To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(20)

“Perhaps a bit,” he conceded as they reached the foyer.

They were helped into their cloaks and then Williston pulled the door open. A few moments later, they were ushered inside the Duchess of Devonshire’s townhouse. Marcus shrugged out of his cloak and turned it over to a waiting servant. As they were shown their way to the receiving room, he contemplated Mrs. Eleanor Collins; so coolly unaffected by him in the street.

He’d suffer through this dinner and then he could be free of her, at last.

He flattened his mouth into a hard line.

Then, would he ever truly be free of Eleanor Collins?





Chapter 6


From her spot over the by the windows in her aunt’s parlor, Eleanor fiddled with her spectacles. According to Aunt Dorothea, Marcus hadn’t come to her small dinner gathering in five years. Pain twisted in Eleanor’s belly. By that small detail and the fury in his eyes just yesterday afternoon, she gathered he’d not forgiven her flight. In his mind, she was likely the traitorous, capricious creature who’d engaged in a mere flirtation and then tired of him. Then, isn’t that what she’d hoped he’d believed of her? For neither of the alternatives she’d run through in her terrorized mind would have ever been good. Had Marcus discovered the truth of that night, the young gentleman she’d fallen in love with would have either risked his life on a field of honor, or worse, shunned her for the shame that had befallen her. Both prospects had shattered her inside.

It was best he did not come tonight. Or any night. Seeing him earlier today had only roused the dreams she’d once carried in her heart—of him, them. Happiness. Love—

“You’re fidgeting, gel.”

Startled to the moment, Eleanor quickly donned her glasses and followed her aunt’s pointed gaze downward searching for Marcus. Unwittingly, she fisted and un-fisted the fabric of her skirts, hopelessly wrinkling the drab, brown muslin. With alacrity, she let them go. “I’m sorry,” she responded. Following that horrific night almost eight years ago, she’d taken to the odd habit of scrabbling at her skirts.

“Don’t apologize to me, girl,” her aunt said with a snort. “Apologize to your dress.”

“Mama always wrinkles her gowns,” Marcia piped in from her spot at the windowseat.

“Humph. Well, you certainly can’t do any more damage to those skirts.” That was saying a good deal with her aunt in her out-of-mode wide satin gown, taking exception with Eleanor’s attire.

“I like these skirts,” she said, defensively.

“Girl, no person likes brown muslin.” Her aunt spoke in a tone that considered the matter settled.

In this, too, her aunt was correct. Through the years, Eleanor had striven to avoid any kind of attention. People tended to see those in extravagant garments of bright satin fabrics and not ladies who sported severe hairstyles, and perched wire-rimmed frames on their noses. No notice was good notice, and only protected one from probing stares and in-depth inquiries.

“You need new gowns, Eleanor.” The stomp-stomp-stomp of the cane upon the floor made that statement fact.

“No,” she said quickly. Too quickly. Her aunt eyed her through suspicious, narrow slits. When Eleanor next spoke, she did so in steadier tones. “That is, thank you, but I’ve no need. I’m here as your companion.” And one of the only reasons Eleanor had confronted the demons of her past by returning to London was to provide companionship to the widowed, childless woman. “There is no need for anything more than my current wardrobe.”

Marcia tugged at her hand, forcing Eleanor’s attention downward. “But, Mama, you would look ever so lovely in new dresses.” She looked to Aunt Dorothea. “Wouldn’t she, Aunt?”

“She certainly will not look any worse than she does now.”

A laugh escaped Eleanor, earning a scowl from the duchess.

“I was not making a jest, gel.”

“My apologies,” Eleanor said with forced solemnity.

“It is settled. We shall take you to the modiste.” Then she flicked her gaze over Marcia. “And we’ll have a dress made for Marcia.”

An excited squeal pealed in the room as Marcia hopped up from her seat and jumped up and down. “Oh, truly? Truly? Truly? That will be most splendid.”

“There is no need for dresses,” Eleanor put in. She’d not accept any more of her aunt’s charity than she’d been forced to. “For either of us.”

Her daughter’s exuberance died a swift death. Any other child would have stomped her feet and begged in protest. Through the years, however, Marcia had demonstrated a stoic maturity better suited to a child of far older years. “Very well,” she said on a dejected sigh and regret filled Eleanor at never having been able to provide the world she wished for her daughter.

“See what you’ve gone and done, gel?” Her aunt glowered. “You’ve made the girl sad.”

“Perhaps one or two new dresses,” Eleanor conceded and her daughter’s head shot up.

Brightness illuminated her brown eyes and she hurled her arms around Eleanor’s waist, squeezing hard. “Oh, thank you.” Then she suddenly released her mother and sprinted over to Aunt Dorothea.

“Marcia,” Eleanor called out, anticipating the girl’s intentions too late.