“You’ve made Fleet Street very unhappy today,” she said.
“Damn Fleet Street.”
“What, all of it?” Eleanor turned around again to find Hart’s eyes on her, sharp gold in his hard face.
“What the devil possessed you to hang about a street corner with a pack of journalists?” Hart demanded. “If you wanted to speak to me, you should have come to the house.”
“I did go to your house,” she said. “But you’ve changed your majordomo, and he didn’t know me. Nor was he by any means impressed by the card you gave me on that train in Edinburgh. Apparently ladies make a habit of trying to gain entrance to your house by false pretenses, and your guard dog of a majordomo assumed me one of those. I can’t really blame him. I could have stolen the card, for all he knew, and you seem to be quite popular.”
“I’ll speak to him,” Hart said when her breath ran out.
“Oh, dear, don’t swat the poor man too much. Not on my account. He wasn’t to know.”
Damn her, how did she manage to turn every chastisement around on him? All the while smiling that little smile, her eyes so blue under her out-of-date hat?
Watching Eleanor bludgeon her way through those journalists with her parasol and bustle had awakened something light in him, something he hadn’t felt since . . .
One hell of a long time.
“I’ll instruct my majordomo,” Hart said. “You can set an appointment with him when we reach the house.”
“No time like the present. I really do need to speak to you, Hart.”
The thought of Eleanor following him into his small private study, breathing the same air as he did, made his chest constrict. “Eleanor . . .”
“Goodness, you can spare me a few minutes, can’t you? Consider it my reward for distracting those rabid journalists from you. You’re making yourself quite controversial, you know, what with declaring Scotland should be a separate country and that the Germans are dangerous.”
“If you already know so much, write your story about that. I’ll not deny any of it.”
“Oh, very generous of you. But I am not writing a newspaper story. And if I were, I wouldn’t write about anything so boring as politics. No, I’d write about the personal life of the Duke of Kilmorgan. The most delicious and private gossip I could dig up, confirmed or unconfirmed. I’m certain any newspaper would froth at the mouth to buy it.”
Again the smile, accompanied by a little nod of her head. Again the constriction in Hart’s chest. Hart had verbally fenced with Otto von Bismarck, one of the most brilliant political minds of the century. Eleanor Ramsay in her flat hat trimmed with faded flowers could run rings around him.
“What is the appointment about, then?” he asked.
“Do you know that your face looks like granite when you scowl? No wonder everyone in the House of Lords is terrified of you. What I want to speak to you about is a business proposition.”
“A business proposition.” With Eleanor Ramsay. God help him.
“Yes.” She sat back and smiled.
Soft flesh beneath his, her blue eyes half-closed in sultry pleasure, Scottish sunshine on her bare skin. The feeling of moving inside her, her smile as she said, “I love you, Hart.”
Did she remember? Did she regret, hate, or was it all gone?
Her smile was still as sweet, but Hart had learned the difficult way that Eleanor Ramsay was not a naïve, biddable young woman. Eleanor had the Queen of England eating out of her hand. When Her Majesty had wanted to make Eleanor one of her ladies of the bedchamber, Eleanor had refused, citing the need to stay home and look after her father. The queen, a woman famous for getting her own way, had meekly let her go.
“What business?” Hart asked. If they could take care of it in the carriage, no need for Eleanor to even enter his house.
“Business better discussed in private.” Eleanor glanced about as the carriage turned down Grosvenor Street, heading toward Grosvenor Square. “Isn’t that Lady Mountgrove? Of course it is. Hello, Margaret!” Eleanor waved heartily to a plump woman who’d descended from a carriage and was preparing to enter a house.
Lady Mountgrove, one of the most gossipy women in the country, looked up in surprise. Her mouth fixed in a round O when she saw Lady Eleanor Ramsay in the Duke of Kilmorgan’s carriage, before she lifted her hand in a return acknowledgment.
“Haven’t seen her in donkey’s years,” Eleanor said as they rolled on. “Her daughters must be, oh, quite young ladies now. Have they made their come-outs yet?”
Her mouth was still so damned kissable, closing in a little pucker while she awaited his answer.
“I haven’t the faintest bloody idea,” Hart said.
“Really, Hart, you must at least glance at the society pages. You are the most eligible bachelor in all of Britain. Probably in the entire British Empire. Mamas in India are grooming their girls to sail back to you, telling them, ‘You never know. He’s not married yet.’ ”
“I’m a widower. Not a bachelor.”
