To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(41)

“S-stop.”

Eleanor relented.

“Then I shall be a princess and you shall be a queen.” Her daughter had inherited Eleanor’s romantic spirit; that same spirit that had drawn her into hidden alcoves and fragrant gardens and ultimately led to her ruin. Fear curled her belly. For what had Eleanor’s whimsy brought her, except for a broken heart and ruined name? Marcia pulled at her hand. “And tonight you must find a king and I shall have a new papa.”

Agony slashed across her heart. In all her thoughts of Marcia’s happiness, not once had she thought her daughter had a need or desire for a man to call Papa. There had been Eleanor’s father, who’d treated the child with the same tenderness and love he’d shown her, his only child, through the years. Eleanor sank to her knee in a fluttery dance of satin skirts. “Oh, love,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. “We don’t really need a new papa though, do we sweet?” She brushed a loose, blonde curl back behind her daughter’s ear. “You have a mama.”

Little brow furrowed, Marcia scuffed the tip of her slipper upon the floor “Of course we don’t need a new papa.” A smile lit her face. “But it would, of course, be nice to have another. It is always merrier with three.”

Ah, her father’s words echoed across time, spilled from her own daughter’s lips. How many times had he said that precise phrase to Eleanor? “It is also just perfect with two, though, isn’t it?” She ruffled the crown of curls until Marcia drew back with annoyance.

“Well, that isn’t what Grandfather said? He said three.”

Eleanor sank back on her haunches. “Yes, he did, didn’t he?” she murmured to herself. Except that had been years ago, when he, a robust, powerful man of forty-nine years had viewed himself as invincible and his life unending. Foolishly, Eleanor had allowed herself to believe and hope in that very same thing. For what could her life be without the steadfast support of a father who by Society’s dictates should have cast her and Marcia out, and had, instead, given up all and redefined their lives?

“What about Marcus?”

She blinked. “Who?”

“Marcus.” Marcia pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Your friend. I am sure he would be a splendid papa.”

So this vicious, agonizing wrenching was what it was to have an already fractured heart broken all over again. Pain weighed on her chest, making it difficult to draw forth breath. “Oh, sweet, you do not even know the viscount.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Eleanor recognized the lie in them. Marcus, with his steadfast devotion to his sister and the sweet tenderness reserved for those worthy of his affections, those fortunate ones were treated like the princesses and queens Marcia spoke of.

Marcia wrinkled her mouth. “Well, I still believe he would make a wonderful papa.”

For some other child he would, but it would never be her daughter. A vise tightened about her heart, wrenching every pained regret and dream she’d had from the organ. “I am sure he will make someone a wonderful papa, but he is just a friend,” she added one more lie to the mountain of falsities she’d constructed her life upon. She tucked another curl behind her daughter’s ear. Yes, he would be a splendid papa for some fortunate little girl or boy, but it would not be Marcia. Viscounts did not marry ruined women who’d adopted a false name and given birth to a bastard daughter. “Now, off you go,” she said climbing to her feet. “You should be abed and Aunt Dorothea is likely thumping her cane in annoyance at my delay.”

“But surely I can watch Aunt Dorothea’s guests as they arrive.” Marcia clasped her hands at her heart. “I so wish to see the guests. No one will notice me, Mama. You know I am the very best hider—”

“Woah,” Eleanor said on a laugh. She placed her lips close to Marcia’s ears. “Just for a bit and where no one can see you.”

The little girl clapped excitedly. “I cannot wait to have a Season.” She skipped to the door and then froze at the entrance. “Someday, I will find a prince, Mama.” With her child’s faith, she gave a jaunty wave and after a slight struggle with the door handle, wrested it open, and fled.

Eleanor stared at the open door a long moment, and then drawing in a steadying breath, started for the door. Her fingers twitched with the urge to wrestle the fabric of her skirts. With each soft tread of her slippered feet down the corridor, through the halls of her aunt’s extravagant home, panic built slowly and steadily in her breast. For the terror in reentering Society, there was something calming, something reassuring, in being in the safety of Aunt Dorothea’s townhouse. With her knowledge of every secret corridor, and carte blanch of the entire home, she could escape from the noise and crush of guests present.

And she would not be entirely alone through the horrid ordeal. Marcus and his family would be there. Even as his earlier reaction to her in Madame Claremont’s shop had hinted at a man not in the least interested in anything other than seduction. Yes, experienced women like Eleanor were suitable for a man’s bed and not much more than that. Gentlemen like Marcus wed proper young ladies.

Lady Marianne Hamilton flitted to her mind. By the furious glare she’d favored Eleanor with at the modiste’s, the lady had intentions for Marcus.

A little sob tore from her throat but she didn’t break her stride. As much as she longed to shut herself away and hide from the past and the possibility of seeing him, she’d not give him any more control than she’d allowed him these years. Instead, she took ownership of her fear, drawing forth his vile visage which had too much control of her these years; her unknown attacker, with his brandy-scented breath and his cruel fingers and that mocking laugh.