To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(23)

“But we could be,” he promised on a whisper, and leaned close, so close his thigh pressed against hers.

The slight, audible intake of her breath met his ears and he relished the lady’s flushed cheeks, the muscles of her throat moving rapidly. For Eleanor’s quick flight from his life, her reaction revealed a woman who was not immune to him. Marcus continued his deliberate seduction. “What if I said I came tonight to see you?” He hooded his lashes. “That I was compelled by your presence?”

Eleanor looked about and then when she returned her attention to him, she spoke in hushed tones. “I would say I don’t believe you. I would say you don’t see me differently than any widow you’ve bedded.” She gave him a long, sad look. “You are not a man any woman holds power over.”

He stilled. Her faintly accusatory edge not lost on his jaded ears. Did she not realize the power she’d held over him all those years ago? He’d have brought down kingdoms to secure her love. He dropped his eyes downward to where she viciously scrabbled at the fabric of her dress and the carefree response on his lips died. Eleanor followed his stare and immediately released the fabric and yanked her head up. God, even in the hideous garment she’d the beauty to rival Aphrodite. Yes, she could feign indifference, but the lady was as aware of him, all these years later, as she’d been as a woman of just eighteen, and there was something empowering in that discovery.

A child’s giggle ripped through the moment, promptly dousing all trace of desire. His gaze strayed to Marcia. The little girl sat beside his sister, her plump, white cheeks illuminated by the warm glow of the candelabra. Whatever she said at that precise moment roused his sister to laughter. Suddenly shame slapped at his conscience; shame for hungering after Eleanor still and attempting to seduce her before polite company, and before her young daughter, no less.

Self-disgust gripped him. Reluctantly, he looked to Eleanor and found her studying him warily and it gave him pause. Who had put the suspicion there in her expressive eyes? Was her husband responsible for that cynical mistrust? Marcus gripped the arms of his chair hard, not wanting to imagine Eleanor dependent upon a husband who’d treated her with anything but kindness. Even as she’d broken Marcus’ heart, he did not want to believe she’d suffered in any way over the years. He attempted to thrust aside the lurking questions.

Except…now his mind had wandered down a path for which there was no irrevocable course. And the questions about Lieutenant Collins flooded his consciousness: What manner of father had he been to the girl? Had they been a happy family?

As though sensing his attention, Marcia glanced across the table and gave an eager little wave. A golden curl tumbled over her brow and she shoved it behind her ear. Emotion pulled at his heart. What did small girls with golden curls do with their days? All the little pieces he would have known had she been his. Marcus dropped his elbows on the table and called over to the little girl. “Tell me, Marcia, how does a young girl spend her days?”

Seeming to note the attention of all the guests shift her way, Marcia sat prouder in her chair and firmed her little shoulders. “I enjoy reading.” Which did not surprise him. Eleanor had been a voracious reader. How many libraries had they snuck away to during ton events? “I like to sketch.” I’m an atrocious artist. A skill the girl had likely acquired from the papa. His gut clenched. Then she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I also like to fence. My mama said my papa was a master fencer.”

Marcus stiffened, grateful for the duchess’ boisterous laugh that saved him from responding. “A girl who fences. You’ve raised a splendid child,” the older woman said, hoisting her glass aloft in toast.

Mother and daughter locked stares and some unspoken, powerful communication passed between them. Then with a sigh, Marcia dropped an elbow onto the table and buried her head into it. His mind traveled the path of time back to a younger Eleanor and he locked in a fencing match with invisible swords. She, becoming tangled in her satin skirts and landing in an ignoble heap upon the floor. He coming over her… The stem of his wine glass snapped and a servant rushed forward to relieve him of the burden and right the mess.

And not for the first time since he’d found Eleanor and that silly dog on the street, he damned her for returning and throwing his world into tumult. Just then, with every fiber of his being, he hated her for the pain she’d wrought. Never again would he yield that control to any woman.

The duchess called Marcia’s attention back and the remainder of the meal continued with no further exchange between him and Eleanor. For all intents and purposes, they may as well have been strangers, and as the meal concluded and Marcia was escorted abovestairs by her nursemaid, he briefly entertained the idea of making his excuses. He squared his jaw and stole a sideways glance at Eleanor. He’d not be the hurt and wounded pup, driven off.

And so, escorting his hostess and her small smattering of guests to the parlor, he took an unholy delight in the way Eleanor cast a glance back over her shoulder at him. She troubled the flesh of her lower lip as she’d done whenever she was worried or contemplative and then swiftly diverted her attention forward. That slight nuance so patently hers, that only he knew—

Pain lanced through him as they moved down the hall. For that wasn’t true any longer. Another had known her and known her in ways Marcus hadn’t, nor ever would.

“When did you become so serious?” The duchess charged as they turned down the corridor and continued on toward the hall.