To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(22)

Her daughter executed a perfect curtsy. “Marcus.”

He held his arm out for Aunt Dorothea and then offered his fingers to Marcia. “I daresay you require an escort as well, my lady.”

Marcia erupted into a fit of the giggles and then slipped her hand into Marcus’. The sight of them paired; her golden-curled daughter and the tall, equally blond Marcus dug with all the vicious ferocity of a rusty dagger being plunged into her stomach. Emotion raged in Eleanor’s breast, threatening to choke her with the force of it, as she stared transfixed at the little girl who, by rights, should have been his, would have been his, had life continued along the predictable path it had started.

Only…

Eleanor dropped her gaze to her daughter’s crown of golden curls. She stared after the party as they started for the door, leaving her with the chaos of her own thoughts. If there had been no horror, there would be no Marcia. There would have been another child, but not this little girl who’d claimed Eleanor’s soul from the moment she’d first held the crying, plump, red-cheeked babe in her arms.

Odd, Eleanor had been forced to sacrifice one happiness only to find an altogether different joy.

Marcus paused in the doorway and cast a lingering glance over his shoulder. Gone was the animosity she’d detected since their reunion, replaced now by a concern better suited to the man he’d been. She mustered a smile and started after them. The mask he’d donned fell back into place and he was once again the Viscount Wessex—stranger.



The two older matrons filled the dining table with the appropriate discourse; politely engaging Eleanor’s small daughter, allowing Marcus the luxury of his own musings. Since their meeting earlier that afternoon, Eleanor had owned every one of his thoughts.

He told himself not to stare and yet, to have searched for her and then ultimately given up on the dream of seeing her again, he could no sooner lob off his right hand than he could stop taking her in. Albeit, in furtive, sideways glances, while she shoved her fork about her untouched plate, the only indication of the lady’s unease.

How very different she was than the girl he remembered. Those luxuriant, golden curls were once again drawn tightly against her scalp in a severe coiffure better suited to a woman ten years her senior or a governess bent on respectability. No longer giggling and garrulous, she’d instead become quiet. Somber. Solemn.

He took in her drab, brown skirts and again a loathing filled him for the man who’d wedded her and left her dependent upon the charity of relatives for her and Marcia’s survival.

Tired of the stilted silence between them, he spoke. “Do you find your meal unsatisfactory?”

Eleanor’s head shot up. At her prolonged silence, he arched an eyebrow. Once upon a lifetime ago, she would have given him a teasing wink and witty rejoinder. “No.” As though to prove the contrary, she popped a bite into her mouth. Those long, elegant fingers that had once effortlessly twined with his, like naked lovers united as one, she reached for her wine glass. The tremble of her fingertips drew his notice.

He took in the delicious sight of her crimson lips upon the rim of that glass, hating himself for envying the crystal object as he did. The lady had left him, chosen another, wedded, and returned, giving no indication that he’d been anything more to her than a mere diversion—and yet he still hungered for her. “And are you enjoying the pigeon in white sauce?”

She passed a dubious stare over the contents of her plate, the wariness in her eyes suggested a fear that he’d tampered with her food. “Er, yes. Very much.” Which was very much, a lie. The lady hadn’t taken any more than one corner nibble until now.

Marcus settled back in his chair, making himself comfortable, taking an unholy delight in the manner in which she shifted under his focus. Good. With the effortless ease with which she’d shattered his heart and violated his trust, the lady should squirm. “Or tell me, Mrs. Collins? Do you find yourself enjoying the pigeon one moment, and then being so very…enticed by the lemon roast that you completely forget—the pigeon?”

Red color suffused her cheeks and she raised her eyes to his. The silver flecks danced with fury, a reminder of the passion that had once been so very strong between them. Then with slow, precise movements, she picked up her fork and knife and delicately carved a piece of pigeon. “I don’t know, my lord.” He narrowed his eyes. She’d “my lord” him, would she? “I find the sweet aspect of the pigeon infinitely more agreeable than the bitter taste of the pig.”

By God, had she just called him a pig? With a pointed look and very deliberate movements, she popped a piece of pigeon into her mouth, confirming that very supposition. The audacity of her. And yet…despite the lady’s thinly veiled insult, a smile pulled at his lips.

Marcus rested his arms on the sides of his chair and drummed his fingertips, all the while studying her in silence. A girl-like blush blossomed on her cheeks and she studiously avoided his gaze. Alas, he’d spent the past years charming lonely widows and courtesans. The defenses Eleanor sought to erect were flimsy ones at best. “Never tell me you’re nervous to be alone with me?” he drawled. He examined her through thick lashes and her skin burned ten shades hotter.

She spoke quickly. “Don’t be silly.” Too quickly. Belatedly she lifted her gaze to his. “Nor are we alone.” She looked pointedly to the guests engrossed in discourse about the table.