To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(18)

“But the boy will not be there,” her aunt said with a huff of annoyance. “Gone out of his way to avoid my dinner parties.”

Eleanor’s heart started and she scrambled forward to the edge of her seat. Why would he avoid her aunt? Then she sank back in her seat. Likely, he blamed Aunt Dorothea for having brought her fickle niece from the country.

The duchess gave her an assessing look and, unnerved by the knowing in those wise eyes, Eleanor attended her forgotten strawberry tart. Your lips remind me of a summer berry and I want to lose myself in the taste of you…

The confectionary treat fell from her fingers and toppled to the floor, raining down bits of sugar and crumbs. It landed on the Aubusson carpet with a soft thump, a corner piece breaking off the tart. Eleanor jumped to her feet and the duchess looked at her askance. “Will you excuse me a moment? I—” Except she had no reason to account for this urge to run away. With her heart thumping hard in her chest, she fled.

Then, wasn’t that what she’d always done best in life?





Chapter 5


Marcus stood at his office window and surveyed the darkened streets below. How very much had happened on this particular street. Of course, it was the townhouse he’d resided in as a boy. But the happiest memories he held were of the cobbled roads below.

…Surely I should know the identity of the lady who shares the townhouse beside mine…?

…I am Eleanor Carlyle…and surely I should know the name of the gentleman who’d so boldly wish to know the identity of the lady who shares the townhouse beside his…

She’d returned, risen from the ashes, and gone was the wide-eyed, smiling girl. That young woman who’d claimed his heart had been replaced by a guarded, wary woman with a woman’s frame. Was the gentleman she’d thrown him over for responsible for that transformation?

Marcus raised his glass to his lips and took a sip of brandy. This time, he did not stop the flow of memories, but let them in. He’d met the lady in that very street by happenstance almost eight years ago as they’d reached the front steps of their neighboring homes. She’d been the unfamiliar lady who’d stolen the breath from his lungs and who, with her boldness and spirit at first greeting, had captivated him.

The crystal windowpane reflected his visage; the wry grin on his lips. How apropos that she should reemerge and crash into his world with the same intensity all these years later. And as glorious as she’d been as a girl just turned eighteen, the woman she’d grown into was the stuff of golden perfection artists toiled over at their canvases, trying in vain to catch even a shimmer of such golden beauty. The breasts he’d once cupped in his hands, and only through the fabric of her modest satin gowns, were fuller, her hips wider, but her waist still trim. And yet with all that had come to pass, his body still ached to know her in the ways he’d longed to, but never had.

Marcus swirled the contents of his snifter in a slow, deliberate circle. This hungering was based on nothing more than a masculine appreciation for her delectable form. At one time, he’d been hopelessly bewitched by her beauty and spirit. No longer. For he was no longer the boy he’d been; a young man ravaged with grief and despair over the death of his friend; riddled with guilt, who, amidst the blackened darkness of death and sorrow, had found a glimmer of light in an otherwise bleak world.

“The duchess is expecting us shortly, Marcus.”

He stiffened and shot a look over his shoulder as his mother swept into the room in a whir of silver satin skirts. In a bid for nonchalance, he took a sip of his drink. “You did not mention we’d be joined by the duchess’ guest.”

“The duchess’ guest?” His mother slowed, but did not break her forward stride. Then she widened her eyes. “Oh, yes,” she exclaimed and clapped her hands. “Eleanor! How did I ever forget to mention, the duchess’ niece has arrived?”

Then, why should she have noted it? All the stolen interludes in the gardens between Marcus and Eleanor had been their private secret, shared only with the fragile stars and moonlight.

His mother crossed over and stopped beside him. “Very sad, very sad, indeed,” she said, making a tsking sound.

He frowned. Long ago he’d come to expect his mother’s flare for the theatrics, which extended to her veiled words intended to elicit intrigue. Never before had it grated more than it did in this moment. “What is sad?”

She gave a wave of her hand. “Oh, Mrs. Collins’ situation. Very different now than it was seven years ago.”

Eight years. For his indifference toward the lady and the anger he’d carried for her all these years, the muscles of his stomach knotted involuntarily at his mother’s words. The lady’s circumstances should not matter; she was not his concern, and yet… “And just how is it different?” he asked infusing boredom into his tone.

Ever the consummate gossip, his mother stole a look about and then dropped her voice to a furtive whisper. “I do know Dorothea has never minded her family’s mercantile roots.” She furrowed her brow. “Quite the opposite. I’ve often jested that she finds a perverse pleasure in them—”

“Mother,” he said impatiently.

“Oh, yes. Right, right,” she said, lowering her voice once more. “Mrs. Collins’ husband died some years ago, leaving her destitute.”