The Duke's Perfect Wife

Glorious days. The happiest days of his life, Hart realized now. At the time, the stupid, selfish young man he’d been had only tasted triumph of landing the woman he’d wanted. Eleanor would bring the notorious Mackenzie family a measure of respect, which they badly needed. Hart’s horror of a father had eroded the Mackenzie reputation, as had Ian’s supposed madness, Mac’s running away to live among depraved artists in Paris, and Cameron’s very bad marriage.

  But no one could say a wrong word about Eleanor. She sailed above all scandal, her talkative charm melting one and all. Eleanor was kind, generous, strong, and well liked. She’d lead Hart to glory.

  Hart told her he loved her, and it was not a lie. But he never gave the whole of himself to her, never believed he needed to. Looking back, Hart realized that he’d kept himself from her out of fear.

  And that had been his great mistake.

  So stupid was Hart that he didn’t understand what he had to lose, until Act III.

  Scene: Eleanor Ramsay’s ramshackle home in autumn, the trees surrounding it having turned brilliant red and gold. Their radiant glory splashed against the dark evergreens that marched across the mountains, silent reminders that the coming winter would be brutal and cold.

  Hart had been as buoyant as the cool weather, looking forward to visiting his lady with hair the color of autumn leaves. Earl Ramsay received Hart in the house and told him, in a strangely quiet tone, that Eleanor was walking in the gardens and would see him there.

  Hart had thanked the earl, unsuspecting, and had gone to find Eleanor.

  The Ramsay gardens had long become overgrown and wild, despite the valiant efforts of their one gardener and his pruning shears. Eleanor always laughed at their unruly patch of land, but Hart liked it—a garden that blended into the Scottish countryside instead of being structured, overly clean, and shutting out true nature.

  Eleanor paced the walks in a dress too light for the weather, the shawl too small to keep out the cold. Her hair had come down, the wind tearing at it. When Eleanor saw Hart walking toward her, she turned her back and strode away.

  Hart caught up to her, seized her arm, and turned her to face him.

  Her stare had made him drop his hold. Eleanor’s eyes were red-rimmed in a face too white, but her glare was angry, an intense rage he’d never seen in her.

  “El?” he asked in alarm. “What is it?”

  Eleanor said nothing. When Hart reached for her again, she tore herself from his grip. Clenching her teeth, Eleanor yanked off the engagement ring and threw it at him.

  The circlet thunked against Hart’s frock-coated chest and fell with a tink to the paving stones.

  Hart didn’t bend down for the ring. This was something more than Eleanor’s rare flashes of temper, her frequent exasperation at him, or their teasing arguments about ridiculous things.

  “What is it?” he repeated, his voice quiet.

  “Mrs. Palmer came to call on me today,” Eleanor said.

  Cold fingers snaked through his body. Those words should not come out of Eleanor’s lips. Not Mrs. Palmer. Not with Eleanor. They were two separate beings, from separate worlds, separate parts of Hart. Never to meet.

  “I know you know who I mean,” Eleanor said.

  “Yes, I bloody well know who you mean,” Hart snapped. “She should not have come here.”

  Eleanor waited a beat, as though expecting Hart to say something like My love, I can explain.

  Hart could explain, if he chose. Angelina Palmer had been his mistress for seven years. He had ceased to go to her once he’d started courting Eleanor. That had been Hart’s decision, and so be it. But Angelina, it appeared, in her jealousy, had scuttled here to tell Eleanor Hart’s dirty little secrets.

  “She felt sorry for me,” Eleanor said, answering Hart’s silence. “She told me she’d followed me about when I was down in London last, and watched me. She learned all about me—remarkable, since I knew nothing at all about her. She saw me be kind to a wretched old lady in the park, she said. I remember I’d given a poor thing a coin and helped her to shelter. Mrs. Palmer decided that this made me a kind young woman, one who should be spared a life with you.” Eleanor’s eyes were full of anger, but not with anger at Angelina Palmer. At him.

  “I admit that Mrs. Palmer was once my mistress,” Hart said stiffly. “You deserve to know. She ceased to be my mistress the day I met you.”

  Eleanor’s look turned deprecating. “A pleasing half-truth, the kind at which Hart Mackenzie excels. I’ve seen you say such things to others; I never dreamed you would to me.” Her color rose. “Mrs. Palmer told me about your women, about your house, and hinted at the sorts of things you do there.”

  Oh, God, oh, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. Hart saw his world falling away, the fiction that he could be anything other than a blackguard bastard crumbling to dust.

  “All in the past,” Hart said in a hard voice. “I have not touched another woman since I met you. I’m not that much of a monster. I gave it all up, Eleanor. For you. Angelina is a jealous and coldhearted woman. She’d say anything to keep me from marrying you.”

  If Hart had thought the speech would have Eleanor smiling and forgiving, he was wrong, oh, so wrong.

