To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (8 page)

F
rom her spot over the by the windows in her aunt’s parlor, Eleanor fiddled with her spectacles. According to Aunt Dorothea, Marcus hadn’t come to her small dinner gathering in five years. Pain twisted in Eleanor’s belly. By that small detail and the fury in his eyes just yesterday afternoon, she gathered he’d not forgiven her flight. In his mind, she was likely the traitorous, capricious creature who’d engaged in a mere flirtation and then tired of him. Then, isn’t that what she’d hoped he’d believed of her? For neither of the alternatives she’d run through in her terrorized mind would have ever been good. Had Marcus discovered the truth of that night, the young gentleman she’d fallen in love with would have either risked his life on a field of honor, or worse, shunned her for the shame that had befallen her. Both prospects had shattered her inside.

It was best he did not come tonight. Or any night. Seeing him earlier today had only roused the dreams she’d once carried in her heart—of him, them. Happiness. Love—

“You’re fidgeting, gel.”

Startled to the moment, Eleanor quickly donned her glasses and followed her aunt’s pointed gaze downward searching for Marcus. Unwittingly, she fisted and un-fisted the fabric of her skirts, hopelessly wrinkling the drab, brown muslin. With alacrity, she let them go. “I’m sorry,” she responded. Following that horrific night almost eight years ago, she’d taken to the odd habit of scrabbling at her skirts.

“Don’t apologize to me, girl,” her aunt said with a snort. “Apologize to your dress.”

“Mama always wrinkles her gowns,” Marcia piped in from her spot at the windowseat.

“Humph. Well, you certainly can’t do any more damage to
those
skirts.” That was saying a good deal with her aunt in her out-of-mode wide satin gown, taking exception with Eleanor’s attire.

“I like these skirts,” she said, defensively.

“Girl, no person likes brown muslin.” Her aunt spoke in a tone that considered the matter settled.

In this, too, her aunt was correct. Through the years, Eleanor had striven to avoid any kind of attention. People tended to see those in extravagant garments of bright satin fabrics and not ladies who sported severe hairstyles, and perched wire-rimmed frames on their noses. No notice was good notice, and only protected one from probing stares and in-depth inquiries.

“You need new gowns, Eleanor.” The stomp-stomp-stomp of the cane upon the floor made that statement fact.

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her aunt eyed her through suspicious, narrow slits. When Eleanor next spoke, she did so in steadier tones. “That is, thank you, but I’ve no need. I’m here as your companion.” And one of the only reasons Eleanor had confronted the demons of her past by returning to London was to provide companionship to the widowed, childless woman. “There is no need for anything more than my current wardrobe.”

Marcia tugged at her hand, forcing Eleanor’s attention downward. “But, Mama, you would look ever so lovely in new dresses.” She looked to Aunt Dorothea. “Wouldn’t she, Aunt?”

“She certainly will not look any worse than she does now.”

A laugh escaped Eleanor, earning a scowl from the duchess.

“I was not making a jest, gel.”

“My apologies,” Eleanor said with forced solemnity.

“It is settled. We shall take you to the modiste.” Then she flicked her gaze over Marcia. “And we’ll have a dress made for Marcia.”

An excited squeal pealed in the room as Marcia hopped up from her seat and jumped up and down. “Oh, truly? Truly? Truly? That will be most splendid.”

“There is no need for dresses,” Eleanor put in. She’d not accept any more of her aunt’s charity than she’d been forced to. “For either of us.”

Her daughter’s exuberance died a swift death. Any other child would have stomped her feet and begged in protest. Through the years, however, Marcia had demonstrated a stoic maturity better suited to a child of far older years. “Very well,” she said on a dejected sigh and regret filled Eleanor at never having been able to provide the world she wished for her daughter.

“See what you’ve gone and done, gel?” Her aunt glowered. “You’ve made the girl sad.”

“Perhaps one or two new dresses,” Eleanor conceded and her daughter’s head shot up.

Brightness illuminated her brown eyes and she hurled her arms around Eleanor’s waist, squeezing hard. “Oh, thank you.” Then she suddenly released her mother and sprinted over to Aunt Dorothea.

“Marcia,” Eleanor called out, anticipating the girl’s intentions too late.

Marcia launched herself into Aunt Dorothea’s arms and knocked the old woman back in her seat. “Oh, thank you ever so much, Aunt.”

Eleanor rushed over but the duchess frowned over the top of Marcia’s head. “Do you think I’m made of sugar? A hug from a small girl isn’t going to hurt me, I assure you.”

She rocked to a stop and took in the affectionate tableau as the childless, notoriously gruff Duchess of Devonshire patted Marcia on her back. For the first time since the missive had arrived more than a month ago, it occurred to Eleanor, with the offer of companionship on behalf of Aunt Dorothea, that this relationship was not truly one-sided. Perhaps her eccentric aunt needed them just as much as they needed her.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Eleanor’s heart skittered a beat as the younger butler appeared and announced the guests. “The Viscount Wessex, the Viscountess Wessex, and Miss Lizzie Gray.”

Marcus stepped into the room, resplendent in a black evening coat, black breeches, and his immaculate, snow white cravat. He moved with the confidence and grace of a man who may as well have owned the very room he now entered.

A loud humming filled Eleanor’s ears and she welcomed the distraction presented by Aunt Dorothea, who stood and engaged in the necessary trivialities. “You came,” Eleanor blurted.

All conversation ceased, leaving nothing more than the echo of her humiliating words and the attention of five sets of eyes.

Marcia broke the stilted silence…“Mama, your skirts.”… in the most awkward way.

