“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 bu**ocks, 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 bu**ocks again, unable to help herself. “Why do you think I came to London?”
Uncertainty sparkled in his eyes, and his brows came down. Eleanor remembered the heady power she’d felt when turning his teasing back on him. Hart wasn’t used to that—he wanted to be master of all situations. When he didn’t know what Eleanor was thinking, it made him wild.
“Because of the photographs, you said. And you told me you wanted a job.”
“I could have taken a typing post in Aberdeen. I didn’t have to come all the way to London for it.”
Hart touched his forehead to hers. “Don’t do this to me, El. Don’t tempt me with what I can’t have.”
“I have no intention of tempting you. But you wonder why, don’t you? I see it every time you look at me.”
Hart’s hand came around her jaw again. “You disregard your danger. I’m a dangerous man. When I know what I want, I take it.”
“You didn’t want Lady Murchison?” Eleanor let her eyes go wide.
“She’s a harpy. The wine wasn’t necessary.”
“I disliked watching her touch you.”
Hart squeezed Eleanor’s mouth the slightest bit, making a pucker, which he kissed. “I like that you disliked that. Saving me for you to touch?”
Eleanor pressed his backside again. “It seems that you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. I never minded.” Another soft kiss. “You have clever fingers, El. I remember.”
Eleanor wanted to collapse, like the shawl around her feet. Hart Mackenzie was expert at teasing—but what they’d shared in the past made this real. If she asked him, would he accompany her to her room on the upper floor, would he spend the rest of the night in her bed, while they remembered how they’d enjoyed learning each other’s bodies?
Before she could speak, Hart lifted her from her feet and sat her on the landing’s railing. Eleanor gasped, feeling empty air behind her back, but Hart’s strong arms held her safely. He pressed aside her skirts as he stepped between her legs, the shawl forgotten behind him on the floor.
“You make me come alive,” Hart said.
Eleanor’s voice shook. “Is that so bad a thing?”
“Yes.” His jaw tightened. “I succeed because I focus. I fix on one thing and do anything to obtain that thing. Come hell or high water. You…” He held her with one arm while he touched a finger to her lips. “You make me break that focus. You did it before, and you’re doing it now. I should send you back down to the ballroom and out of my sight, but right now, all I want to do is count your freckles. And kiss them. And lick them…”
Hart brushed a kiss to her cheekbone, and another, and another. He was doing it, kissing every one of her freckles. Eleanor leaned back in his arms a little, knowing he wouldn’t let her fall.
She felt hot, wild as he always had made her. Eleanor the prim and proper spinster, helper to her widowed father, paragon of Glenarden, knew she’d let Hart do to her anything he wanted, and worry about consequences when it was time for consequences.