Eleanor through the parted crowd, his arm around her as though he’d never let go of her. His pace was animated, his eyes sparkling.

As they cleared the crowd at the back of the room, a youth darted in through the open French windows. Eleanor saw everything in slow motion, as the lad, perhaps twelve or so and wearing horse boy’s livery that looked too large for him, stared at Hart in rage and then absolute terror. The boy reached a hand into his open coat, brought out a revolver, and fired it straight at Hart.

Chapter 15

Eleanor screamed and shoved Hart out of the way, hard enough to make him let go of her. She heard the roar of the pistol, smelled the acrid scent of gunpowder, felt herself falling, heard Hart swearing. His voice was the last thing she remembered as she succumbed to pain, then numbness.

When she swam to consciousness again, she found herself on the floor, Hart on top of her, Daniel and Cameron on top of him. There was shouting, crying, cursing.

Hart cupped Eleanor’s face in his hands, gaze searching, eyes filled with fear. “El.”

I’m perfectly all right, Eleanor tried to say. She had no energy to form the words. She looked down at her beautiful wedding gown and saw that it was scarlet with blood. Oh, dear. Isabella will be so annoyed.

“Eleanor, stay still.” Hart’s voice was harsh.

Cam and Daniel got to their feet. Cameron bellowed orders at the top of his lungs, the sound hurting her head, and Daniel dashed away.

Eleanor touched Hart’s chest—whole, no blood. Thank God.

“I thought he hit you.” Eleanor’s words came out a slur. She tried to push Hart away, but her hands were too weak.

“Don’t move.” Hart lifted her and cradled her against his chest. “El, I’m so sorry.”

But Hart hadn’t had the revolver. That boy had fired the shot. So young, so young… Poor lad.

Lord Ramsay flung himself on his knees on her other side, his faced creased with terrible worry. “Eleanor. My sweet little Eleanor.”

Hart looked up at the ring of faces surrounding them, singling out Cameron, who’d returned, it seemed. “Tell me you have him. Tell me you got the bastard.”

Cameron nodded grimly. “Fellows is on him. He and the constable are taking him to the village lockup.”

“No, I want him here.” Hart’s voice cut through the noise. “Put him in my study and hold him there.”

Cameron didn’t argue. He nodded once and pushed away, his big body parting the crowd.

“How did he get past you?” Hart was bellowing to his men, and really, Eleanor did have a headache.

He was just a boy. Who notices a boy sent to hold the horses?