“You’re a duke, unmarried, and poised to become the most powerful man in the country. In the world, really. Of course, such a man will need a wife.”
Breathing was becoming difficult. “Does this business proposition have anything to do with matchmaking? If so, I’ll ask you to go. I might even tell the coachman to slow down.” Hart didn’t want to discuss his matrimonial contemplations with Eleanor—not yet.
“Very amusing. No, it doesn’t. You’ll learn about it in good time. I can converse about more than one topic, you know. I had very good governesses, and they taught me well.”
Her tongue, her lips, moved in such a sultry way as she talked. A man who walked away from that had to be insane. Hart remembered the day he’d done so, still felt the tiny smack of the ring on his chest when she threw it at him, and the rage and heartbreak in her eyes.
He should have refused to let her jilt him, should have run off with her that very afternoon and bound her to him and never let her go. But he’d been young, angry, proud, and . . . embarrassed. The lofty Lord Hart Mackenzie, so sure he could do whatever he damn well pleased with anyone he damn well pleased, had learned differently with Eleanor.
That had been a long time ago.
“How are you, Eleanor?” Hart asked quietly.
The smile faltered. “Oh, about the same. Father is still writing his books, which are brilliant, but he can’t tell you how much a farthing is worth. I left him to amuse himself at the British Museum, where he is pouring over the Egyptian collection. I do hope he doesn’t start pulling apart the mummies.”
He might. Lord Ramsay had an inquisitive mind, and neither God nor museum authorities could stop him when he wanted to find the answer to something.
“Ah, here we are.” Eleanor craned to look up at Hart’s house as the carriage pulled to a halt. “As elegant as ever. I see your majordomo peering out the door with a look of dismay.” She put her fingers lightly on the hand of the footman who’d hurried from Hart’s front door to help her down. “It’s Franklin, isn’t it?” she said to the footman. “Gracious, you’ve become quite tall, haven’t you? And married, I hear. With a son?”
Franklin, who prided himself on his forbidding countenance while guarding the door of the most famous duke in the land, melted into a smile. “Yes, my lady. He’s three now, and the trouble he gets into.” He shook his head.
“Means he’s robust and healthy.” Eleanor patted his arm. “Congratulations to you.” She waltzed on into the house while Hart climbed down behind her. “Mrs. Mayhew, how delightful to see you,” he heard her say. He entered his house to see her holding out her hands to Hart’s housekeeper.
The two exchanged greetings and were talking about, of all things, recipes. Eleanor’s housekeeper, now retired, apparently had instructed her to obtain Mrs. Mayhew’s recipe for lemon cakes.
Eleanor started up the stairs, and Hart nearly threw his hat and coat at the footman before he followed. He was about to order her into the large
front parlor instead of his more intimate study when a large Scotsman in a threadbare kilt, loose shirt, and socks wrinkled around his ankles came barreling down from the top floor.
“Hope you don’t mind, Hart. I brought the hellions, and I fixed myself a place to paint in one of your spare bedrooms. Isabella’s got the decorators in, and you wouldn’t believe the racket—” Mac broke off, and a look of joy spread over his face. He raced down the wide staircase to the first landing and grabbed Eleanor in a bear hug.
“Eleanor Ramsay, by all that’s holy! What are you doing here?”
Eleanor kissed Mac, Hart’s second youngest brother, soundly on the cheek as Hart gained the landing. “Hello, Mac. I’ve come to irritate your older brother.”
“Good. He needs a bit of irritating.” Mac glanced at Hart, his eyes glinting with his smile. “Come up and see the babies when you’re done, El. I’m not painting them, because they won’t hold still; I’m putting finishing touches on a horse picture for Cam. Night-Blooming Jasmine, his new champion.”
“Yes, I heard she’d done well.” Eleanor rose on her tiptoes and gave Mac another kiss on the cheek. “That’s for Isabella. And Aimee, Eileen, and Robert.” Kiss, kiss, kiss. Mac absorbed it all with an idiotic smile, damn him.
Hart leaned on the landing’s railing. “Are we going to come to this proposition sometime today?”
“Proposition?” Mac asked, eyes lighting. “Now, that sounds interesting.”
“Shut it, Mac,” Hart said.
Mac opened his mouth to ask more questions, but just then screaming erupted from on high—shrill, desperate, Armageddon-has-come screaming.
