To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(24)

“I’ve always been serious,” he said with a too-charming smile.

The older woman rapped him on the arm with her fan. “And you’ve become a liar. I’m old, Marcus, I’m not blind. I read the papers. You’ve become a rogue in your old age.” She waggled her thick eyebrows. “Though I’ve read Lady Marianne Hamilton has snared your notice. I expected better for you,” she scolded.

Eleanor shot a quick peak over her shoulder. Their gazes collided and she hastily looked away, but not before he saw the spark of pain that lit in her fathomless blue eyes.

“Hmm?” The Duchess went on, demanding his attention. “Will you marry that one? Surely, as your godmother, I’m deserving of that information from more than the gossip columns.”

In front of them, Eleanor stumbled and then quickly righted herself.

“What’s the matter with you, gel?” her aunt snapped.

“I merely tripped,” Eleanor said hurriedly, not deigning to glance back. The tension in her slender shoulders, however, hinted at the lady’s discontent. Did she care that he’d turned his attention on other women, finding, if not love, then a physical surcease with another? And why did he want that to matter?

“And she’s a horrid liar, that one,” The Duchess said in a hushed whisper he strained to hear.

“Oh?”

The older duchess snorted. “I don’t intend to say anything else on it. You want to know about the girl, you ask her yourself.” He blinked several times. She lowered her eyebrows. “And I won’t be swayed by a charmer such as you. Ah, here we are,” she said, as they entered the room, filing in behind Eleanor and his sister and mother.

As the ladies stood conversing, he studied Eleanor. The words exchanged lost in the distance between them. Periodically, Eleanor nodded and smiled. She should have been his. This should be a close gathering of those linked by familial connections. Instead, there was nothing but cool disdain, icy barbs, and insolent my lords and madams between them.

He tightened his mouth. All these years, he’d sought to bury the hurt caused by Eleanor’s defection. With her reemergence in his life, she’d pulled the carpet of control out from under his feet. He’d never forgotten her. He’d never moved on.

And he hated her for opening his eyes to that realization.

The Duchess of Devonshire stomped her cane on the floor. “You, Lizzie, play for us.” With that terse command, she slid into a pale pink armchair and his mother sat in the chair opposite. Ever obedient, his sister dropped a curtsy and rushed over to the pianoforte. She claimed a seat and began to promptly play.

Eleanor, however, hovered and he strode over, extending his elbow. “Would you stroll with me about the room, Eleanor?” he issued the challenge, partially believing she’d deny his request, yet wholly wanting her to put her fingertips upon his sleeve.

“He doesn’t bite, gel,” the duchess snapped over Lizzie’s playing. At the unexpected interruption, his sister, usually flawless upon the instrument, fumbled the keys and then immediately regained her footing.

Eleanor jumped and then hastily tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to escort her to the perimeter of the expansive parlor. All the while, Lizzie’s haunting playing of Dibdin’s Tom Bowling echoed throughout the cavernous space.

“Did you not wish to join me, love?”

She eyed him with a wariness he’d not believed her capable of. “What do you want, Marcus?”

You. The word rushed forth, born of truth. For all that had come to pass, he desired her still and he would not be content until he had known her in his arms. It spoke to his own weakness and her allure. “What do I want?” He wrapped those words in a seductive whisper that brought her lips apart. His gaze lingered on her mouth. “How can you not know?” Eleanor’s breath hitched loudly and he reveled in that slight audible intake that spoke of her awareness of him. “I want you to accompany me about the room.”

She looked at him with the same crestfallen expression of a child who’d had her peppermints plucked from her fingers. “Oh.”

“The woman I remembered enjoyed those stolen moments alone together.” How many words of love had he whispered in her ear as they’d strolled about this very space?

What a fickle creature she’d proven herself to be.

“Girl.”

Marcus cocked his head.

“I was a girl, Marcus. I was not a woman.”

Under the weight of that reminder, he took in her flared hips, her fuller breasts, straining the fabric of her gown. Yes, she was a woman, and for her betrayal, he wanted her still. Desire raged inside him; a hungering to know Eleanor in the only way he never had.

And why shouldn’t I? She is a widow. I’m no longer the infatuated boy. There were no dangers in them sharing the pleasure of each other’s bodies. Perhaps after he’d taken her to his bed, then he could be free of this maddening sway she’d always had over him.

Marcus shifted, angling his body in such a way that Eleanor was shielded from the small party conversing at the opposite end of the room. That subtle movement brought their bodies close. Tension dripped from her slender frame. “And we are both adults now, aren’t we?” he whispered close to her ear. “There are no rules of propriety.” As adults not bound by the same strictures of Society, they could avail each other of the pleasure of one another’s arms.