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.”
