She popped out between the group tight around Hart and people clustered next to it, trying to get close to him. Somehow, she managed to jostle the arm of a tall gentleman who held a full glass of bloodred claret. He lost his hold on the goblet, which teetered and danced on his fingertips.

And then, disaster. The glass tumbled from his hand and flipped end over end on its way to the floor. Ruby liquid arced through the air and came down all over the front of Lady Murchison’s silver satin bodice.

Lady Murchison shrieked. The gentleman with the claret gasped and started babbling shocked apologies. Eleanor pushed through, gloved hands pressed to her cheeks. “Oh, dear. You poor, poor thing.”

Lady Murchison’s face went ugly green as she let go of Hart, who’d taken a large handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to her. The bodice was ruined, a bright red blotch spreading on it like blood from a wound.

Eleanor seized Lady Murchison’s hand as she lifted the handkerchief. “No, no, don’t brush it—it will set the stain. We will find a withdrawing room and send for your maid and some soda water.”

So speaking, she dragged Lady Murchison away, the tall gentleman still apologizing in anguish. Lady Murchison had no choice but to go with Eleanor. Everyone was staring, exclaiming, giving Lady Murchison murmurs of sympathy.

Everyone, that is, except Hart. He sent Eleanor a penetrating look even as he snapped his fingers for a footman to run for the soda. Hart’s look told Eleanor that he knew exactly what Eleanor had just done and exactly why she’d done it.

Chapter 6

“El.”

Eleanor stopped at Hart’s voice from the landing below her. It was an hour since the mishap with Lady Murchison, and Eleanor had gone upstairs to find a shawl for a lady who complained of cold. Dancing and drinking continued in the ballroom below, a Scottish reel filling the hall with its happy strains.

The gaslights were low, Hart a bulk of shadow against deeper darkness. He looked like a Highlander lurking to strike down his enemies—the only thing missing was his claymore. Eleanor had seen a painting of Hart’s great-great-grandfather, Malcolm Mackenzie, complete with sword and haughty sneer, and she decided that Hart resembled him greatly. Malcolm had been a madman, legends went, a ruthless fighter none could defeat, the only of five Mackenzie brothers to survive Culloden field. If Old Malcolm had possessed even an ounce of the same determined focus as Hart, then Malcolm had been dangerous indeed.

Eleanor pasted on a smile and went down the stairs to him, arms filled with the shawl. “What are you doing up here, Hart? The ball isn’t over, yet.”

Hart stepped in her way as she tried to flow past him. “You are the very devil, Eleanor Ramsay.”

“For fetching a shawl for a chilly lady? I thought I was being kind.”

Hart gave her a look that held some of his old fire. “I had Wilfred write Lady Murchison a cheque for the dress.”

Of course, he would not have forgotten the little incident in the ballroom. “How thoughtful you are,” Eleanor said. “Wine does make a deplorable stain. Too bad, really—it was a lovely gown.”

Eleanor tried to duck around him again, but Hart caught her arm. “El.”

“What?”

She couldn’t read what was in his eyes, a stillness behind the gold. She thought he might harangue her about deliberately ruining Lady Murchison’s gown—the lady had conceded defeat when the soda wouldn’t wash out the stain, and had gone home. But Hart said nothing about that.

Instead he touched the emeralds dangling from her ear. “These were my mother’s.”

Hart’s voice went soft, his finger brushing Eleanor’s earlobe with equal softness. This is what Lady Murchison had longed for, Hart’s skilled touch, the way his voice could drop to gentleness, curling heat through the lucky lady’s body.

“Isabella insisted, I’m afraid,” Eleanor said quickly. “I wanted to refuse—they having belonged to your mother and all—but you know Isabella. She fixes on a thing, and she hears no argument. I would have asked you about it, but it was rather last minute, and you were already receiving guests. I can remove them if you like.”

“No.” Hart’s fingers closed on the earring, but gently, not pulling. “Isabella was right. They look well on you.”

“Even so, it was rather audacious of her.”

“My mother would have wanted you to wear them.” His voice went softer still. “She would have liked you, I think.”

“I did meet her, once,” Eleanor said. “I was only a child—eight years old, not long after my own mother passed—but we did get on rather well. She said she wished she had a daughter.”

Eleanor remembered the duchess’s sweet perfume, the way she’d pulled Eleanor into an impulsive embrace and hadn’t wanted to let her go. Hart’s mother, Elspeth, had been a beautiful woman, but with haunted eyes.

