To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (25 page)

Then in a move better suited a brother with a younger sister, he chucked her under the chin. “Shall we?”

Eleanor placed her hand on his sleeve and allowed him to escort her on to item five, and the beginning of the end of her list.

In all the time he’d known Eleanor, those two glorious months long ago, and now, again eight years later, the lady had never been silent. Oh, she’d never been one of the prattling ones determined to fill a void of silence…but she had been at ease and comfortable. Assured.

Now, as he guided his curricle down the quiet streets of London, the hushed figure at his side bore no resemblance to the woman he’d come to know. He stole a sideways glance at her. Eleanor maintained a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the seat while she trained her gaze forward on the road before them.

The moment she had entered her aunt’s parlor, studying him with trepidation and fear emanating from within her eyes, it had taken all the strength he’d possessed to give her the smile she deserved.

Did she believe he would look at her differently for what she’d shared? Did she think he would find her anything but beautiful and strong for what she’d survived? She had more strength and courage than any grown man he knew; including his weaker self. When most women would have crumpled under the weight of life’s cruelty, Eleanor had moved on, finding a smile, and love for the child who’d been forced upon her.

And there was no other woman he would have for his wife. Even if she deserved better than a bounder such as he. He was selfish and self-serving because he could not live in a world in which she belonged to another.

“Did I ever tell you about my first tutor, Mr. Chapman?”

Eleanor blinked several times as though blinking back the fog of her own thoughts. She cast a quizzical look up at him.

“He was a miserable bugger,” he said cheerfully, guiding his mounts right at the end of the street. “I was a boy of seven. Not unlike Marcia, I delighted in exploring and certainly didn’t appreciate being shut away in the schoolrooms receiving lessons from miserable Mr. Chapman. I was a rotted student.”

Eleanor’s lips twitched. “I don’t believe you are rotted at anything you do, Marcus Gray.”

He’d been a rotted protector. That had been his greatest failing. He gripped the reins hard. “Have a care, love,” he said with false brevity. “Or I might believe you’re trying to charm a rogue.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t even know how to try to accomplish such a feat.”

There was no, nor had there ever been, trying where Eleanor Carlyle was concerned. She’d wooed and won his heart with her unfettered smile and bold spirit outside their London townhomes. He’d been hopelessly and helplessly hers, since.

“What of your Mr. Chapman?”

“Right, right,” he continued, steering the curricle through a throng of conveyances. “Miserable Mr. Chapman was a miserable man. Stern, unbending, and—”

“Miserable?” she supplied with a little laugh.

“Yes, indeed. When I was a boy, I could not read. Two years of the bugger calling me a lackwit and lazy.” Even all these years later, he recalled the frustration of staring at the pages unable to make sense of the words upon them. The frustration had been so great that when in the privacy of his own company, he’d hurled those small leather tomes across the room. “He had a switch.” His skin still burned in remembrance of the lashes dealt. “He would ask me to read aloud and brought that switch down on me whenever I stumbled or struggled through those readings.” Which had been every single, horrid lesson.

The teasing light went out of Eleanor’s eyes. “Oh, Marcus,” she said softly and laid her hand over his.

He stared, transfixed a moment by the sight of her glove-encased fingers upon his person, wanting to have the right to that hand; wanting it joined with his forever. Marcus drew on the reins and guided the curricle to a halt on the opposite side of Gunther’s “For two years, I believed everything Chapman uttered. I believed I was a lackwit. Why couldn’t I read when I stared at those damned words day after day, hour after hour? Then one morning, my father entered in the middle of my lessons. Chapman was bringing that switch down on my back and my father stormed the room. He ripped that blasted birch from Chapman’s hands and snapped it in half.” Marcus neatly omitted the violent part, which resulted in his father beating the man with his own stick before destroying it. Gone too soon of an apoplexy at not even forty-two years of age, his father had evinced strength, honor, and love. Marcus held Eleanor’s gaze. “I, of course, learned to read. My father insisted on delivering every reading lesson until those words began to make sense.” He held his palms up. “It was not my fault I couldn’t read, Eleanor. Chapman made it a thing of terror and horror. It took my father to show me that words were things of joy and wonder.”

A slow understanding lit her clever gaze. She slid her eyes away from his. Uncaring of the sea of polite Society about them, with his hand he gently guided her focus back to him. “Marcus,” she said, on a forlorn whisper. “What happened to me, it cannot be undone. It cannot be fixed.”

