To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (15 page)

“You don’t care about proper or improper any more than I do.” He spoke with an unerring accuracy in that supposition. “What hold do you have over me, Eleanor?”

The same hold he had over her. Even with the threat of scandal steps away, her body thrilled at his nearness…and then his words registered. Her heart thumped a funny little rhythm. “You do not strike me as a man any woman has control over.”

“They do not.” A half-grin quirked his lips up. “You, however, do, Eleanor.”

Despite his recklessly bold actions and suggestive words, she leaned closer to him.

He lowered his brow to hers. “I thought you’d not have a London Season.” There was no recrimination there; his words more curious than anything.

She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I am not.” Eleanor paused. For what would one call the list of tasks charged her by her late uncle? He’d not force her to endure an entire Season, but there were parts of the Season she was to participate in.

“And you detest those events now as much as you did, then.” Marcus passed a searching gaze over her face.

“And you love those events now as much as you did, then,” she said with a sad smile.

Just one other way in which they’d been different. The only pleasure she’d found in the two months of tedious affairs was secreting off with Marcus, dancing with scandal, all to avoid those same events.

He brushed his knuckle down her cheek and she leaned in to his touch, craving that warmth and gentleness. When was the last time she’d been held so tenderly? Not for years. For this touch was different than the one shared between a mother and child, or father and daughter. This was the caress bestowed by a man who hungered for her, even still with all the years of betrayal and hurt between them. And there was something so very heady in being touched and looked at where shame and humiliation didn’t exist.

Their gazes locked. Teeming from the depths of his pale blue eyes was a passion that threatened to burn her. “Why do we continue to deny each other the only true emotion that ever existed between us?”

…Do not deny it, slut. You know you want this…

Eleanor shoved Marcus with such force that his arms fell to his sides. Mouth dry with fear, she rushed by him. In her bid to escape, she knocked against the table at her back, upending the whispery soft contents on display. Satins and silk swatches tumbled to the floor. Heart racing wildly, she skittered a frantic gaze about the shop, searching for escape. Her palms went damp within her gloves and she balled them hard at her sides while her raggedly indrawn breaths flooded her ears, muting all sound.

The absolute silence and still of the shop echoed like gunfire. The ladies of the shop gaped and gawked with rabid curiosity. Satin and Devlin were the first to break the quiet. Their noisy barks restored the shop to motion. Unable to meet the curious looks trained on her, Eleanor glanced away. Her gaze collided with Marcus. He stood frozen, eying her with consternation. Unable to meet his piercing stare, Eleanor blinked madly and dropped to a knee. She proceeded to gather the fabrics.

“I-I have it,” Eleanor whispered to the French shopkeeper who rushed forward. The same woman ignored her and proceeded to gather the bolts until Marcus waved her off. The young woman rose, dipped a curtsy, and left. Then, wasn’t that the way of their world? Gentlemen could command the world with a single look, while women remained at the bend and mercy of those same men.

With her aunt still occupied by Lizzie and her friend, Eleanor remained on the floor, wanting the wooden slats to open up and draw her in their folds. Tears popped behind her lids and she blinked them back. Until the day she drew forth her last breath, the monster who’d stolen that great gift, to be cherished and treasured, would haunt her. He was the demon of her past, who haunted her present, and would hold on to her future.

She jumped as Marcus fell to a knee beside her—silent and assessing. “Th-thank you,” she whispered. Eleanor stole a peek at him and found his gaze on her quaking fingers, which shook with such force she dropped the items she’d already gathered.

His frown deepened. “Here,” he said on a gruff whisper.

“I do not need your help,” she bit out from the side of her mouth. She wanted him gone; from this shop, from her life. Needed him gone so she needn’t have to face daily reminders of all she’d lost and all she would never have.

Marcus settled his hand over hers and she stiffened, braced for the taunting ice underscoring his practiced words of seduction. “Let me,” he comforted. Wordlessly, she sank back on her haunches and allowed him to place the bolts upon the table. Spirited and bold years past, she’d proudly glided ungracefully through the steps of quadrilles and country reels, uncaring of Society’s disapproving stare. How low fate had brought her that she should wish to crawl underneath the modiste’s table like a beaten animal. God, how she despised what she’d become.

Marcus stood and held a hand out to assist her to her feet. Eleanor eyed his fingers a long moment and then glanced once more down at the floor. “Take my fingers,” he urged softly.

She hesitated, still hopelessly transfixed by his extended gloved hand and saw equally powerful, white-gloved fingers that belonged to another. Her body broke into a cold sweat.
Not here. Not now
. Except, the mundane shop sounds dissolved, coming as though down a long, empty corridor and the floodgates opened. His punishing palm covered her mouth, cutting off all airflow, stifling her pleas. She was suffocating, dying—

“What is it, Eleanor?”