Hart looked a little like her, although Ian and Mac resembled her most. Hart and Cam had the look of their father, a big brute of a man who hadn’t liked Eleanor, but that had been fine with her.

Hart released the earring and raised Eleanor’s hand to his lips. He kissed the backs of her fingers, the heat of his mouth searing through the thin fabric of her gloves.

Eleanor stood very still, clutching the slippery folds of the shawl, heart hammering. Hart closed his eyes as he kissed her glove again, as though trying to absorb her warmth through his lips.

This afternoon, Hart had seized her in a forceful embrace, had pinned her wrists behind her in an impossible grip. He’d bitten down on her lip, but he hadn’t been teasing or playful. He’d had raw need in his eyes.

And Eleanor hadn’t been afraid. She’d known that Hart wouldn’t hurt her. Break her heart, yes; hurt her, no.

Tonight he was everything that was gentle. Hart touched her lip in the place he’d bruised it. Eleanor had covered the tiny bruise with a subtle amount of lip paint, but Hart knew exactly where he’d marked her.

“Did I hurt you?” he whispered, brows drawing together.

Eleanor couldn’t stop her tongue darting out to touch her lip. “No.”

“Don’t ever let me hurt you,” he said. “If I do anything you don’t like, you say, Stop, Hart, and I will. I promise you that.”

She shook her head. “You’ve never done anything I didn’t like.” She blushed as she said it.

Hart touched her upper lip. “I’m a wicked man. You know that. You know all my secrets.”

“Not really. I know that you like… games. I’ve come to understand that. Like the photographs. Though exactly what sort of games, I have always been curious to know.”

If she thought he’d tell her, here in the stairwell, she was disappointed.

“Not games,” he said. “Not with you. What I want with you…” His eyes glittered. “I want things I shouldn’t want.”

He cupped her cheek. She saw the pulse throb in his throat, his face suffuse with color.

Hart was holding himself back. Whatever thoughts were in his mind, whatever he wanted that he couldn’t say, he was stopping himself. The shaking of his fingers, the rigidity of his body, the way his eyes darkened in the shadows told her that.

He bent closer. Eleanor smelled his shaving soap, the whiskey he’d drunk, and faintly behind that, Lady Murchison’s rather dreadful perfume.

Closer still. Hart’s eyes closed as he touched his lips to the place he’d bitten her.

Eleanor’s chest hurt, and she stood still, astonished that she ached this much. Hart’s lips caressed, thumb at the corner of her mouth.

Eleanor raised herself up to him, tasting the bite of his tongue as it swept into her mouth. Gently, gently, Hart still holding back. His lips were smooth, dry where his mouth was wet. The wild taste of him was still familiar. The years fell away, and they fit.

Hart’s fingers were strong, hot points, his mouth even stronger. Eleanor melted against him, her body too warm, hungry for him.

Say, Stop, Hart, and I will. He meant she should say it if he locked her in place as he’d done this afternoon, rendering her helpless against him.

She was helpless now, and she had no intention of telling him to stop.

The shawl slid from Eleanor’s nerveless grip and pooled at their feet. Hart moved closer, his thighs pressing her skirt, his arm firm around her waist. Eleanor felt the hardness of him through layers of fabric, his wanting obvious. Her thoughts flashed back to the photograph of him laughing in nothing but his kilt, then his smile when he’d let the kilt drop.

He’d been beautiful. She wanted him to bare his body for her again—for her, and for no one else.

Eleanor knew exactly why Lady Murchison had let her hand wander to his backside. Eleanor slid her fingers there now, brushing past the formal frock coat and finding the finely spun wool of the plaid. Hart must be wearing something under it, but if so, it was something rather thin. Eleanor cupped the firmness of his buttocks, agreeable warmth shooting through her as she felt strong muscle beneath the wool.

Hart raised his head. His gentle look fled, and the sinful smile of the young Hart Mackenzie spread across his face.

“Devil,” he said.

“You are still rather attractive, Hart.”

“And you still have fire in you.” Hart brushed a fingertip over her lashes. “I see it.”

“On the contrary. Things have been rather chilly in Aberdeen.”

“And you came to London to warm yourself? Wicked lass.”

Eleanor squeezed his buttocks again, unable to help herself. “Why do you think I came to London?”