To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(19)

For all the years he’d spent hating Eleanor, he should find a perverse glee in her recent circumstances. And yet, as his mother prattled on about the heroic Lieutenant Collins’ tragic death, a pressure weighted on Marcus’ chest. Eleanor had returned as a poor relation. Only she’d not returned alone. She’d come with her daughter.

“…and then there were some terrible investments on Mr. Carlyle’s part,” his mother said, yanking him to the present. She paused and tapped a finger against her chin. “All bad form speaking of trade, but let me think what it was…” Then with a far too casual shrug she lifted her shoulders. “Regardless, Eleanor is here, as a result.”

There were many reasons a person would come to London and, yet, a niggling settled in his thoughts. The lady was here, in the heart of the Season…

He tightened his fingers hard about his glass. “The lady has come husband-hunting, then?” Marcus could not tamp down the acrid bitterness burning his tongue. He would have given her his name and, yet, here she was, no doubt, in search of wealth…just like any other grasping woman. Marcus took another swallow of his brandy.

His mother gave a shake of her head. “But that is what is peculiar about Mrs. Collins’ arrival.”

“Return,” he corrected. Eleanor had arrived eight years ago. She’d returned eight years later. A widow. And still as gloriously beautiful in all her golden splendor as she’d been. The heart-shaped planes of her face, while the sun glinted off curls more gold than the riches unearthed by Cortez, flashed behind his mind. No, she was more breathtaking now than she’d ever been as that eager creature straddling girlhood and womanhood at the same time. It mattered not what, if anything, was curious about Eleanor’s sudden appearance, and yet; “What is peculiar about her return?” he forced the question out past tight lips.

His mother waved a hand about. “Well, she is here as a hired companion.”

“A companion?” he repeated blankly.

“A hired one,” his mother clarified, as there was a vast difference between the two. “She’s here as the duchess’ companion.”

Something wrenched inside at the idea that Eleanor found herself a poor relation dependent on the charity of a kindly, older woman. He balled one hand into a fist at his side, leaving fingernail marks upon the palms of his hand. That was the fate the man she’d wed had consigned her to. Marcus braced for the gleeful response to Eleanor’s current circumstances, but found none. Had she been his, he would have draped her in the finest satins and silks and seen her dripping in diamonds. Then, those things hadn’t mattered to Eleanor. It was one of the reasons he’d so fallen in love with her. The fact that she’d gone on to wed a soldier in the King’s Army who’d left her uncared for, spoke to hers being a true love match—not the mere flirtation she’d practiced on Marcus.

How could he have known her so well and not known her enough to gather there had been another murky shadow of a man between them?

It’s because I didn’t truly know her.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Lizzie’s plump frame filled the doorway. “Hullo.” She looked to Marcus and her perpetual smile dipped.

He schooled his features. With her skill at reading a person, she could have trained the Bow Street Runners. She’d always seen too much.

“Oh, splendid,” their mother said with a smile. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone flat. The sooner he could have this evening over, the sooner he could carry on with his own life. By his mother’s revelation this evening, there was no need for him and Eleanor to move in the same circles. She was here as a hired companion. He was in town to wed.

Wordlessly, he followed after his mother. For the first two years of attending this intimate dinner party hosted by the Duchess of Devonshire after Eleanor’s absence, Marcus had sat through each course, smiling politely, all the while feeling as though he’d had his heart wrenched from his chest. By the third year, he’d given up on the hope of her and succeeded in becoming a rogue who no longer cared—about Eleanor Carlyle, what they’d shared, and her betrayal.

Eleanor might now grace that same table, but she may as well have been any other woman. His love for her had died somewhere between the parting note handed him by the duchess’ servant and the eventual realization that Eleanor Carlyle was never coming back. After that, he’d pasted on a smile and worn a proverbial grin ever since.

His sister matched her stride to his. “It could be a good deal worse,” she said from the corner of her mouth. “We could be attending a horrid soiree or ball.” She tapped his arm. “And I do like the duchess.”

He took a noncommittal approach. But for the occasional appearance at those dinner parties hosted by the duchess through the years, he’d taken care to avoid Eleanor’s aunt. Oh, the pain of Eleanor’s betrayal had receded, but neither was he a glutton for forcing himself to think of what he’d once dreamed of.

Lizzie stalked over, a frown on her lips. “You are not your usual affable, charming self.”

Marcus mustered a grin. “Aren’t young ladies supposed to enjoy balls and soirees?”

“I despise them.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “And I’m clever enough to know that you’re attempting to change the topic, big brother.”