  “For heaven’s sake, spare me,” she said. “You believe that hiding the truth is not the same as a lie, but it is. You have lied and lied, and you are still lying. You planned my seduction so carefully—Mrs. Palmer told me how you decided on me, how you finagled invitations to every gathering I went to, sometimes with her help. That you hunted me as a man tracks a fox, that you played upon my vanity and made me think I’d caught your eye. And I was stupid enough to let you.”

  “Does that matter?” Hart cut in. “Does it matter how I wanted you, or how we met? Nothing after that was a lie. I need you, El. I told you that in the summerhouse. I didn’t lie about that. My dealings with Mrs. Palmer are over. You never need worry about her again.”

  Eleanor looked at him in cold fury. “If you believe jealousy has made me angry, you are very wrong. I was not shocked to find you’d had a mistress—many gentlemen have them, and you are so passionate, Hart. I can forgive a past mistress you have not visited since you started courting me, or even some of the risqué games you played, which she decided she should not describe in detail to a lady.”

  “It’s bloody evident you can’t forgive me, since you threw the blasted ring at me.”

  “That is the crux of the matter, isn’t it? Everything is about you. The entire world revolves around Lord Hart Mackenzie. I should do as you wish, because I fit into a certain place in your schemes, and so does Mrs. Palmer. You treat us equally, each of us occupying certain niches in your cupboard of life.”

  “Eleanor…”

  Eleanor held up her hand, her voluble nature taking over. “What’s infuriated me is the other things she told me of. About your tempers and your rages. How you cycle between hot and cold, how Mrs. Palmer is never certain what you’ll want from her from day to day, or what your mood will be. She told me she started bringing other ladies into the house, because his lordship was growing bored. She knew that she had to assuage your ennui by any means she could so you wouldn’t leave her. You made use of her, and she scrambled to please you. And in the end, you threw her over because you no longer needed her.” Eleanor stopped, her face red, her breath coming fast. “How could you be so cruel to another human being?”

  Hart stepped back. “Have I got this right? You want to break our engagement because I’ve been rude to a courtesan?”

  The pinched look around her mouth told Hart that this was the wrong thing to say. “More than rude. You played upon her, as you play upon everyone—as you played upon me. It should make no difference whether a person is a courtesan or a street girl or an earl or an earl’s daughter.”

  Every word was a blow, because every word was true. They cut him, and Hart struck back. “Perhaps I am not as egalitarian as you.”

  Eleanor flinched, and Hart knew he was losing her. “Cruelty is cru
elty, Hart,” she said.

  “And when have I had a chance not to be cruel?” Hart shouted. “If I am, it is because that’s all I ever learned how to be. It is how I survived. You’ve met my father; you know what I grew up with. You know what he did to my brothers and me, what he made us into.”

  “Certainly, blame your father all you like—and I know how awful he is. I have experienced it firsthand. And I’m very sorry for you, believe me. But you have choices. The choices you make are your own, not your father’s.” Her eyes narrowed. “And don’t you dare punish Mrs. Palmer for what she’s told me. She is terrified of you—do you know that? She knows you’ll never forgive her over this, that she’s lost you forever. Yet, she found the courage to come and speak to me.”

  Even then, though, in his amazing foolishness, Hart convinced himself that he could still win.

  “Yes, to turn you away from me,” he said swiftly. “Obviously, she is succeeding. She might have come to you as a poor soul, but I assure you that Angelina Palmer is a manipulative bitch who will do anything to get what she wants.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “I’ll thank you to believe I know my own mind. Of course Mrs. Palmer is cool and manipulative—she has had to be, a woman in such a position, alone in the world, with you as her only support. But you did not see her. She knew that by telling me, everything she had with you would be at an end. She was resigned to it. Resigned. You think me an unworldly young woman, brought up by a naive gentleman, but I know much about people. Enough to see that you broke her. She devoted herself to you—she would do anything in the world for you—and you broke her. Why should I not think that you will do the same to me?”

  Hart could not breathe. Eleanor stood there like some avenging angel, making Hart face everything he was, everything he’d become. By his own choice.

  He ran a shaking hand over his face, finding it wet with sweat. You broke her. Maybe he had. Angelina had soaked up his needs, his terrors, his tempers, and his frustrations like a sponge. She’d taken everything he’d thrown at her. This did not make her a saint—she’d been far from that—but she’d put up with Hart and his life.

  But Hart Mackenzie could never bow, apologize, or back away for the sake of another. He’d never learned how to control his anger or his selfish desires—to have any idea that he ought to control them. His father had vented anger by terrorizing, and Hart had never learned there could be any other way.

  Whatever Hart wanted, he took. Those who got in his way paid the price.

  He looked at Eleanor with her quiet strength. No matter what he’d done or how hard he’d tried, he’d never truly won Eleanor. And that made him so angry.

  “I can ruin your father,” he said. “Don’t think I can’t. Ruin him, ruin you… easily.”

  Eleanor gave him a grim nod. “I am certain you could. You are wealthy and powerful, and everyone will say what a fool I am for turning you down.”

  “I’m not jesting, El. I can destroy him. Is that what you want?”

