To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(12)

The tall, golden-haired stranger turned a hard, unforgiving glare on her that froze her thoughts. It suspended movement and time, and held her trapped in this peculiar moment where the world carried on around her in a great whir of noise and motion. Her heart quickened. She’d, of course, known that there was a very strong likelihood that with her return to London in the role of companion to the Duchess of Devonshire, with the walls of his townhouse sharing her aunt’s, their paths would again cross. But the tales she’d read of him long ago in the papers had filled her with a false hope that he’d be so busy with his clubs and mistresses that they’d never again meet.

From where he stood on the London street, Marcus Gray, Viscount Wessex, looked at her through thick, long lashes that did little to conceal the fury snapping in his eyes. The seething recognition there sent her staggering back a step.

“Miss Carlyle,” he said with a hard edge of steel to his words.

Emotion stuck in her throat. Gone was the sweet, gentle, young man who’d teased her and clipped a lock of her hair to hold it forever close. In his place was this silent, terrifying, broad, powerful stranger. Then, a mask dropped in place, tamping out all previous fury so she was left to wonder if she’d merely imagined it. He tipped his lips up in a slow, wicked smile. An odd fluttering unfurled in her belly.

“We meet again.”

Marcus.





Chapter 4


Of course Miss Eleanor Carlyle would not stay buried. Of course she’d reemerge when a young lady unlike her in every way, had garnered his notice. The irony of this moment could not have been penned better, even from Shakespeare himself.

The lady now wore spectacles and the pale blonde hair he long remembered was tugged back in a tight chignon. But the severe hairstyle and wire-rimmed frames could not detract from Eleanor Carlyle’s ethereal beauty.

A handful of gold curls popped free in protest of the hideous coiffure; those loose coils, the ones he remembered from his past. Marcus resisted the urge to jam the heels of his palm into his eyes and try to drive back the image, for he knew by the honeyed scent that clung to her skin, that she was, indeed, real. That tantalizing summer fragrance had haunted his waking and sleeping moments.

By God, the traitorous, deceitful minx had returned.

A hard, humorless laugh escaped him and her cheeks went waxen. After years of forgetting, or trying in vain to fully forget, and losing himself in empty entanglements with other, equally lonely women, Eleanor had returned.

By the manner in which she troubled her too-full lower lip, she was not happy about seeing him. And why should she? She’d pledged to meet him in Lady Wedermore’s gardens and instead of meeting him, he’d found empty grounds. And when he’d paid call on her the next morning, nothing remained but a note handed him by one of the duchess’ maids.

Eleanor was the first to break the silence. “My lord,” she greeted. Her voice was a barely there whisper. The frames slipped down the bridge of her nose and she promptly shoved them back into place.

Good, the lady should be fearful. He folded his arms about his chest and winged an eyebrow up. “Is that all you’ll say, Eleanor? After all these years.” He made a tsking sound and she flinched, the movement nearly imperceptible. “I should expect a far warmer reception.”

As bold as she’d been when they’d met, she a girl of just eighteen, she squared her small shoulders and tossed her head back. “My lord, thank you for rescuing my aunt’s dog.”

He bit back a curse. Of course. The eccentric, pug-loving Duchess of Devonshire would ultimately drag her niece from whatever country rock she’d disappeared under when she’d absconded with his heart and happiness. All the old fury, the hurt, and rage that he’d thought safely buried, rose to the surface, threatening to boil over and consume him in a flood of emotions he’d thought dead. He took a step toward her and she backed up. “Never tell me you fear me, Miss Carlyle?”

She gave her head a frantic shake but continued her retreat, proving her unspoken denial a lie and Marcus delighted in the lady’s trepidation, for it spoke to her guilt, indicated she knew she was culpable of all the charges he could heap on her lying head. Then she came to an abrupt stop, forcing him to cease his forward movement or bowl her over. He stopped so close, a mere hairsbreadth separated them. Marcus registered the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her slightly parted lips and, God forgive him, he wanted her still—

“Hullo.”

He blinked, searching about, and then dropped his gaze downward to the wide-eyed girl looking up at him. Seven or eight years of age, with a riot of golden curls, the child had cheeks a cherub would envy.

Something pulled in his heart and he knew, knew without any confirmation, knew by the kissed by sunshine hue of her tresses and freckles on her nose. In all his imaginings of where Eleanor had gone and who she’d become, he’d never, ever dared consider that in that time, she had become a mother. For that would have made the man she’d chosen real in ways where he’d only previously existed as a shapeless, shiftless imagining. A man whom she’d truly loved and not the mere flirtation that she’d practiced upon Marcus. “Hullo.” His voice emerged garbled.

The golden-curled girl spoke, jerking him to the present. “What is your name?”

“That is not polite,” Eleanor gently chided, settling an almost protective hand upon the child’s small shoulders.