The quiet concern in Marcus’ tone sucked her back from memories that would never die.

Except, Marcus’ was different. She blinked slowly. Where another man’s had brought her pain and suffering, Marcus had only shown her gentleness and kindness. Even now, hating her as he did, he still held his palm extended to her. Emotion wadded her throat and she tried to swallow past it. “Eleanor,” he urged with such tenderness, her heart wrenched. Willing her tumultuous thoughts into order, Eleanor placed her fingers in his, allowing him to help her up.

Reluctantly, she drew her fingers back and clasped them before her. She made to return to her aunt, but then froze. Her gaze lingered on Lady Marianne Hamilton; a perfect future viscountess if ever there was one. The young woman took in their exchange with icy fury.

A chill ran along Eleanor’s spine at the barely contained loathing in Lady Marianne’s eyes. Unable to hold that venomous stare, Eleanor returned her attention to Marcus. “I did not lie to you,” she said quietly. “I am not here husband hunting, Marcus. I am here because I have no other choice. I am here even as I hate London with every fiber of my being.” She tugged at the fabric of her skirts and when she caught his attention on that distracted little movement, abruptly stopped.

With that, she hurried back to her aunt’s side, her skin burned with the intensity of Marcus’ gaze upon her person. Her daughter in her childish naiveté hadn’t understood that friendships could not survive all.

Finished conversing, the two ladies shuffled off to inspect another bolt of fabric and the duchess looked up. “Well?” She stared at a point beyond Eleanor’s shoulder. “What is it to be, my dear boy,” her aunt called. “Never tell me I cannot expect an answer from you. The gel needs a gown and isn’t any help on the fabric.”

Eleanor curled her hands into such tight balls her nails dug painfully into the fabric of her kidskin gloves.
Why is he still here?
Perhaps he was right and their paths, by sheer nature of their history, familial connections, and a cruel fate, were inextricably intertwined.

“Pink.” His deep, mellifluous baritone washed over her. “The lady requires a pink ball gown.”
The softest pink blush stains your cheeks and I know it is a desire for me, and it is a secret that is only ours, sweet Eleanor…

“Pink it is,” the duchess said with a pleased nod.

I
n the end, she wore pink. Despite the bolder, deeper hues favored by, widows, the soft pink satin fabric clung to Eleanor’s skin. As she stared back at her reflection in the bevel mirror, the woman with tired eyes and a tense mouth, she saw the mockery of the pale pink shade better reserved for an innocent debutante. The girl she’d been would have donned this magnificent creation and thrilled at presenting herself to Marcus in this very gown. There was no longer anything magnificent about her.

What was she doing? Even for ten thousand pounds, this move was folly. The muscles of her throat worked painfully as she confronted the truth. Her uncle, even from the grave, exerted his ducal influence. He would have her present herself before London Society. Unknowing the dark secret of her past, he’d have her confront both the dreams and demons she’d left behind, both of which would always live within her. Two very different men had stolen different pieces of her soul and she could never, would never, reclaim those pieces.

Panic twisted at her insides. She could not do this. The man who’d stolen her virtue in the cruelest, most vicious way possible lurked like a specter; with Eleanor but one ball or soiree away from confronting the ugliest part of her existence.

A slight tugging at her skirts brought Eleanor’s attention down to her gape-mouthed daughter. “You are a princess.” The awestruck whisper drew Eleanor back from the edge of madness.

A tattered and torn princess. “How can I be a princess when you are one? There cannot be
two
princesses.” She tickled her daughter at the sensitive spot behind her nape until snorting giggles escaped her small, bow-shaped lips.

“S-stop.”

Eleanor relented.

“Then I shall be a princess and you shall be a queen.” Her daughter had inherited Eleanor’s romantic spirit; that same spirit that had drawn her into hidden alcoves and fragrant gardens and ultimately led to her ruin. Fear curled her belly. For what had Eleanor’s whimsy brought her, except for a broken heart and ruined name? Marcia pulled at her hand. “And tonight you must find a king and I shall have a new papa.”

Agony slashed across her heart. In all her thoughts of Marcia’s happiness, not once had she thought her daughter had a need or desire for a man to call Papa. There had been Eleanor’s father, who’d treated the child with the same tenderness and love he’d shown her, his only child, through the years. Eleanor sank to her knee in a fluttery dance of satin skirts. “Oh, love,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. “We don’t really need a new papa though, do we sweet?” She brushed a loose, blonde curl back behind her daughter’s ear. “You have a mama.”

Little brow furrowed, Marcia scuffed the tip of her slipper upon the floor “Of course we don’t
need
a new papa.” A smile lit her face. “But it would, of course, be nice to have another. It is always merrier with three.”

