To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(38)

Eleanor and Marcus responded in unison. “We’re not squabbling.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

They were both wise enough to say nothing on that score.

She made a sound of disgust. “Between the two of you, you cannot put forth a single suggestion on a gown. Perhaps your sister might.” The duchess glanced about. “Now where is your sister? I’d make my hellos.” The duchess, in her usual boisterous manner, bellowed for Marcus’ sister. Eleanor flinched and mouthed a silent apology.

Despite himself, he grinned at the eccentricity of the older woman.

From across the shop, Lizzie came hurrying down the aisle with Lady Marianne trailing close behind. The duo stopped and a wide smile wreathed his sister’s cheeks. “Your Grace, Mrs. Collins,” she dipped a curtsy. “It is ever so lovely to see you,” she greeted with a sincerity that brought an honest smile to the older woman’s wrinkled face.

“Come closer, girl.” She motioned Lizzie forward. His sister, ever obedient and proper, complied. “I’ve need of your assistance as your brother has proven wholly useless.” A little giggle escaped his sister and he frowned. “Regardless, you managed to have this one,” she jerked her thumb at Marcus, “bring you and,” she looked over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the lady hovering beyond Lizzie’s shoulders. “Your friend?” The wry twist to those words gave every indication as to her opinion on Lizzie’s choice in friends.

“Oh, yes. Marcus is the most wonderful of brothers. He is so very faithful.”

At his sister’s effusive praise, Marcus cleared his throat. “Allow me to perform introductions. Your Grace, Mrs. Collins, may I present Lady Marianne Hamilton?”



With the vitriolic glare trained on Eleanor, the tight-mouthed beauty at Lizzie Gray’s side spoke more with that look than any words ever could—Marcus, Viscount Wessex, belonged to her.

A vicious, cloying, and insidious envy snaked through her like a slow-moving cancer. It destroyed reason and logic and years of resolve in putting Marcus from her thoughts so that she stood, humbled and jealous, before this collection of politely chatting Society members.

Just then, Marcus said something that brought a blush to the young lady’s cheeks. The shop filled with answering laughs, and Eleanor stood there, the worst kind of interloper in a world she’d never belonged to. She slipped away from the exchange and retreated within the shop. Passing her hands over the tables of fabric, she absently studied the cheerful yellow and green pastels; cheerful colors deserving a virginal, cheerful wearer. And more, fabrics and gowns befitting the Lady Mariannes of the world.

Eleanor had never fit in this world. As a merchant’s daughter, her people were the makers and sellers of goods. She drew to a slow stop as Marcus inserted himself at the end of the aisle she strolled. Eleanor wetted her lips and glanced through the bolts of fabric and ribbons dangling from the ceiling that provided an artificial sense of privacy.

His sister and her friend remained conversing with Eleanor’s aunt.

As he strolled closer, Eleanor shot a trembling hand out and rested it on the wide, white column in a search for support. After their exchange in the gardens, she’d expected he’d abandoned his intentions to attempt to seduce her. And yet, the hot flare of desire in his eyes and the promise on his lips told an altogether different tale. She eyed him warily.

“Have you thought on the offer I presented you?”

She rounded her eyes. Surely, even Marcus was not so bold as to talk seduction in the midst of a shop with their families just steps away?

“I see you have,” he confirmed.

She concentrated on his cynical grin and hard eyes; welcoming that fury and embracing her own, for it prevented her from splintering to pieces before this man who owned her heart. Why, with his bold words and suggestive tone, he may as well have requested crimson fabric from the modiste and declared Eleanor his mistress. A panicky giggle bubbled past her lips. Ice flecked the cool blue of his eyes. Yes, the hard, unflappable gentleman he’d become would not take to being laughed at, and he likely interpreted her reaction as response to him and his highhanded ways.

“Have I said something to amuse you, Eleanor?”

Amuse her? Hurt and humiliate, certainly, but there was nothing at all entertaining in the suggestive glint in his eyes or the improper words on his lips.

“Not at all, my lord.” At his smugly condescending expression, she seethed, tempted to plant him a well-deserved facer. Refusing to let him see how his words affected her, she forced a smile. “I do appreciate that I now have certain freedoms. Not, however, the freedoms you speak of,” she dropped her voice to a hushed whisper and his intent stare fell to her lips. All the horror visited upon her by another mouth reared its vile memory and she retreated a step. Then without a jot of concern for propriety or the young ladies chatting with her aunt, she wandered down the long, wood table covered in bolts of fabric, putting much needed distance between her and Marcus.

Relentless, he advanced. “Oh?” Marcus drawled so low his words barely reached her ears. Nonetheless, Eleanor stole a glance about to ascertain whether anyone had overheard the shocking words from the roguish viscount. Alas, a brown skirt wearing, bespectacled widow speaking to a nobleman of Marcus’ caliber would never be cause for notice. “And what freedoms did I speak of?”