To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(40)

His frown deepened. “Here,” he said on a gruff whisper.

“I do not need your help,” she bit out from the side of her mouth. She wanted him gone; from this shop, from her life. Needed him gone so she needn’t have to face daily reminders of all she’d lost and all she would never have.

Marcus settled his hand over hers and she stiffened, braced for the taunting ice underscoring his practiced words of seduction. “Let me,” he comforted. Wordlessly, she sank back on her haunches and allowed him to place the bolts upon the table. Spirited and bold years past, she’d proudly glided ungracefully through the steps of quadrilles and country reels, uncaring of Society’s disapproving stare. How low fate had brought her that she should wish to crawl underneath the modiste’s table like a beaten animal. God, how she despised what she’d become.

Marcus stood and held a hand out to assist her to her feet. Eleanor eyed his fingers a long moment and then glanced once more down at the floor. “Take my fingers,” he urged softly.

She hesitated, still hopelessly transfixed by his extended gloved hand and saw equally powerful, white-gloved fingers that belonged to another. Her body broke into a cold sweat. Not here. Not now. Except, the mundane shop sounds dissolved, coming as though down a long, empty corridor and the floodgates opened. His punishing palm covered her mouth, cutting off all airflow, stifling her pleas. She was suffocating, dying—

“What is it, Eleanor?”

The quiet concern in Marcus’ tone sucked her back from memories that would never die.

Except, Marcus’ was different. She blinked slowly. Where another man’s had brought her pain and suffering, Marcus had only shown her gentleness and kindness. Even now, hating her as he did, he still held his palm extended to her. Emotion wadded her throat and she tried to swallow past it. “Eleanor,” he urged with such tenderness, her heart wrenched. Willing her tumultuous thoughts into order, Eleanor placed her fingers in his, allowing him to help her up.

Reluctantly, she drew her fingers back and clasped them before her. She made to return to her aunt, but then froze. Her gaze lingered on Lady Marianne Hamilton; a perfect future viscountess if ever there was one. The young woman took in their exchange with icy fury.

A chill ran along Eleanor’s spine at the barely contained loathing in Lady Marianne’s eyes. Unable to hold that venomous stare, Eleanor returned her attention to Marcus. “I did not lie to you,” she said quietly. “I am not here husband hunting, Marcus. I am here because I have no other choice. I am here even as I hate London with every fiber of my being.” She tugged at the fabric of her skirts and when she caught his attention on that distracted little movement, abruptly stopped.

With that, she hurried back to her aunt’s side, her skin burned with the intensity of Marcus’ gaze upon her person. Her daughter in her childish naiveté hadn’t understood that friendships could not survive all.

Finished conversing, the two ladies shuffled off to inspect another bolt of fabric and the duchess looked up. “Well?” She stared at a point beyond Eleanor’s shoulder. “What is it to be, my dear boy,” her aunt called. “Never tell me I cannot expect an answer from you. The gel needs a gown and isn’t any help on the fabric.”

Eleanor curled her hands into such tight balls her nails dug painfully into the fabric of her kidskin gloves. Why is he still here? Perhaps he was right and their paths, by sheer nature of their history, familial connections, and a cruel fate, were inextricably intertwined.

“Pink.” His deep, mellifluous baritone washed over her. “The lady requires a pink ball gown.” The softest pink blush stains your cheeks and I know it is a desire for me, and it is a secret that is only ours, sweet Eleanor…

“Pink it is,” the duchess said with a pleased nod.





Chapter 10


In the end, she wore pink. Despite the bolder, deeper hues favored by, widows, the soft pink satin fabric clung to Eleanor’s skin. As she stared back at her reflection in the bevel mirror, the woman with tired eyes and a tense mouth, she saw the mockery of the pale pink shade better reserved for an innocent debutante. The girl she’d been would have donned this magnificent creation and thrilled at presenting herself to Marcus in this very gown. There was no longer anything magnificent about her.

What was she doing? Even for ten thousand pounds, this move was folly. The muscles of her throat worked painfully as she confronted the truth. Her uncle, even from the grave, exerted his ducal influence. He would have her present herself before London Society. Unknowing the dark secret of her past, he’d have her confront both the dreams and demons she’d left behind, both of which would always live within her. Two very different men had stolen different pieces of her soul and she could never, would never, reclaim those pieces.

Panic twisted at her insides. She could not do this. The man who’d stolen her virtue in the cruelest, most vicious way possible lurked like a specter; with Eleanor but one ball or soiree away from confronting the ugliest part of her existence.

A slight tugging at her skirts brought Eleanor’s attention down to her gape-mouthed daughter. “You are a princess.” The awestruck whisper drew Eleanor back from the edge of madness.

A tattered and torn princess. “How can I be a princess when you are one? There cannot be two princesses.” She tickled her daughter at the sensitive spot behind her nape until snorting giggles escaped her small, bow-shaped lips.