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

Of course, their meeting had been an inevitable one. His townhouse was on the same strip as the one she would occupy…until Aunt Dorothea no longer required Eleanor’s services. Yet, in all the possible exchanges she’d run through, those had been coolly polite passings between two people who’d once known each other, but were now nothing more than strangers. By the reports she’d last read of him in The Times, he had become a shell of the man she remembered and admired. And so, in the meeting she’d fashioned for them, he would have tipped his head, perhaps with an icy disdain for the country miss who’d returned to a world she didn’t belong to. She would have dropped a curtsy and continued hurrying by with regrets for what might have been and that would have been the extent of their exchange.

Eleanor reached the top of the stairs and paused, resting her hand upon the bannister. Except, the flash of ire in Marcus’ ice blue eyes and the set hardness of his mouth hinted at a rage that belonged to someone more than an indolent lord. She pressed her eyes closed a moment. His reaction had been that of a man who’d cared very much that she’d left. Of course, he’d not feel any of that vitriol toward her if he knew the truth, knew the shame and humiliation she’d spared him from.

“What is the matter with you, gel?” At the suspicious question barked from halfway down the hall, Eleanor snapped her eyes open. “Are you distracted?”

“No,” she lied. A warm heat suffused her cheeks. Her aunt and daughter stood in matching poses; hands planted akimbo, and if she weren’t so humiliated at being caught woolgathering, she’d have found her daughter’s mimicking the older woman rather endearing and more than a bit comical.

“She is. She has been that way since the excitement.”

“Humph,” Aunt Dorothea grunted once again. She angled her head toward the hall. “I, of course, must hear more.” Without waiting to see if they followed, she turned on her heel and started down the hall to one of her many parlors. Marcia skipped after her.

With far greater reluctance, Eleanor followed along. She would not think of him. They’d seen each other but once. Nearly to the date of their first meeting. An innocent, na?ve young lady would see that meeting through romantic eyes and blame fate and fortune. Eleanor sighed. She, however, had come to see fate as a cool, fickle, mocking creature that took minutes and moments and manipulated them in a cruel way. And those glorious meetings were then fatefully transformed into horrific exchanges that forever altered the course of one’s life.

“Get in here, gel.”

She jumped at her aunt’s booming voice and hurried into the pink parlor. From the velvet curtains to the upholstered sofas, every last piece, parcel, and scrap of this room were pink. As a girl of eighteen, she’d been in awe of the cheer of the room. Now, she found the shade a nauseating reminder of her na?ve days. Her daughter sat perched on the edge of one of the pink sofas, swinging her legs back and forth as she was wont to do. Eleanor hurried over and sat beside her.

Aunt Dorothea gave a pleased nod and then claimed the sofa opposite them. Then, to draw out the moment, she leaned over and poured herself a cup of tea, added three lumps of sugar, a dash of milk, and then held it up. Eleanor waved off the offering with a murmur of thanks and, with a little nod, her aunt settled back in her seat. “Now what is this about excitement?”

“Devlin broke free,” Eleanor cut in before her daughter could speak.

A rusty chuckle escaped the older woman’s lips. “Your mother changed my dogs’ names, has she?” Eleanor mustered a conciliatory smile. “Well, Satin and Devlin will do just as nicely,” the duchess said with a wink. “They don’t seem to mind, do they?”

“No, Aunt Dorothea.” Marcia shook her head enthusiastically.

Of course, Eleanor should feel some compunction, and yet she could think of nothing other than foolish regrets at the roguish man Marcus had proven to be.

Her aunt looked back and forth between her two guests. “Never tell me, that’s the excitement?” Her tone was the same as one who’d been told the intrigue of the day was attending Sunday sermons.

Without awaiting permission, Marcia plucked an apricot tart from the silver tray of confectionaries set out. “Oh, that is not all,” she mumbled around a mouthful of sugared treat.

Eleanor touched a hand to her daughter’s knee. “We do not speak with our mouths full, dear.”

Marcia brushed the back of her hand over her mouth and dusted away traces of sugar.

With a sigh, Eleanor retrieved a napkin and handed it over.

Where most matrons would have looked on with horror at the girl’s manners, an appreciative light lit the unconventional duchess’ eyes. “Tell me more about this excitement.”

“Devlin ran away.” The little girl proceeded to tick off on her little fingers. “He managed to slip by me, and then Mrs. Plunkett, and then the footman,” she paused, scratching her brow. “I don’t know his name.” She gave her head a shake. “And then Mama,” Eleanor winced at the heavy emphasis placed on that two syllable word, “went running after him.”

Her skin went warm at the attention fixed on her by the duchess. “I did not run, per se,” she muttered under her breath.

“In the end, a gentleman saved him.” She took another bite of her treat. “A Mr. Marcus.” Then around yet another mouthful of her tart she added, “A viscount.”