The silence was instant, stunned, and heavy. Ian looked at Hart and kept looking at him, straight into Hart’s eyes.
And then everyone started talking at once. “Do you mean Eleanor?” Ainsley asked over the clamor.
Hart broke his gaze from Ian’s and flicked it to Ainsley. “I’ve not said I’ve chosen a possibility.”
“Yes, he has,” Daniel shouted. “He just don’t want to say, in case she turns him down again.”
“Cameron,” Hart said. “Cuff your son.”
“Why?” Cameron shrugged. “Danny’s right. Sort it out yourself, Hart, my horse is waiting. Come on, Daniel. This is your victory too.”
Daniel took Ainsley’s arm on her the other side, and sandwiched between father and son, Ainsley exited the box.
“What do you think, Step-mama?” Daniel asked. “A tanner on Lady Eleanor? For or against? I say she gives him the boot.”
“No, indeed, Danny, my boy,” Ainsley said. “Twenty says she accepts.”
“Done. Dad?”
Cameron shook his head. “I never bet on Mackenzies. Way too risky, and Hart can be underhanded.”
“Still, I think Eleanor will win, no matter what,” Ainsley said. “Now, let’s go see Jasmine.”
Daniel dropped Ainsley’s arm and ran ahead, bounding down the stairs. Behind them, the remaining Mackenzies continued their noise, also flinging about wagers on Hart’s intended. Ian’s voice rose above them all. “Thirty on Eleanor,” he said. “She’ll say yes.”
Ainsley laughed. “Poor Hart.”
“His own fault. He dropped the news on purpose when everyone was excited about Jasmine. He meant for us to treat it in fun, not something deadly serious. But Hart’s deadly serious.”
Ainsley knew he was. “I’m tempted to warn Eleanor,” she said. “But no, they need to work it out for themselves.”
“As we have.”
“Hmm.” Ainsley looked at her broad-shouldered, handsome husband, in black coat and Mackenzie kilt, and craved him with a bright suddenness.
“Cam,” she said. “They’ll wait for us in the paddock, won’t they?”
“Probably. Unless Danny grabs the trophy.”
“Good.” Ainsley side-stepped and tugged Cameron with her under the shadow of the grandstand.
“What is it, vixen?” Cameron asked as they ducked out of sight. “Do you want to tell me a secret?”
“Ask you a question, rather.” Ainsley touched the top button of her placket. “How many buttons can you open, my lord, before we have to go and rescue the trophy?”
His eyes darkened. “Little devil.”
Ainsley laughed as Cameron swept her against him, mouth hard on hers, while his agile fingers began to unbutton her dress.
Turn the page for a preview of the next historical romance by Jennifer Ashley The Duke’s Perfect Wife Coming soon from Berkley Sensation!
Hart Mackenzie.
It was said that he knew every pleasure a woman desired and exactly how to give it to her. Hart wouldn’t ask what the lady wanted, and she might not even know herself, but she would understand once he’d finished. And she’d want it again.
He had power, wealth, skill, intelligence, and the ability to play upon his fellow man to make them do what he wanted and believe it their own idea.
Eleanor Ramsay knew, firsthand, that all of this was true.
She lurked among a flock of journalists in St. James’s Street who waited for the Scottish duke to emerge from his club. In her unfashionable gown and old hat, she looked like a lady scribbler as hungry for a story as the rest of them.
The men came to life when they spied the tall duke on the threshold, distinctive with his close-cropped, red- highlighted hair and ever-present Mackenzie kilt. Hart always wore a kilt while in London, to remind everyone who set eyes on him that he was Scottish first.
“Your Grace!” the men shouted. “Your Grace!”
They surged forward, a sea of black backs, male strength shutting out Eleanor. A lady was a lady, but not when it came to newspaper stories about the elusive Duke of Kilmorgan.
Eleanor used her folded parasol to push her way through, earning herself curses and glares. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she said as her bustle shoved aside a man who’d tried to elbow her in the ribs.
Hart barely glanced at them with his sharp golden eyes as he waited for his carriage to approach. He’d cut his hair shorter, Eleanor noticed, which made his face appear squarer and harder than ever. She knew she was the only one among this crowd that had ever seen that face soften in sleep.
The duke looked neither left nor right as he pulled on his hat and prepared to walk the three steps between the club and the open door of his carriage.
“Your Grace,” one journalist shouted above the rest. “If you love Scotland so much, why are you here in London?”
Hart didn’t answer. He was a master of letting what he didn’t want to acknowledge flow past him.
Eleanor cupped her hands around her mouth. “Your Grace!”
Her voice rose above the masculine cries, and Hart turned. His gaze met hers and locked.
When they’d been in love, years ago, Hart and Eleanor at times had been able to communicate without words. Eleanor never knew how they did it, but somehow they’d been able to exchange a glance and understand what the other wanted. At this moment, Hart wanted Eleanor in his carriage, and Eleanor wanted that too.
Hart made a curt signal to one of the pugilist-looking footmen that followed him everywhere these days. The footman shouldered his way into the sea of rumpled suits, parting the pack of journalists like Moses at the Red Sea.
“Your ladyship,” the pugilist said, and he gestured for her to precede him back through the crowd.
A second pugilist footman stood like a rock at the carriage door, anchoring the way. Hart watched Eleanor come, eyes on her all the way. When she reached him, he stepped in front of his footman, caught Eleanor by the elbows, and boosted her up and into the open carriage.
Eleanor’s breath went out of her at his touch. But it didn’t last long, and she landed on the seat as Hart followed her in. He took the seat opposite, thank heavens, and the second footman slammed the door.
She grabbed at her hat as the carriage jerked forward, trying to keep her grip on her parasol and the seat at the same time. Hart sat across from her, neat and tidy, his hat firmly on his head. She resisted the urge to reach over and knock it off.
The gentlemen of the press shouted and swore as their prey got away, the carriage heading up St. James’s Street toward Mayfair. Eleanor looked back at them over the carriage’s open top.
“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?