The pictures Eleanor had found at the shop were breathtaking. Hart in all his glory.
Eleanor sat alone at the table in her bedchamber that evening, the photographs spread before her. She was in her dressing gown, the new ball gown she’d wear tonight lying in emerald delight across the bed.
Ian, bless him, had brought the brown-paper package to her when he’d returned to Hart’s, again never asking what was in it. Eleanor waited for Maigdlin to go down to her supper before she cut the twine and unwrapped the box, laying out the photographs one by one.
There were twelve in all, six taken in the same room as the one in which he’d been looking out the window. The other six had been done in a smaller bedroom, the décor of which reminded her of the house in High Holborn.
Eleanor put her finger on one photograph and drew it to her. This one was different from the others, because in it, Hart wasn’t naked. Facing the camera full on, he wore only a kilt of Mackenzie plaid that sagged low across his hips. This photograph was also different, because here, Hart was laughing.
His smile lit his eyes and softened his face. One hand was on his waistband, and the other came up, palm forward, as though telling the cameraman—or woman, in this case—not to take the picture. The shutter had gone off anyway.
The result showed Hart as he truly was. Correction, Hart as he used to be—a devilish rogue with a charming smile. The man who’d teased Eleanor and winked at her, who’d called her wicked for wanting to be anywhere near a notorious Mackenzie.
Hart had laughed at her and made Eleanor laugh back. Hart had not been afraid to tell her anything—his ambitions, his dreams, his worries for his brothers, his rage at his father. He would come to her at Glenarden and lie with his head on her lap amidst the summer roses, and pour out his heart. Then he’d kiss her, lover’s kisses, not chaste courtship kisses. To this day, when Eleanor smelled red roses, she felt the smooth pressure of his lips on hers, remembered the dark taste of his mouth.
Memories flooded her, and her eyes filled. Hart had been such a devil, but full of life and hope, laughter and energy, and she’d loved him.
The man Hart had become no longer had the hope and the laughter, though he still had the obsession. Hart was driven—she’d read in the newspapers how he won gentleman after political gentleman to his side, making them want to follow him. Hart never had anything good to say about Bonnie Prince Charlie—the arrogant bastard who beggared the Highlanders—but Bonnie Prince Charlie must have had the same ability to make the skeptical believe in him.
But with Hart’s rise to power, more warmth had left him. Eleanor thought about what she’d seen in his eyes, both in the vestibule this morning when Hart had blocked her way out of his house, and this afternoon when he’d found her in the High Holborn house. He was a hard and lonely man, driven by anger and determination, no more smiling excitement, no more laughter.
Eleanor slid that photograph aside and drew the next one toward her. Hart still smiled at the camera, but with practiced deviltry. The kilt was off now, trailing to the ground from his hand.
He was a beautiful, beautiful man. Eleanor traced his chest, remembering what it had been to touch him. She’d gotten a taste of it this afternoon, when he’d held her arms behind her, his strength pinning her. She’d been at his mercy—she knew she’d not be able to walk away until he released her. Instead of growing afraid, Eleanor had felt dark excitement beat through her veins.
“Eleanor, aren’t you ready?”
Eleanor jumped as Isabella’s voice sounded outside her bedchamber door. Eleanor swept the photographs back into the box and was shoving the box into the bottom drawer of her dresser when Isabella Mackenzie entered in a swish of silver satin and taffeta.
Eleanor locked the drawer and dropped the key into the top of her corset. “Sorry, Izzy,” she said. “I was just finishing something. Will you help me dress?”
Hart knew full well the moment Eleanor joined the throng that filled his ballroom.
Eleanor wore green—a dark, bottle green gown with a neckline that plunged down her br**sts and bared her shoulders. A bustle, more restrained than the gigantic ones worn by the other ladies, drew her overskirt back before spilling it to the floor in a soft wave of satin.
The style drew attention to her waist hugged by a small, tight bodice, and that in turn drew attention to the décolletage framing her full br**sts. A necklace, a simple chain with an emerald drop, pointed to her cle**age. Emerald earrings dangled from her ears, as green as the dress.
Hart had been thinking about David Fleming, the MP who was Hart’s eyes and ears in Commons, and wondering how the man was getting on. Fleming tonight was using his art of persuasion to sway to Hart’s side one or two men on the fence about pushing a vote of no confidence on Gladstone. Hart knew the time was near when he could force Gladstone to resign, and either concede that Hart’s coalition had the majority, or call for elections, which Hart would make bloody sure he and his party won.
Get them over by any means necessary, Hart had told Fleming. Fleming, debauched but charming and devious as a snake, had assured Hart of his victory.
But once Eleanor entered the room, worry about Gladstone, votes, and victory dissolved to nothing.
Eleanor was radiant. Tonight was the first Hart had seen her in anything but the ugly cotton or serge dresses Eleanor wore buttoned up to tomorrow. The gown let her glow. Isabella must have either lent Eleanor the dress or bought it for her, but either way, the result was breathtaking.
A little too breathtaking. Hart couldn’t take his eyes off her.
“Very tired of you borrowing my wife to hostess your boring parties,” Mac said, stopping next to Hart in a rare moment of empty space around him. “Between these blasted balls and musicales, and the decorators underfoot, I never see her.”
Hart didn’t pull his gaze from Eleanor as he took a sip of malt whiskey. “What you mean is you don’t have as much time to bed her as you’d like.”
“Can you blame me? Look at her. I want to kill any man who so much as speaks to her.”
Hart had difficulty dragging his gaze from Eleanor, but he conceded that Isabella, in a dress of silver and green that rested like a whisper on her slim figure, looked fine. Isabella always did.
Mac had fallen madly in love with the woman the moment he’d set eyes on her. It had taken his idiotic brother six years to learn how to love her, but thank God, that storm was over, their marriage now in a safe harbor. Isabella and Mac were radiantly happy, with Isabella busily taking care of Mac so Hart no longer had to.