Her words implied she was flawed and broken, and yet in her imperfection, there was not a more perfect person. How had he lived these years without her? How empty and purposeless his life had been. “Oh, Eleanor.” What if she’d allowed him in and shared this burden? He ran a gaze over her person. How could she still not know their happiness was inextricably connected? “If I could undo that moment for you…” Marcus pressed his eyes closed a moment. But then there would be no Marcia. “But I cannot. You are not broken or something in need of repair. You are a woman of courage and strength who was wronged, and that does not make you undeserving of happiness and love.” He paused, willing her with his eyes to see the truth. “It makes you more deserving. And I would be the man to show you both.”

Eleanor looked down at her clasped hands. “Marcus, I—”

“We have both lost years of joy, Eleanor. Do not let him take another moment. At least let the remaining items on your list belong to us.” He brought her hand to his mouth and dropped a kiss atop her knuckles. Not even a fortnight ago, he’d have been horrified at the possibility of the
ton
seeing him and making something honorable of his intentions. Now, if Eleanor would have him, he’d invite every gawking passerby as a witness at their wedding. “Whatever you want Eleanor. Whatever you desire, tell me and I shall bring it to you.” And if it was the stars she craved, he’d climb to the heavens and grab down the moon.

She raised her eyes to his and a slow smile spread on her lips. And the same fluttering in his chest, the one from years earlier when she’d stepped out of her aunt’s townhouse and into his life, danced madly now. Yes, flavored ices and curricle rides through London were safe. There were no risks, no resurrected pains of the past. “A chocolate ice, Marcus. I would have a chocolate ice.”

It was not the moon, but it was a fleeting pleasure he could give. With a smile, Marcus leapt down from the carriage. He paused. “Oh, Eleanor?”

“Yes?”

“I would have married you eight years ago. Not even an evil fairy would have stopped me.” Her lips fell agape and she touched a hand to her chest. “And I intend to wed you now.”

Her breath caught on a gasp as Marcus winked and rushed off to fetch her ice.

E
leanor had but one item left on her list. This final item she would see to without Marcus at her side. And after this evening’s performance, Eleanor would have fulfilled all the tasks presented her by her late uncle. She should be elated. This moment meant security for her and Marcia. Never again would she have to live in fear over their precarious situation. She could pack up, board a carriage tomorrow, and take Marcia far, far away from this place.

Yet, there was no elation. There was no thrill of triumph and only mild relief. Rather, there was an odd, aching emptiness. How long had she spent hating London? Yet, to leave this time would mean to leave Marcus’ smile and promises of happiness. It would mean no more of the gruff, wry Aunt Dorothea’s love and guidance. Even the garden, that special place shared with Marcus, would be lost to her forever.

Eleanor skimmed her gaze over the noisy hall of The English Opera House. Odd, how such a cavernous space, brimming with theatregoers, should feel so empty. The candlelight and Argand lamps illuminated the massive auditorium and sent shadows dancing on the walls. Unbidden, she sought him out. Oh, there would be nothing proper in her attending the opera on Marcus’ arm. It was a luxury she would have been permitted had she been one of those shockingly scandalous widows, and yet she was not one of those. Instead, she ached with a need to be not special, not different, but rather…ordinary.

“You look about as excited to be here as that indulgent queen being marched up to the gallows.”

At her aunt’s quiet interruption, Eleanor jumped. She flushed guiltily. “I…”

But the lie would not come. None of this appealed to her; not the balls or lavish halls. Not the operas or the musicales. She hungered for the simplicity of the Cornwall country where she existed as simply Eleanor Collins; young widow and contented mother…and very soon, she would have the funds to do exactly that.

“…And because I am a selfish bastard, I want you to want to be here because you wish to be with me…”

Marcus’ husky baritone echoed around her mind. For the truth of it was, she wished to be here because of him. She wanted to be wherever Marcus Gray was. From the corner of her eye, a flash of white caught her notice and she stared unabashedly at the bright-eyed debutante in frilly white skirts and perfectly curled tresses. Longing pulled at her; a desire to be that carefree young lady with hope in her eyes and a smile on her lips and a belief in the goodness of all around her. Virginal. Innocent.

In short, everything Eleanor no longer was.

