To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(21)

Marcia launched herself into Aunt Dorothea’s arms and knocked the old woman back in her seat. “Oh, thank you ever so much, Aunt.”

Eleanor rushed over but the duchess frowned over the top of Marcia’s head. “Do you think I’m made of sugar? A hug from a small girl isn’t going to hurt me, I assure you.”

She rocked to a stop and took in the affectionate tableau as the childless, notoriously gruff Duchess of Devonshire patted Marcia on her back. For the first time since the missive had arrived more than a month ago, it occurred to Eleanor, with the offer of companionship on behalf of Aunt Dorothea, that this relationship was not truly one-sided. Perhaps her eccentric aunt needed them just as much as they needed her.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and Eleanor’s heart skittered a beat as the younger butler appeared and announced the guests. “The Viscount Wessex, the Viscountess Wessex, and Miss Lizzie Gray.”

Marcus stepped into the room, resplendent in a black evening coat, black breeches, and his immaculate, snow white cravat. He moved with the confidence and grace of a man who may as well have owned the very room he now entered.

A loud humming filled Eleanor’s ears and she welcomed the distraction presented by Aunt Dorothea, who stood and engaged in the necessary trivialities. “You came,” Eleanor blurted.

All conversation ceased, leaving nothing more than the echo of her humiliating words and the attention of five sets of eyes.

Marcia broke the stilted silence…“Mama, your skirts.”… in the most awkward way.

Eleanor released the fabric of her dress and let her arms fall back to her side, and then remembering herself, dropped a belated curtsy. “My lady,” she offered lamely to the Viscountess Wessex.

The years had been kind to the smiling, always benevolent viscountess. “Eleanor,” she greeted. “It is so very lovely to see you,” and spoken in those warm tones, Eleanor believed the woman. Eleanor shifted her attention to the curious young lady with thick, brown ringlets—Marcus’ sister, older, taller, more grown-up than she remembered. Weren’t they all, then?

Her aunt jammed the tip of her cane into the hardwood floor. “There is a new person joining us.” She motioned to Marcia and in that innocuous, if unconventional, introduction diverted attention away from Eleanor, for which she’d be forever grateful.

As the two women greeted Marcia, Eleanor stood to the side in silence. Most members of polite Society would be scandalized by the presence of a child at a formal dinner, but then her aunt had always drummed her own beat and danced to her entirely made up rhythm. Through the introductions, Eleanor’s skin pricked as Marcus studied her through thick, hooded blond lashes. As she’d never been a coward, she met his gaze.

He strolled over, with long, languid movements better suited to a tiger tracking its prey. With her heart scrambling into her throat, she retreated and then caught herself before taking any further steps. This was Marcus. As much as he might resent her, nay, hate her, he would never hurt her. She’d stake all she owned on that fact. She rooted herself to the floor and caught her hands upon the back of the pink sofa.

“I gather by your exclamation, Eleanor, you’re surprised to see me.” A lazy grin turned his lips upward. Gone was all the warmth and gentleness she’d once known in that smile. From his thickly veiled lids to his slight grin, he’d perfected the role of rogue with an ease of one who’d been born to the position.

As bold and teasing as he’d always been, of course Marcus would not let her earlier outburst rest. Eleanor wetted her lips. “I am, was,” she corrected, “surprised you’ve come.”

He propped his hip on the edge of the back of the sofa. “Did you think I would stay away because of you?” He studied her and the heated intensity of that stare burned her skin.

She met his unrepentant stare. “No.” The lie tumbled easily from her lips. His gaze fell downward and she followed his stare to her skirts. Eleanor immediately released the drab, brown fabric and yanked her head up. He shifted, angling his body in such a way that she was shielded from the small party conversing behind him. That subtle movement brought their bodies so close, she felt the tension dripping from his frame.

He dipped his head close. “Were you hoping I stayed away?” His brandy-scented breath fanned her lips, bringing her back to another night, another man.

Her stomach churned and she closed her eyes a moment, but the insidious memories had already crept in; the repulsive taste of spirits, the maniacal laugh, her own gasping cries. She stumbled back a step, and in her haste to get away, knocked against a small mahogany table. Her fingers shot out instinctively to capture the teetering porcelain shepherdess but Marcus easily caught the piece, righting it. He assessed her in that searching, bold way of his. Eleanor sought glimpses of the youth he’d been, but once again, found only this hard, powerful man instead. A man who smelled of brandy and studied her with coolly detached eyes.

Thankfully, a servant entered and announced dinner.

“Come along, boy,” Aunt Dorothea called out. “After years of avoiding my dinners, you owe me an escort.”

A smile played on Marcus’ lips. In that moment, he was that man and Eleanor was that girl, but then his gaze snagged upon Eleanor once more, and that gentle grin died. “Indeed, my lady,” he called out. “It has been too many years,” he said. If Eleanor were the wagering sort, she’d bet the meager coins left by her papa that those words were intended for her. He came to a stop beside the assembled guests and paused to sketch a bow for Marcia. “Miss Collins.”