To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(39)

She closed her mouth so quickly, her teeth snapped loudly, radiating pain up along her jawline. “You—I, that is…”

In a move she’d wager every coin dangled by her late uncle was deliberate, Marcus shifted his body, shielding her from the other patrons and shrinking the space between them. Her body stirred in an old, unfamiliar way and, for a moment, she closed her eyes and embraced the purity and completeness of her body’s awareness of him as a man; aware of him in a way devoid of the fear and horror to plague her. She never wanted to open her eyes. Instead, she wanted to prolong this moment that allowed her a sliver of the young woman she’d been before everything that mattered had been stolen—her heart, her happiness, her virtue, Marcus…

“Eleanor?” Concern underscored that single word utterance and brought her eyes reluctantly open.

He stood impossibly close, so close the scent of sandalwood and mint fanned her senses, enticing her with the dreams of what would never be. “My l—” her words ended on a breathless squeak, as he fluidly guided her around the white column. Her heart thumped madly as he dropped his hands on the pillar, effectively framing her body within the shelter of his. She braced for the maddening terror and horrors of the past, and yet her blood thickened with a surge of hot awareness. “This is not proper,” she whispered in a last, futile bid for propriety.

“You don’t care about proper or improper any more than I do.” He spoke with an unerring accuracy in that supposition. “What hold do you have over me, Eleanor?”

The same hold he had over her. Even with the threat of scandal steps away, her body thrilled at his nearness…and then his words registered. Her heart thumped a funny little rhythm. “You do not strike me as a man any woman has control over.”

“They do not.” A half-grin quirked his lips up. “You, however, do, Eleanor.”

Despite his recklessly bold actions and suggestive words, she leaned closer to him.

He lowered his brow to hers. “I thought you’d not have a London Season.” There was no recrimination there; his words more curious than anything.

She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I am not.” Eleanor paused. For what would one call the list of tasks charged her by her late uncle? He’d not force her to endure an entire Season, but there were parts of the Season she was to participate in.

“And you detest those events now as much as you did, then.” Marcus passed a searching gaze over her face.

“And you love those events now as much as you did, then,” she said with a sad smile.

Just one other way in which they’d been different. The only pleasure she’d found in the two months of tedious affairs was secreting off with Marcus, dancing with scandal, all to avoid those same events.

He brushed his knuckle down her cheek and she leaned in to his touch, craving that warmth and gentleness. When was the last time she’d been held so tenderly? Not for years. For this touch was different than the one shared between a mother and child, or father and daughter. This was the caress bestowed by a man who hungered for her, even still with all the years of betrayal and hurt between them. And there was something so very heady in being touched and looked at where shame and humiliation didn’t exist.

Their gazes locked. Teeming from the depths of his pale blue eyes was a passion that threatened to burn her. “Why do we continue to deny each other the only true emotion that ever existed between us?”

…Do not deny it, slut. You know you want this…

Eleanor shoved Marcus with such force that his arms fell to his sides. Mouth dry with fear, she rushed by him. In her bid to escape, she knocked against the table at her back, upending the whispery soft contents on display. Satins and silk swatches tumbled to the floor. Heart racing wildly, she skittered a frantic gaze about the shop, searching for escape. Her palms went damp within her gloves and she balled them hard at her sides while her raggedly indrawn breaths flooded her ears, muting all sound.

The absolute silence and still of the shop echoed like gunfire. The ladies of the shop gaped and gawked with rabid curiosity. Satin and Devlin were the first to break the quiet. Their noisy barks restored the shop to motion. Unable to meet the curious looks trained on her, Eleanor glanced away. Her gaze collided with Marcus. He stood frozen, eying her with consternation. Unable to meet his piercing stare, Eleanor blinked madly and dropped to a knee. She proceeded to gather the fabrics.

“I-I have it,” Eleanor whispered to the French shopkeeper who rushed forward. The same woman ignored her and proceeded to gather the bolts until Marcus waved her off. The young woman rose, dipped a curtsy, and left. Then, wasn’t that the way of their world? Gentlemen could command the world with a single look, while women remained at the bend and mercy of those same men.

With her aunt still occupied by Lizzie and her friend, Eleanor remained on the floor, wanting the wooden slats to open up and draw her in their folds. Tears popped behind her lids and she blinked them back. Until the day she drew forth her last breath, the monster who’d stolen that great gift, to be cherished and treasured, would haunt her. He was the demon of her past, who haunted her present, and would hold on to her future.

She jumped as Marcus fell to a knee beside her—silent and assessing. “Th-thank you,” she whispered. Eleanor stole a peek at him and found his gaze on her quaking fingers, which shook with such force she dropped the items she’d already gathered.