Her aunt tapped the arm of Eleanor’s shell-backed seat with her cane. “He’s arrived.”

Eleanor didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. She searched for him in the crowd.

“His box is to the right, center.”

And then her heart dipped.

“He is with that miserable Hamilton girl. I never liked her mother. I liked the father even less. The brother, the Marquess of Atbrooke, is a scoundrel and the girl is mean. Isabelle should know better than to let that one near her daughter.”

In her denigration, the duchess spoke with a matter-of-factness, and yet that did little to dull the pain of seeing Marcus settle into his seat, and the determined, grasping lady insert herself shamefully between brother and sister.

“Never understood why my goddaughter would ever be friends with that one,” her aunt said and Eleanor blinked, welcoming the distraction.

She smiled at the protective, albeit grumpy, duchess. “Oh, Aunt Dorothea.”

The old woman waved her off. “Bah, I am not speaking those words for your benefit. The girl is shameful in a way that young ladies should not be shameful.” The duchess tightened her mouth. “Pressing herself against my godson in that manner, and with Isabelle inside the box?” She made a sound of disgust.

Even across the wide expanse of the auditorium, Eleanor could easily see the manner in which Lady Marianne shoved her full breasts against Marcus’ shoulder. Green jealousy raged within her. It twisted and turned like a vicious cancer growing in power until it spread through every corner of her being. Her feet twitched with the urge to storm the theatre and remove the tentacle-like grip the young woman had on Marcus. The lady smiled, displaying two perfect rows of even, pearl-white teeth. She leaned up and whispered something into Marcus’ ear and Eleanor’s breath caught hard and fast in her chest.

“…It is about more than his fifty thousand pounds. He has a remarkable figure…”

Nausea churned in her belly and she searched Marcus for some hint of interest in what the lady offered—sexual pleasures he craved, but ones Eleanor could never provide him. Alas, his face remained an immoveable mask that gave no indication of his thoughts, desires, or even the crowd of onlookers taking in the show being put on by Lady Marianne and the Viscount Wessex. Bitterness pulled Eleanor’s lips up in a smile. Why, what more of a show was needed than the one before the
ton
now?

Her skin pricked hot under the intensity of the duchess’ stare. Eleanor forced her attention down to the stage, praying for the performance to begin. Praying for the night to end. Praying, when she’d long ago learned the futility of prayers.

“That boy loves you.”

Eleanor jerked.

“And you can go on carrying whatever secrets of your past that made you leave him, but he cannot wait forever for you, Eleanor. He waited eight years and, this time, if you leave, he will end up with another.”

A lump formed in Eleanor’s throat and she tried to swallow. Her aunt painted an agonizing image of Marcus; a devoted, charming husband with a delicate beauty on his arm. They would have flawless, breathtaking, golden-haired babes and he would be the manner of father who unfailingly protected and loved those children. She thrust back the vicious imaginings. But it was too late. Her aunt had presented Marcus’ future, with Eleanor neatly omitted, and she could not un-see it.

Her aunt twisted the blade all the deeper. “It may not be Lady Marianne Hamilton.” She gestured broadly to the room. “But it will be one of them. And you have to ask if that is something you can live the remainder of your life with.”

I have no choice…

“We always have a choice, Eleanor Elaine.”

Eleanor started, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

Just then, the chandeliers were lowered and dimmed, and the orchestra built steady into the Overture of
Torvaldo e Dorliska.
Knight Torvaldo launched into song and the refined tenor demanded notice, and yet…Eleanor flicked her gaze across the theatre and her breath caught.

Marcus stared boldly back; his lips curved in a smile, his concentration turned solely on her. Only Marcus could manage to make a woman feel as though she were the only lady in a hall brimming with people.

His words from yesterday came rushing back. His determined pledge to earn her love. So many years she’d believed herself damaged; her soul as scarred as her body, for what was taken from her. Yesterday, Marcus had looked inside and known the thoughts she’d denied even herself. She did believe herself undeserving of love. The shame she carried, so great that she’d been unable to countenance sharing that dishonor with anyone. Instead, she’d allowed a stranger who stank of brandy to steal not only her virtue, but her own sense of self-worth.

Until Marcus.

She looked to him once more and found his gaze still unwavering upon her.

He forced her to look at what her life was, and more, look toward the life she dreamed of for her…for Marcia.

Why can I not marry him?