Ah, her father’s words echoed across time, spilled from her own daughter’s lips. How many times had he said that precise phrase to Eleanor? “It is also just perfect with two, though, isn’t it?” She ruffled the crown of curls until Marcia drew back with annoyance.

“Well, that isn’t what Grandfather said? He said three.”

Eleanor sank back on her haunches. “Yes, he did, didn’t he?” she murmured to herself. Except that had been years ago, when he, a robust, powerful man of forty-nine years had viewed himself as invincible and his life unending. Foolishly, Eleanor had allowed herself to believe and hope in that very same thing. For what could her life be without the steadfast support of a father who by Society’s dictates should have cast her and Marcia out, and had, instead, given up all and redefined their lives?

“What about Marcus?”

She blinked. “Who?”

“Marcus.” Marcia pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Your
friend
. I am sure he would be a splendid papa.”

So this vicious, agonizing wrenching was what it was to have an already fractured heart broken all over again. Pain weighed on her chest, making it difficult to draw forth breath. “Oh, sweet, you do not even know the viscount.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Eleanor recognized the lie in them. Marcus, with his steadfast devotion to his sister and the sweet tenderness reserved for those worthy of his affections, those fortunate ones were treated like the princesses and queens Marcia spoke of.

Marcia wrinkled her mouth. “Well, I still believe he would make a wonderful papa.”

For some other child he would, but it would never be her daughter. A vise tightened about her heart, wrenching every pained regret and dream she’d had from the organ. “I am sure he will make someone a wonderful papa, but he is just a friend,” she added one more lie to the mountain of falsities she’d constructed her life upon. She tucked another curl behind her daughter’s ear. Yes, he would be a splendid papa for some fortunate little girl or boy, but it would not be Marcia. Viscounts did not marry ruined women who’d adopted a false name and given birth to a bastard daughter. “Now, off you go,” she said climbing to her feet. “You should be abed and Aunt Dorothea is likely thumping her cane in annoyance at my delay.”

“But surely I can watch Aunt Dorothea’s guests as they arrive.” Marcia clasped her hands at her heart. “I so wish to see the guests. No one will notice me, Mama. You know I am the very best hider—”

“Woah,” Eleanor said on a laugh. She placed her lips close to Marcia’s ears. “Just for a bit and where no one can see you.”

The little girl clapped excitedly. “I cannot wait to have a Season.” She skipped to the door and then froze at the entrance. “Someday, I will find a prince, Mama.” With her child’s faith, she gave a jaunty wave and after a slight struggle with the door handle, wrested it open, and fled.

Eleanor stared at the open door a long moment, and then drawing in a steadying breath, started for the door. Her fingers twitched with the urge to wrestle the fabric of her skirts. With each soft tread of her slippered feet down the corridor, through the halls of her aunt’s extravagant home, panic built slowly and steadily in her breast. For the terror in reentering Society, there was something calming, something reassuring, in being in the safety of Aunt Dorothea’s townhouse. With her knowledge of every secret corridor, and
carte blanch
of the entire home, she could escape from the noise and crush of guests present.

And she would not be entirely alone through the horrid ordeal. Marcus and his family would be there. Even as his earlier reaction to her in Madame Claremont’s shop had hinted at a man not in the least interested in anything other than seduction. Yes, experienced women like Eleanor were suitable for a man’s bed and not much more than that. Gentlemen like Marcus wed proper young ladies.

Lady Marianne Hamilton flitted to her mind. By the furious glare she’d favored Eleanor with at the modiste’s, the lady had intentions for Marcus.

A little sob tore from her throat but she didn’t break her stride. As much as she longed to shut herself away and hide from the past and the possibility of seeing
him
, she’d not give him any more control than she’d allowed him these years. Instead, she took ownership of her fear, drawing forth his vile visage which had too much control of her these years; her unknown attacker, with his brandy-scented breath and his cruel fingers and that mocking laugh.

Fear froze her mid-step and she pressed her palms against the wall and drew in a calming breath. Then another. And another. The repeated rhythm her father had coaxed her through the years when the nightmares had come with ferocity and a staggering frequency. When her breathing settled into a calming, even cadence, she carefully stepped away from the wall. Eleanor smoothed her palms over her skirts, composing herself, and made her way to the foyer. She paused at the top of the stairs, casting one last, longing glance at the path she’d just marched, longing for the innocence of Marcia who was free to avoid all these affairs.

Her aunt paced back and forth, her two dogs nipped wildly at her skirts. One of the pugs looked up to where Eleanor stood frozen and barked once. The duchess spun about. “At last.” She passed a glance over Eleanor’s person and then gave an approving nod. “I’ve been waiting. It’s not done to be late to one’s own ball.”

