Eleanor sensed something new in him, however, a focus that hadn’t existed before. She knew that Hart’s ambition was as honed as ever—she read the newspapers—but the hope and humor that had once lightened his eyes was gone. This was a man who had experienced loss, first of his wife and only child, then of his longtime mistress. He seemed to exist on ambition alone, now.
“I heard about Mrs. Palmer,” Eleanor said softly. “Hart, I am so very sorry.”
His eyes flickered in surprise, and in that moment, Eleanor looked at the true Hart Mackenzie, the man who’d sacrificed so much that his family would not suffer. It had been Hart who’d forced the old duke to make generous trusts for his three younger brothers, so that they could live independently. Their father would have been happy to let Ian, Mac, and Cam starve to keep all the money in the dukedom.
How Hart had persuaded his father to do this, Eleanor never did discover. Eleanor was one of the few who even knew he’d done it. And now Hart, a man with so much power, so much wealth, and so much might, grieved for a simple courtesan.
His look told her that he wasn’t certain of her motives, but he nodded. “Thank you.”
Eleanor gave his hand a squeeze, her heart fluttering at the strength she felt through his gloves.
Hart smiled suddenly, a smile that held the challenge of a predator about to make a kill. A lion might look like that right before he leapt upon a gazelle that couldn’t run away quite fast enough.
Eleanor tried to snatch her hand from his, but Hart closed his fingers on hers in an unshakable grip. The signal man on the platform blew a whistle, indicating that the train was about to leave. Hart transferred his grip to Eleanor’s elbow and half shoved her up into the compartment, following her inside.
“This is your train?” Eleanor asked nervously. Oh, mother mine, he can’t mean to ride with me all the way to Aberdeen!
“No.” Hart stood in the open door frame until she fell into the seat, the package with the precious seedcake landing beside her.
The engine’s whistle shrilled, and a waft of black smoke rolled back along the train. The car jerked.
“We’re leaving,” Eleanor said, frantic.
“I see that.” Hart reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded note, and thrust it into her hand.
Not a note, a banknote, for one hundred pounds sterling. Eleanor opened her hand and the money fluttered to the floor.
“Hart, no.”
Hart retrieved the note and tucked it under the string that bound the seedcake. “For your father, for research on his next book.”
Without bothering to hurry, he took out a small gold case, extracted a pristine card, and held it out to her. When Eleanor wouldn’t reach for it, Hart tucked it into the décolletage of her high-collared dress.
The heat of his fingers tore through her, and Eleanor realized at that moment that she would burn for this man for the rest of her life.
“If you need to see me for any reason, give that card to my majordomo,” Hart was saying. “He’ll know what to do.”
Eleanor fought herself for control. “How very, very, very kind of you, Your Grace.”
The cool duke’s façade cracked and fled. “Eleanor.” Hart cupped her face in gloved hands, and Eleanor’s heart sped faster than this train would ever go. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”
She couldn’t breathe. His mouth was so close to hers, his breath warm on her skin. He’d kiss her, and Eleanor would crumple, and he’d know the truth.
Hart touched the corner of her mouth, the movement so gentle she wanted to die.
The train jerked. Hart gave Eleanor a smile, stepped away from her, and dropped to the platform as the train started to glide forward.
He slammed the compartment door and gave Eleanor a lazy salute through the window as the train pulled out. Eleanor couldn’t look away from him. Hart kept his gaze locked on Eleanor’s until the train moved out of the station, and he was finally lost to sight.
One week later, Cameron Mackenzie lifted the shade of the train carriage window then let it fall again. He’d seen no woman hurrying across the dark platform, no form of Ainsley rushing for the last train from Doncaster.
“Bloody perfect ending to a damn rotten day.”
Jasmine had come in sixth in her race, and Lord Pierson had been furious. He’d accused Cameron of deliberately throwing the race and had made a huge scene, threatening to get Cameron barred from the Jockey Club. An empty threat, because Cam had a better reputation in the club than Pierson.
Even so, one of Cam’s trainers had to stop Cameron from punching Pierson in the jaw. Cameron had made the offer again, through clenched teeth, to simply buy Jasmine, but Pierson had refused. He’d had his grooms load Jasmine to take her away, and walked off.
Jasmine had looked back at Cameron like a child wondering why it couldn’t stay where it wanted to. Cameron’s heart had burned—Damn it, I’ve fallen in love with a horse.
Daniel, too, had been distraught, but he’d meekly agreed to remain behind with Angelo while Cameron wrapped up racing business in London, knowing that Cameron was still angry about Daniel’s Glasgow adventure.
Daniel had decided, when his father had charged off to Balmoral, to go down to Glasgow for reasons Daniel hadn’t yet made clear. While there, a gang of street youths had tried to rob him. Daniel had fought five of them manfully, but when the police came to arrest them, Daniel allowed himself to be arrested too instead of letting on that he’d been the victim. Apparently he’d gained the street youths’ admiration, and they’d cheerfully shared a cigar and smuggled whiskey in the cells, until Cameron had arrived to wrest Daniel away.
Instead of being remorseful that he had pulled Cameron from his argument with Ainsley, Daniel had been angry that Cameron hadn’t simply put Ainsley over his shoulder and run off with her.
Cameron was beginning to agree with Daniel, because Ainsley wasn’t coming. The queen was notorious for keeping her clutches into ladies she liked, not wanting them to leave her for any reason. The bloody woman had about seven hundred children and grandchildren, but she kept her favorite ladies pasted to her side, angry when they wanted to leave her to marry or to return to husbands and families. They all slowly froze to death together in the monstrosity that was Balmoral, the queen’s recently built “castle” that was about as Scottish as strudel.
The train engine huffed, the whistle blew, doors slammed up and down the train. Cameron took one more look at the platform, then let the shade fall again. His first-class carriage was comfortable, so he’d sleep well on the overnight journey. Alone.