Eleanor released the fabric of her dress and let her arms fall back to her side, and then remembering herself, dropped a belated curtsy. “My lady,” she offered lamely to the Viscountess Wessex.

The years had been kind to the smiling, always benevolent viscountess. “Eleanor,” she greeted. “It is so very lovely to see you,” and spoken in those warm tones, Eleanor believed the woman. Eleanor shifted her attention to the curious young lady with thick, brown ringlets—Marcus’ sister, older, taller, more grown-up than she remembered. Weren’t they all, then?

Her aunt jammed the tip of her cane into the hardwood floor. “There is a new person joining us.” She motioned to Marcia and in that innocuous, if unconventional, introduction diverted attention away from Eleanor, for which she’d be forever grateful.

As the two women greeted Marcia, Eleanor stood to the side in silence. Most members of polite Society would be scandalized by the presence of a child at a formal dinner, but then her aunt had always drummed her own beat and danced to her entirely made up rhythm. Through the introductions, Eleanor’s skin pricked as Marcus studied her through thick, hooded blond lashes. As she’d never been a coward, she met his gaze.

He strolled over, with long, languid movements better suited to a tiger tracking its prey. With her heart scrambling into her throat, she retreated and then caught herself before taking any further steps. This was Marcus. As much as he might resent her, nay, hate her, he would never hurt her. She’d stake all she owned on that fact. She rooted herself to the floor and caught her hands upon the back of the pink sofa.

“I gather by your exclamation, Eleanor, you’re surprised to see me.” A lazy grin turned his lips upward. Gone was all the warmth and gentleness she’d once known in that smile. From his thickly veiled lids to his slight grin, he’d perfected the role of rogue with an ease of one who’d been born to the position.

As bold and teasing as he’d always been, of course Marcus would not let her earlier outburst rest. Eleanor wetted her lips. “I am, was,” she corrected, “
surprised
you’ve come.”

He propped his hip on the edge of the back of the sofa. “Did you think I would stay away because of you?” He studied her and the heated intensity of that stare burned her skin.

She met his unrepentant stare. “No.” The lie tumbled easily from her lips. His gaze fell downward and she followed his stare to her skirts. Eleanor immediately released the drab, brown fabric and yanked her head up. He shifted, angling his body in such a way that she was shielded from the small party conversing behind him. That subtle movement brought their bodies so close, she felt the tension dripping from his frame.

He dipped his head close. “Were you hoping I stayed away?” His brandy-scented breath fanned her lips, bringing her back to another night, another man.

Her stomach churned and she closed her eyes a moment, but the insidious memories had already crept in; the repulsive taste of spirits, the maniacal laugh, her own gasping cries. She stumbled back a step, and in her haste to get away, knocked against a small mahogany table. Her fingers shot out instinctively to capture the teetering porcelain shepherdess but Marcus easily caught the piece, righting it. He assessed her in that searching, bold way of his. Eleanor sought glimpses of the youth he’d been, but once again, found only this hard, powerful man instead. A man who smelled of brandy and studied her with coolly detached eyes.

Thankfully, a servant entered and announced dinner.

“Come along, boy,” Aunt Dorothea called out. “After years of avoiding my dinners, you owe me an escort.”

A smile played on Marcus’ lips. In that moment, he was that man and Eleanor was that girl, but then his gaze snagged upon Eleanor once more, and that gentle grin died. “Indeed, my lady,” he called out. “It has been too many years,” he said. If Eleanor were the wagering sort, she’d bet the meager coins left by her papa that those words were intended for her. He came to a stop beside the assembled guests and paused to sketch a bow for Marcia. “Miss Collins.”

Her daughter executed a perfect curtsy. “Marcus.”

He held his arm out for Aunt Dorothea and then offered his fingers to Marcia. “I daresay you require an escort as well, my lady.”

Marcia erupted into a fit of the giggles and then slipped her hand into Marcus’. The sight of them paired; her golden-curled daughter and the tall, equally blond Marcus dug with all the vicious ferocity of a rusty dagger being plunged into her stomach. Emotion raged in Eleanor’s breast, threatening to choke her with the force of it, as she stared transfixed at the little girl who, by rights, should have been his,
would
have been his, had life continued along the predictable path it had started.

Only…

Eleanor dropped her gaze to her daughter’s crown of golden curls. She stared after the party as they started for the door, leaving her with the chaos of her own thoughts. If there had been no horror, there would be no Marcia. There would have been another child, but not this little girl who’d claimed Eleanor’s soul from the moment she’d first held the crying, plump, red-cheeked babe in her arms.

Odd, Eleanor had been forced to sacrifice one happiness only to find an altogether different joy.

Marcus paused in the doorway and cast a lingering glance over his shoulder. Gone was the animosity she’d detected since their reunion, replaced now by a concern better suited to the man he’d been. She mustered a smile and started after them. The mask he’d donned fell back into place and he was once again the Viscount Wessex—stranger.

The two older matrons filled the dining table with the appropriate discourse; politely engaging Eleanor’s small daughter, allowing Marcus the luxury of his own musings. Since their meeting earlier that afternoon, Eleanor had owned every one of his thoughts.

He told himself not to stare and yet, to have searched for her and then ultimately given up on the dream of seeing her again, he could no sooner lob off his right hand than he could stop taking her in. Albeit, in furtive, sideways glances, while she shoved her fork about her untouched plate, the only indication of the lady’s unease.

How very different she was than the girl he remembered. Those luxuriant, golden curls were once again drawn tightly against her scalp in a severe coiffure better suited to a woman ten years her senior or a governess bent on respectability. No longer giggling and garrulous, she’d instead become quiet. Somber. Solemn.