To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(10)

“Look at me, gel.” Attired in her usual round gown made of Italian muslin, with its high waistline, her aunt’s dress was suited to styles at least twenty years ago. “The modiste sheds tears when I order my gowns made up.” Eleanor’s lips twitched. “I’ve two dogs that sleep in my bed and accompany me wherever I go. Do I strike you as a woman who gives a fig for Society’s opinion?”

Eleanor took the older woman in for a moment; her father’s sister who’d married well when no one had dared dream a merchant’s daughter would ever make an estimable match. The older woman had always marched to the proverbial beat of her own drum. Oh, how Eleanor admired her that strength.

Noting her scrutiny, Aunt Dorothea wagged her eyebrows. “Because I don’t care a jot about what anyone thinks or says.” There was a wealth of meaning to those words. Words that conveyed the clear truth that Eleanor had already suspected—she knew. Or rather, the duchess likely thought she knew, but in actuality could never glean the full truths of Eleanor’s sad, sordid past.

Agony squeezed her heart. “Appearances matter,” Eleanor managed to say.

Her aunt snorted. “Only if you are stupid enough to care.” With that, she sat back in her seat, signaling the discussion was at an end. Relieved to have the matter done, Eleanor looked at the two books resting before her aunt; Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman and The Tales of Lord Alistair’s Great Love. Eleanor scooped up the gothic novel she’d been reading from earlier that morn. Her lips twitched. The duchess was, and likely always would be, a great romantic, and yet, what an unlikely and remarkable diversity in her reading.

“You’ve a problem with my books, gel?”

“No,” she said instantly. And she didn’t. She admired her aunt’s love for love. Eleanor found hope in knowing that at least some people still believed in those sentiments. Though the actuality was that Eleanor far preferred the practicality of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work to the romantic drivel of those novels her aunt favored. She opened to the page she’d last left on when Aunt Dorothea held a hand up.

“Enough reading for the day. Your daughter needs a walk. Take the nursemaid and a footman and go.”

Eleanor’s pulse picked up, and she gave her head a quick shake. “Oh, no.” She’d be a daft ninny to fail to recall a day eight years ago when she’d walked down her aunt’s front steps and collided, literally collided, with Marcus, the future Viscount Wessex. “I have my responsibilities to attend here,” she insisted. For in truth, even as she craved the blue skies and country air, she could not bring herself to go outside.

There were too many demons out that door.

The past.

Marcus.

Him. The blackheart who’d singlehandedly shattered her future.

To leave this townhouse, Eleanor risked losing the much-needed control she’d claimed in her life.

Her aunt scoffed. “Youth is wasted on you fools of young age when you’d hover at a window and consider it a splendid time. When I was your age, gel, I was dancing in fountains and traveling the Continent.” Her aunt’s dry words brought a smile to Eleanor’s lips. In a staid and stilted world of London Society, there was something so very remarkable and admirable about this woman before her. Sensing Eleanor weakening, Aunt Dorothea waggled her white eyebrows. “The girl I remember loved trips to the park and visits to the museum. And she certainly didn’t linger at the window like an old recluse surveying the streets below.”

Yes, there had been a too-brief moment in time when she’d loved the thrilling excitement London represented. She’d seen the world through a girl’s eyes—craving those visits to the museums, parks, and oddity shops. Until she’d quickly discovered, London was filled with unkind figures who looked at her with loathing. They’d quickly shattered that naiveté about what this place truly was until she’d ached to return home. Then, Marcus had stepped into her world and he made it bearable. A wistful smile danced on her lips. Nay, he’d made it more than that. Together, she and Marcus smiled and laughed and teased and explored. For them, polite Society had ceased to exist.

“Not anymore,” Eleanor said at long last. “I am a grown woman now, Aunt Dorothea.” Even if in the deepest corner of her soul she missed strolling the grounds of Hyde Park and studying the magnificent flowers in bloom.

“That may be.” The duchess banged her cane. “But you are going outside. That is an order. Now, go. Take my boys and your daughter with you.” The childless woman’s dogs had become more children than canines to her over the years. As such, the lines between children and dogs had blurred somewhat, when the duchess spoke of Marcia.

Eleanor gave her head a jerky shake. I can’t. And yet…she curled her hands so tightly her nails punctured the skin of her palms. To remain shut inside was to make herself a prisoner. It represented one more absolute loss of control—at the hands of a man. She shoved to her feet. “I will go.”

Surprise lit her aunt’s eyes and she gave a pleased nod. “Good girl.”

Eleanor shoved to her feet and set the book on the table. With each step she took for the door, strength infused her spine. Yes, her aunt was, as usual, correct. Where was Eleanor’s spirit? She steeled her jaw. She’d not let life shape her into that cowardly, cowering figure that hovered behind curtains.