Hart’s breath steamed in the chill of the night, but his house glowed with light and warmth. Music, voices, and laughter poured out the front door.

Hart strode into the house much more willingly than he’d walked out of it. He wanted to see Eleanor. Needed to see her. Needed her warm blue eyes and her wide smile, her effusive chatter like sudden rain on a dry, hot day. He wanted her beauty to cancel out the ugliness of Neely, wanted to return to the innocent pleasure of kissing her freckles, which had tasted honey sweet.

There she was, in the bottle green that for some reason brought out the blue of her eyes, the emerald earrings that had belonged to his mother dangling from her ears. A strange relief wafted over Hart when he looked at her, as though the ball, the meeting with Neely—all of it—was nothing, and only Eleanor was real.

She was chatting animatedly—nothing shy about Eleanor—to ladies and to gentlemen, gesturing with a furled fan she seemed to have acquired. Or perhaps it had dangled from her wrist the entire night; Hart couldn’t remember. The closed fan became a perfect horizontal as she moved her hand to make a point, then the fan came up to touch her lips.

Hart went rock hard. He stopped in the doorway to the ballroom, one hand on the door frame to keep himself from falling over.

He wanted Eleanor for all those dark pleasures he’d scorned Neely for not understanding. He wanted her surrendering to his hands, trusting him with everything she had, while he took the fan and touched her with it. He wanted to see her astonishment when she discovered how profound the pleasure of simple touching could be, the depth and breadth of it.

He wanted it now.

Hart pushed himself away from the door frame, giving cursory nods to those who tried to gain his attention, and made his way to Eleanor.

Chapter 7

Eleanor saw him coming out of the corner of her eye. Hart looked like an enraged bull, or at least an enraged Highlander in a kilt. His short hair was rumpled, the light in his eyes was harsh, and those who attempted to speak to him melted out of his way.

Things with this Mr. Neely must not have gone well.

Hart kept barreling toward her, as though he meant to sweep her over his shoulder, as he had at the High Holborn house, and carry her off. The strength of him when he’d done that had thrilled her at the same time it had infuriated her.

Hart stopped in front of her, doing nothing so scandalous, but the tension in his body spilled to hers. He fixed Eleanor with his eagle stare and stuck out one large, gloved hand. “Dance with me, El.”

The command jerked out of him, and Eleanor knew he did not really want to dance. But they were at a ball full of people, in a place where Hart could not voice what he truly wanted.

Eleanor glanced at his offered hand. “Hart Mackenzie never dances at balls. Known for it, you are.”

“I’m prepared to give everyone a shock.”

Eleanor wasn’t certain what she saw in his eyes—rage, need, and again that bleak emptiness. Something was hurting him. She had the feeling that if she refused this simple request, the blow would erase every bit of new understanding they’d achieved.

“Very well,” she said, placing her hand in his. “Let us shock the world.”

Hart’s smile blazed out, the dangerous man back. “Your words.” He nearly crushed Eleanor’s hand as he pulled her onto the ballroom floor. “Let us waltz, Lady El.”

“It’s a Scottish reel,” she said. The fiddles and drums were around playing a raucous beat.

“Not for long.”

Mac and Isabella were leading the reel, ladies and gentlemen romping around and around the circles with them. Hart walked with Eleanor straight to the orchestra leader and snapped his fingers at the man. The fiddles stuttered to a halt as Hart spoke to the conductor in a low voice, then the man nodded and raised his baton again. The opening strains of a Strauss waltz filled the room, and the dancers looked about in confusion.

Hart guided Eleanor to the middle of the room with his hand on the small of her back. The orchestra gained strength, and the bewildered ladies and gentlemen started forming couples.

Hart stepped into the waltz with the downbeat of the main theme, pulling Eleanor effortlessly with him. They swirled past Mac and Isabella, who remained where they’d been for the reel.

“What the blazes are you up to, Hart?” Mac asked him.

“Dance with your wife,” Hart returned.

“Delighted to.” Mac, grinning, clasped Isabella in his arms and whirled her away.

“You’re getting yourself talked about,” Eleanor said as Hart swung her to the center of the ballroom.

“I need to be talked about. Stop looking at me as though you’re afraid I’ll tread all over your feet. Do you think I never dance because I’ve forgotten how?”

“I believe you do whatever you please for your own reasons, Hart Mackenzie.”

No, Hart hadn’t forgotten how to dance. The floor was crowded, yet Hart whirled her through the other dancers without danger, propelling her with strength. His hand was strong on her waist, the other firmly holding her gloved hand. His muscular shoulder moved under Eleanor’s touch, and the contact electrified her.

Hart took her across the ballroom floor, spinning her and spinning her. The vast and opulent room whirled past, and she saw the blur of his guests staring in astonishment.

Hart Mackenzie never danced, and now he danced with Lady Eleanor Ramsay, the very-much-on-the-shelf spinster who’d turned him down years before. And how he danced. Not with polite boredom, but with energy and fervor.