To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(31)

Without another word, Marcus tipped his head and strode over to the wall. He hefted himself over the ledge, sliding down the side. He claimed a seat on the wrought iron bench.

His ears attuned to her every movement, he detected Eleanor’s shuddery sigh and then the click of the door as she disappeared inside her aunt’s townhouse.





Chapter 8


Her aunt’s dinner had been a disaster. The interlude in the gardens with Marcus was an even greater one. But she’d survived.

That is, after all, what Eleanor had perfected over the years. The art of survival. Surviving when one’s heart was being torn open from the agony of loss. Surviving when the only parent one remembered, who’d given up all to try and salvage a hopeless life, died. Surviving when the horrors visited upon her should have destroyed her.

Two nights after the duchess’ intimate party, Marcus occupied every chamber of Eleanor’s mind. For with his parting pledge, he’d forced her to contemplate both how it had once been between them and the hell that had come to her in a different garden at her attacker’s hands. And in her musings, Marcus wrestled control away from that night of horror.

Seated on the pink sofa, she eyed the volume of Mary Wollstonecraft’s work on her lap, studying the gold lettering upon the leather book. She trailed her fingertips over those letters, recalling Marcus as he’d been; tempting and charming, and yet…cynical. A shell of the man he’d been. A man who’d kissed her with the same passion of his youth, but with a new roguish experience. An experience that came from years of countless courtesans and widows he’d bedded. She closed her eyes a moment torn between hating him for that knowledge and loving him for awakening this yearning within her.

After her rape, she’d believed herself incapable of feeling anything but revulsion from a man’s touch. The memory of Marcus’ searing kisses, the burn of his questing hand as he’d explored her body, all those once beautiful acts, had been torn asunder by another so that she’d come to view them as vile, violent, and shameful.

Just as Marcus had introduced her to the hint of passion years earlier, now he’d awakened her to the beautiful, healing truth—she was still capable of feeling something in a man’s arms—something beyond hurt and pain. Her heart caught. Nay, not just any man could stir this need inside her. It had only ever been and would forever only be Marcus who had the power to make her feel and celebrate the glorious wonder of desire.

And she loved Marcus all the more for it. Eleanor forced her eyes open and stared blankly down at the book. She loved him, even as his guarded eyes revealed a cynical man, mistrustful and jaded.

Is that because of me? Her heart wrenched. Surely a man who’d moved on to become a notorious rogue, taking his pleasure where he would, did not harbor ill-will for the young lady who’d set him free? He would if he loved me and I broke his heart…And he’d never given her reason to doubt his love. Yet, she’d somehow convinced herself that what he’d felt for her had merely been the romantic sentiments of a young man who didn’t truly know his mind and certainly not his heart. That had made the agony of leaving him bearable.

“I believe you are the one in need of a companion, gel.”

Her aunt’s words brought Eleanor’s head up so quickly the spectacles slipped down the bridge of her nose. She pushed them back into place. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and hurriedly opened the tome, fanning the pages to the last chapter of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work.

“Bah, I’ve had enough of Mrs. Wollstonecraft today.” The older woman leaned over and plucked the volume from Eleanor’s hands. “I wish to speak to you about why I had you come here to London.”

Panic jumped in her chest. “I will strive to do better,” she said quickly. When her aunt’s missive had arrived she’d been conflicted with warring sentiments; fear of returning and gratitude for the salvation offered Eleanor and Marcia. “I know I’ve been distracted.” A vast understatement. She’d been woolgathering worse than a debutante who’d just made her Come Out and found love. Eleanor would know. She’d been that girl.

“You think I’m aiming to send you away, Eleanor Elaine?” Aunt Dorothea never used her name. Except when displeased.

Eleanor buried her shaking fingers in her skirts. “No?”

Her aunt snorted. “I’ve no intention of sending you away.” Relief sagged Eleanor’s shoulders. “Entirely for selfish reasons,” the duchess added, her cheeks flushed. The usually stoic woman likely didn’t wish to shatter the image she’d established as gruff, stern matron. “I do not care to be alone.”

Not unlike her aunt in that regard, Eleanor could certainly identify with those sentiments. After Father’s passing, even with Marcia, she’d been besieged by the aching loss of his steady, reassuring presence. “I won’t leave you alone,” she said softly. Even if being in London would ever rouse terror in her belly and agony in her heart.

The woman’s wrinkled throat worked. “Of course you won’t,” she said gruffly. She thumped her cane and the two pugs trotted over. With a bent and aged hand, she rubbed them on the tops of their heads. “I lied to you, though, gel.”

Eleanor angled her head. “Aunt Dorothea?”

“I know you’d not have come otherwise.”