  Hart waited for Eleanor’s fear, for her need to say anything, do anything, to make him withdraw the threat. He waited for her desperation to put Hart back to his laughter and wicked jokes, to smooth him over, to do what he wanted. Everything Angelina had done.

  Eleanor looked at him for the longest time, shadows from the overgrown garden playing across her face. She never registered fear. Only sadness.

  “Please go, Hart.”

  Hart growled. “You agreed to marry me. We have a contract. It’s too late.”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No. Please go.”

  Hart caught her arm in a hard grip. She stared at him in amazement, and he softened his hold but didn’t let go.

  “What will you do without me, Eleanor? You have no one to go to, and you have nothing. I can give you everything in the world. I told you that, remember?”

  “Yes, but what price will I pay for it?”

  Hart lost his temper. He knew, even then and all through the long years, that it was that temper that had lost him everything. He’d been too young and too sure of himself to understand that not everyone in the world could be bullied, especially not Eleanor Ramsay.

  “You are nothing.” The words came out a snarl. “You are the daughter of an impoverished earl who is too feckless to understand where his own dinner comes from. Is that what you want for the rest of your life? Poverty and idiocy? If I walk away from you, you are finished. Ruined. No one will want Hart Mackenzie’s leavings.”

  Eleanor slapped him. He barely felt the sting, but he grabbed Eleanor’s wrist again, and she glared at him, eyes blazing.

  She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She wrenched herself from his grasp, glared at him another moment, then turned and walked away. Head high, her shawl and light gown billowing in the wind, Eleanor Ramsay walked out of Hart’s life.

  Hart felt himself falling down, down, down, into an abyss of his own making. “El!” he’d called, his voice cracking, pathetic.

  Eleanor did not stop and did not turn back. She walked on, never looking at him, until she was lost in the shadows of the overgrown garden. Hart had put his hands on top of his head and watched her go, his heart aching until he thought it would burst.

  He hadn’t let it go at that, of course. Hart tried over the next weeks to make Eleanor change her mind. He’d attempted to recruit Lord Ramsay, only to find that Eleanor had told him everything… every embarrassing detail.

  “I’m sorry, Mackenzie,” Lord Ramsay had said sorrowfully when Hart approached him. “I’m afraid I must stand behind my daughter. You did play a rather bad game.”

  Even Hart’s argument that he’d taken Eleanor’s virginity brought him nothing.

  “I’ve not started a child,” Eleanor had said when he’d argued this. She’d not even blushed when Hart had laid out the fact that he’d ruined her to her father. “I know the signs. I’ll likely not marry anyone else anyway, so it does not matter, does it?”

  Eleanor and her father, the pair of them with their stubborn, steadfast, unyielding Scots stolidity, had defeated him.

  End of Act III, Hart, the villain, exits. Never to return.

  Act IV had to be Hart’s life since Eleanor—his father’s death, marrying Sarah, losing her on one day and his son the next. Hart, who never cried, had stretched across the floor of his bedroom and wept brokenly after he’d laid Sarah and Hart Graham Mackenzie to rest in the overdone Mackenzie mausoleum.

  This then, was Act V. The heroine returns to drive the villain insane.

  “Hart?”

  Eleanor saw Hart blinking at the light as he jerked around to face her and the lantern she carried. His hand was on the chiseled letters of his son’s name, and he was holding on to them for dear life.

  Chapter 17

  Hart’s gaze was unfocused, his golden eyes glittering and moist. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said. “It’s too damp. You’ll take sick again.”

  Eleanor walked to him. Hart kept his hands on the plaque, as though loathe to take his fingers from the letters.

  “What are you doing here?” Eleanor asked. “You have a perfectly good fire in your bedchamber. I saw it.”

  Hart turned his face back to the tomb. “I was afraid.”

  “Of what?” It was cold, which made her hurt arm ache, but Eleanor did not want to leave him here. “Tell me.”

  “Losing you.” Hart looked at her again, his eyes anguished. “I was remembering you throwing the ring at me and telling me to go away, how arrogant I was.”

  Eleanor shivered, thinking of that terrible day and how enraged and how proud they both had been. “That was a long time ago.”

  “No, I’m still fucking arrogant. I should have sent you home when you came bleating to me about a job. But, no, I coerced you into staying with me, and you almost died for it.”

  “Not everything in the world is your fault, Hart,” Eleanor said.

  “Yes, it is. I manipulate the world, and then I suffer the consequences. Others
more so than me.”

  Eleanor’s gaze went to the tomb, where lovely, shy Sarah lay, along with her tiny son, Lord Hart Graham Mackenzie, one day old.

  “You blame yourself for their deaths too,” she said softly.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Sarah would have died carrying someone else’s son,” Eleanor said. “It sounds cruel to say it, but she wasn’t strong enough to have a baby. Some women are not.”

  “She didn’t want to have a baby at all. She hated being with child. She did it because that was what she’d been raised to do.”

  True enough. Perhaps if Sarah and her son had lived, Sarah would have changed her mind about wanting a baby. Perhaps she would have realized how much she could love her son, and thereby brought Hart some measure of happiness.