To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(26)

She’d not truly allowed herself to think of Marcus beyond the agonizing thought of what might have been. As such, she’d never once considered a man such as he would set out to seduce a bespectacled widow, attired in hideous brown skirts.

Eleanor stopped midstride and the midnight quiet echoed around her. And though there was a triumph in her body’s response to him…there was an excruciating pain at his interest, as well.

For she didn’t want him to be one of those indolent lords. She wanted to have arrived in London and found the gossips proven wrong; to see him as a man driven by more than the pleasures of the flesh.

As though in mockery of that foolish wish, her gaze snagged upon the ormolu clock atop her fireplace mantel. Ten minutes past twelve.

At fifteen past the hour, I will always be there. And we shall always know where we two are.

Her throat worked painfully with the force of her swallow. Twelve fifteen had always been their hour; the special time reserved for them. Regardless of ball or soiree or a quiet, eventless evening, midnight in the gardens belonged to them. And he’d always been there. She captured her lower lip between her teeth so hard the metallic hint of blood flooded her senses. Except once. Once he had not come and from that, their precious hour had been stolen forevermore.

…Were you waiting for me, sweet…?

Her body jerked, as the taunting maniacal laugh worked about her brain. With a small moan, Eleanor dug the heels of her palms into her eyes in a desperate bid to shake free of his memory.

She’d not allow him that hold. Not tonight.

Turning on her heel, she marched over, and grabbed her spectacles. Eleanor placed them on, and then collected her modest night rail from the vanity chair. She shrugged into the white garment and then strode to the door. Pulling it open, she peeked out into the hall.

The lit sconces cast an eerie glow upon the thin, crimson carpet lining the corridor. Eleanor hesitated and then stepped outside the same rooms she’d occupied as a girl of eighteen. Drawing the door closed behind her, she made her way through the hauntingly quiet halls. The floorboards creaked and groaned in protest to her footsteps, and she quickened her stride. Eleanor came to a stop at the servant’s entrance and, glancing about once more, she slipped into the narrow stairway. Grasping the rail, she felt her way down the stairs. Her ragged breaths filled the small space, and when she reached the base of the stairs, she sprinted down the corridor.

For the familiarity of this place, she may as well have been a girl of eighteen, once again. Eleanor skidded to a halt beside the arched oak door and with trembling fingers, pressed the handle and stepped outside.

Of course, time had proven that when the dark demon of her past stole into her thoughts, she could not so easily shake free of his hold. This moment was no exception.

The fragrant scent of roses slapped at her senses sucking her back to a different midnight hour. Her feet twitched with the urge to flee the walled-in grounds and keep running—away from this area, away from this townhouse, away from her past.

Eleanor willed her heart to resume its normal cadence.

You are not the same weak girl you once were, Eleanor Carlyle. She clenched and unclenched her jaw. She’d not allow him his hold to stretch here to these grounds. Not in these gardens that belonged to her and, at one time, Marcus. With trembling fingers, Eleanor yanked the door closed hard behind her. A cold chill raked along her spine, raising gooseflesh on her arms. In a bid for warmth, she scrubbed her hands back and forth over the chilled flesh and looked about. Do not think of it. Do not think of that nameless stranger… She willed herself to think of Marcus, instead. His gentle teasing and the lock of hair he’d snipped in these very gardens and her first kiss and…

Another mouth, a foreign one, forced its way into those beautiful musings.

With a shuddery gasp, Eleanor leaned against the wood and found makeshift support from the hard surface. She closed her eyes as the memories slid in like insidious poison of a different garden, on another moonlight night. A jeering laugh echoed around the chambers of her mind and her breath grew ragged, dulling the night sounds.

Enough!

Drawing in a deep, calming breath, she counted to three and forced her eyes open.

Demons laid to rest, she took in the darkened garden with a now clear gaze. The soft, sweet smell of freesia and chrysanthemums blended, mixing with the stale London air. How very similar this space was all these years later. Why, the hands of time may as well have frozen a moment from long ago and held it suspended forever in this private Eden.

She looked at the high brick walls built about the enclosure. The blood red stones kept the ugliness of London outside and, through that, crafted a fa?ade of purity. Eleanor skimmed her gaze about sadly.

A hungering to abandon London once more and return to the obscurity of the Cornwall countryside gripped her. For then, she’d not have to relive the worst parts of her life or the deepest parts of her regret. She’d not have to muddle through Marcus’ tempting promises and agonize over the bride he’d soon take.

Soon. She smoothed her palm over her nightgown. Soon, she would return with Marcia and then she could relegate this brief period of her life where other broken dreams went to die.



The lady hadn’t been immune to him.

For the flare of indignation and shock in Eleanor’s eyes earlier that evening, the blooming blush on her cheeks and the shuddery gasp she’d emitted spoke of a woman who desired him still.