The threat hovering in the corner of her mind danced to the surface. That bastard who’d stolen so much would reenter her life and warn her away from Marcus? She firmed her jaw. She’d not allow him that power. What more could he do to her that he hadn’t already done? So what
was
keeping her from Marcus?

He knew all and loved her regardless.

Eleanor bit her inner cheek. There remained the whole marital bed business. Anxiety tightened the muscles of her stomach. Could she truly subject herself to that horror? Could she spread her legs and take a man inside without feeling the remembered horror and pain? Except…she’d not been repelled by Marcus’ kiss. In his arms, she’d felt for the first time alive in ways she’d been long dead. She’d burned with passion and a hunger for more. And with his gentleness, Marcus would never bring her hurt.

Trust him…
She stilled. Nay.
Trust yourself. Trust that you are deserving, trust that you are capable of giving and knowing love, in every form, and if he asks it, give yourself over to him…

For too long, she’d given control of her thoughts, emotions, and happiness over to the demon who’d visited her in Lady Wedermore’s gardens. Through her own sense of guilt in being in those expertly manicured grounds, she’d taken ownership of that night. If she had not left the ballroom and had, instead, been a proper, respectable lady, then even now she would be married…and more…happy. But she had, in a stolen moment of impropriety, placed herself in that monster’s arms…and for that she was blameworthy.

Now, with the orchestra soaring, there was a cathartic healing, in the music, the soothing calm of the foreign Italian, and her own at last settled thoughts. Eleanor drew in a cleansing breath. The horror and fear of that night would never, ever go away; it would always be an indelible part of who she had been, but it did not have to be all that defined her. Her future, her daughter, her ability to laugh and love, those were the ultimate triumphs.

She looked across at Marcus. He stared down at the stage below, but then, as though he felt her gaze, glanced out across the sea of Society. And she wanted those moments with him.

Eleanor smiled.

Tonight Eleanor would complete the items on her list. With those tasks now finished, she would be free to dance out of his life, this time, never to return.

In the dim concert hall, Marcus stared across to where Eleanor sat. He soaked in the sight of her in her pink satin skirts, traveling his gaze over her cherished face, wanting to remember every delicate plane from the shock of freckles on her nose to the pale blonde of her hair, ethereal in its shimmering beauty. He wanted to commit every part of her to memory so that when she inevitably left, there would be this moment to cling to.

As though feeling his stare, Eleanor straightened her long, graceful neck and found him with her eyes. Their gazes collided.

I love you, Eleanor Elaine Carlyle, and I will love you until I draw my last breath…

She smiled and he sucked in a sharp breath. Oh, she had smiled many times since her return to London almost a fortnight ago. But this tilt of her lips was so vastly different than the melancholy, almost pained expression she’d worn since their reunion. This was the smile of her youth, of unfettered joy and excitement, and it was an alluring grin that transformed her from haunting, ethereal beauty to this spirited nymph.

Marcus stared across the auditorium, ignoring the performance below and the loud whispers throughout the hall, transfixed by that smile.

“It is quite magnificent, isn’t it, my lord?” That sultry purr cut jarringly into Marcus’ musings. Lady Marianne stared at him, and then with an unabashed boldness, she ran her fingertips along the lace trim of her plunging décolletage and trailed a path with her hand down his thigh.

He stiffened and stole a glance at his mother and sister who were blessedly preoccupied with the performance. “My lady, remember yourself,” he said tightly out the corner of his mouth.

She leaned closer, pressing her breasts against his arm. “But I
do
remember myself quite clearly when you are around. I remember that I want you,” her breath tickled his ear. “And that you are in the market for a wife.” Lady Marianne squeezed his thigh, shifting her hand higher, and he jumped.

At one time, the cool, emotionless entanglement this lady presented, one where he’d have a feisty minx in his bed and a proper viscountess on his arm would have been all he sought in a match. No longer. And, stealing another glance at Eleanor who looked at the stage below—not really ever. He’d only wanted Eleanor.

Marcus made to move Lady Marianne’s hand from his person, when she slipped her fingers into his. Marcus gritted his teeth. Had he ever admired the young lady’s form? Her blowsy, wantonness stood in stark contrast to the innocence he’d come to love in Eleanor. “I am,” repelled. “Flattered by your attentions, however, my heart is otherwise engaged.” He spoke without malice, giving the determined young lady the truth to quell her attempts at seduction.