Mac grinned and jogged back up the stairs. “Papa’s on his way, hellions. If you’re good, you can have sweets and Auntie Eleanor for tea.”
The shrieking continued, unabated, until Mac reached the top floor, dodged into the room from whence it issued, and slammed the door. The noise instantly died, though they could still hear Mac’s rumble.
Eleanor sighed a pleased sigh. “I always knew Mac would make a good father. Shall we?”
She turned and headed up to the next floor and the study without waiting for Hart. At one time, she’d become well acquainted with the rooms in his house, and she apparently hadn’t forgotten her way around.
The study hadn’t changed at all, Eleanor noted when she entered. The same warm paneling covered the walls, books still filled bookcases that climbed to the high ceiling, and the huge desk that had belonged to Hart’s father reposed in the middle.
The same carpet covered the floor, though a different hound dozed by the fire. This was Ben, if she remembered correctly, a son of Hart’s old dog Beatrix, who’d passed on a few months after Eleanor had ended the engagement. The news of Beatrix’s death had nearly broken her heart.
Ben didn’t open his eyes as they entered, and his gentle snore blended with the crackle of the fire on the hearth.
Hart touched her elbow to guide her across the room. She wished he hadn’t, because the steel strength of his fingers made her want to melt.
If all went well today, she’d not have to be close to him again, but she needed to make the first approach in private. A letter could too easily go astray or be dismissed by his secretary or be burned unread by Hart.
Hart dragged an armchair close to his desk, moving it as though it weighed nothing. Eleanor knew better, though, as she sat. The heavily carved chair was as solid as a boulder.
Hart took the desk chair, his kilt moving as he sat, showing sinewy strength above his woolen socks. Anyone believing a kilt unmanly had never seen Hart in one.
Eleanor touched the desk’s smooth top. “You know, Hart, if you plan to be the first minister of the country, you might give a thought to at least changing the furniture. It’s a bit out of date.”
Hart didn’t give a damn about the furniture, and Eleanor knew it. “Mrs. Mayhew will be arranging tea. Whatever you have to say to me, say it quickly.”
“It’s nothing I want to say, really; rather, a favor to ask.” Eleanor drew a breath, looked Hart fully in the eyes, and said, “I’d like you to give me a job.”
Not what he was expecting. Hart’s eyes flickered in surprise; then the eagle gaze fixed on her again. “A job? Why?”
“The usual sort of reason. I need the blunt. Father is dear to me, but a wee bit impractical, as you know. He believes we still pay the staff wages, but truth to tell they stay and look after us because they feel sorry for us. Our food comes from their families’ gardens or out of charity from the villagers. They think I don’t know.”
Hart listened with his usual assessing look, the one that knew everything without being told. “Eleanor, if you need money, I’ll give it to you.” His voice was deep, rumbling, a man who was in the habit of fixing other people’s problems. “I’ll buy your house if you want, to save your pride.”
“Father would never let go of the house. It’s been in the family for centuries. Never mind that every bit of land that can be sold has.”
“That wreck of a house is going to tumble down one of these days and bury you both under rubble.”
“Yes, but it will be our rubble. Call me an assistant to a secretary or some such. I’m sure you have several of those.”
“I do. But what do you think the world will say when they find out I employ you? My former fiancée, a lady of the Scottish nobility, now assistant to one of my secretaries?”
“You don’t have to tell anyone. I don’t believe you’ll wish to when I explain the sort of job I have in mind.”
“What sort of job do you have in mind?” he asked, the question slow and careful.
Eleanor dug into a pocket on the inside of her coat and withdrew a large envelope. “I don’t believe there’s a name for such a job. Well, there might be, but I don’t know what it is. I want you to pay me to help you find out about this.”
She pulled a folded card from the envelope, laid the card on the desk in front of him, and opened it.
Hart went still.
The object inside the card was a photograph. It was a full-length photo of a younger Hart, shot in profile. Hart’s body was a little slimmer than it was now, but still well muscled. In the photograph, he rested his buttocks against the edge of a desk, bracing himself on it with a sinewy hand. He was studying something on the floor that lay out of the frame, his head bent.
The pose, though perhaps a bit unusual, was not the unique thing about the photograph. The most interesting aspect of this portrait was that, in it, Hart Mackenzie was quite, quite naked.
The Many Sins of Lord Cameron Page 29
