To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(37)

The duchess’ words merely reminded him of the lie she’d uttered in the gardens. So the lady was here for a London Season, and no doubt to find another hus—Marcus growled.

From across the shop, Eleanor snapped her head up and their gazes collided. Color rushed her cheeks, and where Lady Marianne’s blushes had held little appeal, the sight of Eleanor, as she’d once been, unrestrained and sincere, filled him with a potent wave of longing. He braced for the moment she jerked her attention away. “Hullo,” she greeted, breaking the silence, and shattering his expectations.

“Mrs. Collins,” he drawled, strolling the length of the aisle. The pug trotted along at his side.

The duchess looked at him. “What are you doing here, boy? Surely nothing appropriate can bring you here.” She softened that recrimination with a sly wink.

The ghost of a frown marred Eleanor’s lips.

“I’ve accompanied my sister and her friend,” he put in, his gaze trained on Eleanor.

Some of the tension left Eleanor’s frame. So the lady was bothered by the idea of him with another. What an inexplicable reaction from a woman who’d thrown him over for another.

The duchess patted his hand. “You’ve always been a good boy, Marcus.” She spoke of him the way she might one of her prized, legendary dogs.

He and Eleanor shared a look and her lips slowly tilted up in a hesitant smile. How very guarded she was. She protected the smile the way the King’s Army preserved peace.

“You’ll help us, Marcus.” The duchess thumped her cane. “Not that I require help,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “But this one,” she gestured to Eleanor. “With her brown and gray gowns believes herself of a great fashion sense.”

He quickly passed a gaze over Eleanor. The lady could don the coarsest, darkest fabric and still shine more resplendent than the sun. “Oh?” he asked noncommittally. Marcus winced as the duchess flipped her cane forward and jabbed him in the knee. “Being a rogue all these years, you’ve forgotten your manners, I see. You owed the girl a compliment.”

“Aunt Dorothea,” Eleanor protested, her expression as pained as her tone. She looked to Marcus and gave a pleading shake. “You really do n—”

“Ah, yes, indeed,” he said softly. He claimed Eleanor’s hand. Her fingertips trembled within his as he raised them to his mouth. “With your beauty, you could set a trend where ladies abandon their white skirts for the shades of gray and brown your aunt now disparages.”

Eleanor’s breath caught and her lips parted. The room fell away. The incessant chattering of his sister and her friend at the front of the establishment, the yapping of the two pugs running about the shop, the modiste standing beside the duchess lifting different bolts for the lady’s examination. His gaze fell to Eleanor’s mouth and he hungered for the feel of her lips beneath his once more.

Then the duchess’ sharp bark of laughter cut across the moment and the world resumed spinning. “A hopeless rogue is what he’s become in your absence, Eleanor.”

With quick movements, Eleanor wrenched her hand free, disentangling their interconnected fingers, and he mourned the loss. He would have severed one of his hands years ago, just to know her touch once more. Now she was here and that caress should be so fleeting. Desperate to reclaim his footing upon a situation fast spiraling out of his control, he forced a smile. “I thought I’d always been a, how did you refer to it? Good boy?”

“Some rogues can be both. You’re one of them. Isn’t that right?” She turned the question to Eleanor.

Eleanor clasped her hands before her. “I daresay I’ve not much experience with rogues.”

Which only raised questions as to what kind of man she’d wed. Had he been a quiet, stoic soldier who’d shared Eleanor’s love of music and sonnets? If so, the man had quashed her spirit, and for that, had never been deserving of the effervescent girl she’d once been. With that demon between them, Marcus cleared his throat. “I’ve interrupted enough of your enjoyments. I should return to my sister. If you’ll excuse me.” He made to turn when the duchess stuck her cane out, blocking his escape.

“I’m not done with you, boy.” She jerked her head toward the beleaguered-looking modiste with her arms loaded with swatches of fabric. “Settle the matter and then we’re done with you. Eleanor needs a ball gown.”

Despite the lady’s protestations some evenings earlier, she’d reentered his world and had come to wreak havoc once more. He gave Eleanor a coolly mocking grin. “Does she?” he murmured, not taking his eyes off Eleanor. “And for what does the lady require a gown?”

Her cheeks flamed red. Instead of being cowed, however, Eleanor angled her chin back. “I daresay even you know what a lady requires a ball gown for.”

Even he? Oh, the little termagant. He folded his arms at his chest. “I would assuredly say a lady would require such a purchase so she might attend a ball.” He quirked a slow, deliberate eyebrow. “Except, by your adamancy several evenings prior, I know that can’t be entirely true.”

Eleanor snapped her lips into a tight line and refused to rise any more to his baiting. He tamped down disappointment, relishing the spirit sparked to life in her eyes. The duchess knocked her cane into the floor once more. “Are you two finished squabbling?”