To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(36)

Before Eleanor had reemerged, Marcus would have been tempted by the promise in Lady Marianne’s eyes. Now, as Lady Marianne trailed the tip of her tongue over the seam of her lips, there was somehow a wrongness in appreciating the lady’s lush beauty. He silently strung together a stream of curses. Why could Eleanor not have stayed away? Why, so he could welcome the lust and lack of emotion he’d known with every other woman after her?

This time, when Lady Marianne peaked over her shoulder, Marcus deliberately looked away.

There had only been one, and would forever only be one, woman who’d held his heart, even if she’d not been deserving of that foolish organ. Except, Eleanor hadn’t evinced the jaded, cynicism of the Lady Mariannes of the world. Fresh from the country and uninfluenced by the ton, she’d laughed and smiled with an abandon to captivate even the most broken of men—which he’d been.

The two ladies came to a stop beside a shop front and then filed inside like a row of ducks on their way to water. He lingered outside, reflecting not for the first time on his exchange with Eleanor several evenings ago in the gardens.

They’d both established that even with the shared street between them, there was little reason for them to see one another, and they assuredly would not be moving in the same Social spheres. Eleanor had undertaken the responsibilities as companion to the Duchess of Devonshire, and Marcus would visit ball after ball in the comfortable role of rogue he’d adopted these years. Those truths should bring relief and yet, there was none. Instead, he thought of Eleanor, in her drab, brown skirts and tightly drawn curls, impoverished, reliant on her aunt for survival, and he didn’t want her relegated to that dark and dreary world, even if it did preserve his sanity. She should be attired in the finest satins and silks, only those gowns would not be the whites and ivories befitting the innocent she’d been. Now, she could and should be draped in those bold hues that conjured wicked thoughts. He fisted his hands, loathing the idea that her status as widow had earned her the right to those bold colors.

With a silent curse, he stomped up the handful of steps into the shop, determined to shake Eleanor’s potent hold on his thoughts. He’d already ceded too much power to her years ago. He’d be damned if he allowed her any more of that control, just because he pitied the poor relation she’d become.

He closed the door of the shop, and hovered at the entrance, taking in his sister and Lady Marianne examining bolts of fabric. Marcus tugged at his cravat. Gentlemen didn’t belong in a modiste’s shop, and but for the visits he’d paid to the fashionable shops with his mistresses over the years, he’d studiously avoided them.

A sharp yap filled the establishment. He stiffened and looked about. A fawn pug came bounding toward him. The snorting ball of fur plopped at Marcus’ feet and licked his boot. He narrowed his eyes. A very familiar snorting ball of fur. The dog’s curled tongue lolled sideways out of his mouth. It was hardly the little bugger’s fault for sharing walls with a certain temptress. Marcus bent down distractedly and patted the pug on his head.

From within the shop, a familiar, aged voice called out. “Pay attention, gel. What do you think of this fabric?” He stilled as the duchess’ gruff tone echoed off the walls of the establishment.

Marcus straightened. Of course the lady would be here. The lady was everywhere.

Drawn forward, Marcus advanced deeper into the shop.

“You need a ball gown, gel. We cannot have you dancing in those drab, brown skirts.” He and the duchess were of like opinion in this regard, but then the implications of that pronouncement sank into his mind; Eleanor properly attired in decadent silks and satins which conjured the most forbidden thoughts, all of which found the lady on her back, arms outstretched and her hair cascading in a golden waterfall about her. “If you’ll not pick a swatch, I’ll do it on my own. You can’t have a Come Out in those brown skirts.”

Eleanor’s murmured response was lost to him.

Marcus fisted his hands at his sides. The lady had professed to being in London for no other reason than to serve as companion and, yet, by all intents and purposes was prepared to take the ton by storm as the young widow, returned to polite Society. His sister and her friend forgotten, he followed the duchess’ clipped and commanding voice, and froze. He peered down the aisle to where the lady stood alongside Eleanor.

The older woman stood beside the modiste with two bolts of fabric in her hands—a pale yellow satin, better suited to a young debutante, and a garish orange muslin. Eleanor shook her head with such vigor she’d give herself a headache for her efforts. “…No need…”

Marcus stood as a silent observer, eying those fabrics, neither of which would suit Eleanor. Not anymore. At one time, yes. Now, she should be adorned in crimson reds and rich burgundies. He gripped the wood pillar. With her golden tresses, he’d have her in the softest, luxuriant, pink silk; a touch of innocence with a suggestive allure.

“There is always ivory,” the duchess muttered something to herself as she moved her hands over various samples laid out.

“Ivory would be a perfect choice,” the modiste exclaimed in a thick, outrageously embellished, and most definitely, false French accent.

“I am too old for ivory,” Eleanor declared at her side.

An inelegant snort spilled past the older woman’s lips. “I’m old, gel. You are young.” She flicked the sleeve of Eleanor’s brown dress. “Even if you insist on dressing yourself like a pinch-mouthed governess.” Dismissing Eleanor’s continued protestations, she turned her attention to the plump shopkeeper. “We need a ball gown and another swatch of fabric.”