To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(35)

Lady Marianne turned her lips up in a slow, enticing smile.

So why could he not stop comparing her practiced smile to another young lady’s? A woman purer in her golden beauty; with freckles on her nose, and honest, if now guarded, crystalline blue eyes framed by spectacles.

He jumped as his sister called out. “Come, Marcus, have you not heard Marianne’s question? It is entirely rude of you to fail to respond. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

Skin flushed, he looked to his mother, who thankfully remained engrossed in the contents of her plate. “Indeed, Marcus.”

Marcus reached for his cup of coffee and took a sip. “The information on the pages is entertaining enough, Lady Marianne.”

Belatedly realizing the unintended veiled innuendo to those words, Marcus silently cursed at Lady Marianne’s widening smile. Setting his cup down so hard the black brew spilled over the side, he grabbed his copy of The Times and buried his face behind it once more. With a beauty such as Lady Marianne seated across the table and making eyes at him, he should be fixed on that particular lady. After all, he was a hot-blooded, living, breathing male. Though he had no intention of wedding any time soon, despite his mother’s machinations, this cool, beautiful ice princess would pose the perfectly safe match for him. At the very least, he should hold her form and figure in masculine appreciation. Except… While his sister and friend resumed their prattling, he fixed his stare on one name contained within the pages of The Times.

…The Duchess will be joined by her niece, Mrs. C. Not much is known of the lady beyond…

Instead, he sat fuming about the duchess’ blasted niece.

“…Oh, do hush, Lizzie, you are absolutely splendid in any color you don.”

And yet, how could he not mourn the loss of what she’d represented? When life was hell, she’d dragged him out from the mire of misery, guilt, and despair, teaching him it was all right to smile once more.

“…Why must I wear white? This is my second Season?” His sister’s lamentations cut across his musings and he again lowered his paper.

His mother tapped a hand on the table. “It, at least, presents the idea of a just on the market miss, Lizzie.”

His sister snorted and shoved her spectacles on her nose. “Anyone who pays attention to gossip columns knows precisely what I am.”

Lady Marianne made a sound of protest and covered Lizzie’s hand with her own.

Marcus’ smile dipped. “And what is that?” he said, welcome for the diversion away from thoughts of Eleanor and Lionel’s murder.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m a wallflower and one who wears spectacles, at that.”

How could not a single gentleman have realized his sister’s worth? Fools, the lot of them. “There is nothing wrong with spectacles,” he said, his frown deepened.

“Of course there is, Marcus,” his sister said slowly. “Gentlemen do not want to wed a woman with spectacles.” Eleanor’s bespectacled visage flitted across his mind. Even with her tresses pulled tight to her nape in a hideous chignon and the spectacles on her nose, they couldn’t mute the lady’s effervescent beauty still, all these years later.

Their mother and Lady Marianne made simultaneous sounds of protest.

“Oh, pish-posh,” Mother said. “You are plenty beautiful to wed.”

As she launched into a rapid defense of her daughter’s beauty, Marcus leaned over and whispered in his sister’s ear. “We shall get you colorful skirts.”

Her eyes lit with happiness and she clapped her hands together.

“Marcus,” his mother scolded. “She cannot…”

“She can and she shall,” he promised and tugged on one of his sister’s ringlets. He’d come to appreciate long ago that joy was fleeting, and it was best to steal it when and where one could. If a colorful gown would bring even a dash of happiness to his sister, then she’d have it. “Color is what makes life interesting, isn’t that right?”

“How very fortunate you are to have such a loving brother, Lizzie,” Lady Marianne said softly, dropping her chin atop her hand. “One who will take you even now to a modiste.”

“Truly, Marcus?” He bit back a curse as his sister scrambled forward in her chair. “Will you accompany Marianne and me?”

Marcus looked past the troublesome minx, Lady Marianne, whose brown eyes even now sparked with mischief, to his mother.

She shook her head tightly. “I will not support the purchase of any non-white or ivory garments, Marcus.”

Bloody hell. He searched his gaze about the room for escape.

Lizzie hugged his arm. “You are the very best brother,” she said softly. Her plump face settled into a solemnity that erased all her earlier happiness. “Not because of the gown, but because you wish to see me happy. You will make some young lady a very wonderful husband.” She tipped her head at an odd angle.

At that peculiar, less than subtle movement, he shook his head. Lizzie jerked her head once more and he followed her less than discreet nodding to where her friend sat smiling boldly at him. Marcus shifted. By the invitation in Lady Marianne’s smile, she was welcoming the role of prospective future viscountess. “Shall we?” he asked, his voice coming out garbled as he hopped to his feet.

A short while later, Marcus strode down the fashionable end of North Bond Street, trailing behind his sister and Lady Marianne. He conceded the role of chaperone was one he could do without. His sister said something to the young lady accompanying her on her shopping expedition. Lady Marianne glanced back at him, a wicked promise in her eyes.