The gentle reproach set Eleanor into motion. “Forgive me,” she offered, hurrying down the stairs. As she reached the bottom, Satin abandoned his mistress and rushed to Eleanor. He jumped at her skirts. Oddly comforted by his presence, she stroked the silky, soft spot between his eyes and he nudged her hand in approval.

“Well, come along, gel,” her aunt commanded.

Knowing how that famed queen of France had felt on the final march up the steps of the guillotine, Eleanor trailed behind her aunt, silent as they made their way to the ballroom.

“The boy was right,” her aunt said from the corner of her mouth.

Marcus. He’d been referred to as a boy since he’d been a lean, charming youth with a ready smile and even years later, with a broadly powerful frame and hardened, cynical grin, he was still “the boy” to Aunt Dorothea.

“About your pink skirts. I fancied you’d look a deal better in the orange with a turban, of course.”

For the first time since she’d woken that morning with the terror of the evening staring back at her, Eleanor felt the faintest stirrings of amusement. “Of course,” she said with a smile. “Every young lady requires a turban.” Not that she was truly a young lady anymore.

“Wipe that melancholy from your face. You’re a young lady. Any gentleman would be glad to wed you.”
Glad to wed me?
A never wed widow with a bastard child? Unlikely. “Not, mind you, that I’m advocating you to wed just any gentleman. Pompous prigs, the most of them are.”

Her aunt startled a laugh from Eleanor. Oh, how she loved the enlightened woman.

“Do you know who is not a pompous prig?”

She fought back a groan at her aunt’s none too subtle attempt at matchmaking. “Er…”

“Wessex.” Not the boy, this time. “Oh, he’s become a rogue, one of those charming gentleman.”

Eleanor knew. She gripped the edge of her skirts, taking her aunt’s words like a lash to her soul. She’d read the gossip pages from long ago and knew just what he’d become, abhorring every woman who’d entered his life and given him that gift Eleanor never had, nor ever could.

A twinkle lit the woman’s eyes. “Remember what I said about reformed rogues.”

She swallowed a groan. Not this again.

“They make the best husbands,” her aunt said. “Did I ever mention that your uncle was a rogue?”

Eleanor smiled gently, allowing the older woman the happiness of her memory. Let one of them have happy memories to sustain them.

“Yes, he was a rogue, until he wed me.” The duchess’ expression took on a faraway quality that softened her otherwise gruff countenance.

The old, childless Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had been hopelessly and helplessly in love. Until now, Eleanor had never considered the people they’d been in their youth. Had they once snuck away to hidden alcoves and danced with ruin, so they might know a stolen kiss and the thrill of each other’s company as Eleanor and Marcus had once done? The couple had found love and, yet, had never known the joy of being parents. Eleanor, on the other hand, had tasted love and lost, and would remain unwed, but
would
know the unadulterated joy of her daughter’s love.

What a cruel game fate played.

They reached the ballroom and Eleanor blinked, jerked abruptly back into her late uncle’s dratted list. Just five, nay
four,
items now, until freedom was hers in ways she had never allowed herself to dream of, or hope for.

“It is time.”

As Eleanor stepped inside the ballroom awash in the chandelier’s glow, an eerie sense of stepping back into a different time forced Eleanor’s feet to a stop and she remained fixed to the spot, staring out at the grand space. There’d been a time when an eager excitement had filled her at the prospect of stepping through the front doors of the distinguished townhomes. That had been quickly quashed by the unkind
ton
—noblemen who had ultimately decided her worth among them. She closed her eyes a moment. Not all gentlemen. One had been so very different. He’d not minded that she was born of a modest background or a horrid dancer. He’d been her friend, and almost her lover, in every sense of that word.

Eleanor forced her feet into movement and, drawing a steadying breath, fell into the role of companion alongside her polished, ever-confident aunt.

“You appear as happy as I am about this event your uncle insisted on,” Aunt Dorothea said in a none-too-subtle whisper, ringing a startled laugh from Eleanor.

They made their way to the front of the receiving line to greet the duchess’ still arriving guests.

Guilt needled at her. Secretly she’d hoped her aunt would have seen to her responsibilities as hostess and Eleanor could have slipped belatedly into the ballroom, escaping any scrutiny. The crush of guests already milling about the crowded room spoke to just how late she’d been. “I am sorry to have made you tardy to your own affair.”

“Your
uncle’s
affair,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “Determined to have some ducal control even in his own grave.” There was a wistful quality there, which softened those words. The duchess lifted her chin in a regal greeting to guests who dropped curtsies and bows. “Eleanor, my dear. I am a duchess. As such, I’m afforded certain privileges. Arriving late to my own ball is one of them.” She leaned close and spoke in a less than conspiratorial whisper. “Though in truth, even if I wasn’t a duchess, I wouldn’t give a jot about missing the bloody thing.”