To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(42)

Fear froze her mid-step and she pressed her palms against the wall and drew in a calming breath. Then another. And another. The repeated rhythm her father had coaxed her through the years when the nightmares had come with ferocity and a staggering frequency. When her breathing settled into a calming, even cadence, she carefully stepped away from the wall. Eleanor smoothed her palms over her skirts, composing herself, and made her way to the foyer. She paused at the top of the stairs, casting one last, longing glance at the path she’d just marched, longing for the innocence of Marcia who was free to avoid all these affairs.

Her aunt paced back and forth, her two dogs nipped wildly at her skirts. One of the pugs looked up to where Eleanor stood frozen and barked once. The duchess spun about. “At last.” She passed a glance over Eleanor’s person and then gave an approving nod. “I’ve been waiting. It’s not done to be late to one’s own ball.”

The gentle reproach set Eleanor into motion. “Forgive me,” she offered, hurrying down the stairs. As she reached the bottom, Satin abandoned his mistress and rushed to Eleanor. He jumped at her skirts. Oddly comforted by his presence, she stroked the silky, soft spot between his eyes and he nudged her hand in approval.

“Well, come along, gel,” her aunt commanded.

Knowing how that famed queen of France had felt on the final march up the steps of the guillotine, Eleanor trailed behind her aunt, silent as they made their way to the ballroom.

“The boy was right,” her aunt said from the corner of her mouth.

Marcus. He’d been referred to as a boy since he’d been a lean, charming youth with a ready smile and even years later, with a broadly powerful frame and hardened, cynical grin, he was still “the boy” to Aunt Dorothea.

“About your pink skirts. I fancied you’d look a deal better in the orange with a turban, of course.”

For the first time since she’d woken that morning with the terror of the evening staring back at her, Eleanor felt the faintest stirrings of amusement. “Of course,” she said with a smile. “Every young lady requires a turban.” Not that she was truly a young lady anymore.

“Wipe that melancholy from your face. You’re a young lady. Any gentleman would be glad to wed you.” Glad to wed me? A never wed widow with a bastard child? Unlikely. “Not, mind you, that I’m advocating you to wed just any gentleman. Pompous prigs, the most of them are.”

Her aunt startled a laugh from Eleanor. Oh, how she loved the enlightened woman.

“Do you know who is not a pompous prig?”

She fought back a groan at her aunt’s none too subtle attempt at matchmaking. “Er…”

“Wessex.” Not the boy, this time. “Oh, he’s become a rogue, one of those charming gentleman.”

Eleanor knew. She gripped the edge of her skirts, taking her aunt’s words like a lash to her soul. She’d read the gossip pages from long ago and knew just what he’d become, abhorring every woman who’d entered his life and given him that gift Eleanor never had, nor ever could.

A twinkle lit the woman’s eyes. “Remember what I said about reformed rogues.”

She swallowed a groan. Not this again.

“They make the best husbands,” her aunt said. “Did I ever mention that your uncle was a rogue?”

Eleanor smiled gently, allowing the older woman the happiness of her memory. Let one of them have happy memories to sustain them.

“Yes, he was a rogue, until he wed me.” The duchess’ expression took on a faraway quality that softened her otherwise gruff countenance.

The old, childless Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had been hopelessly and helplessly in love. Until now, Eleanor had never considered the people they’d been in their youth. Had they once snuck away to hidden alcoves and danced with ruin, so they might know a stolen kiss and the thrill of each other’s company as Eleanor and Marcus had once done? The couple had found love and, yet, had never known the joy of being parents. Eleanor, on the other hand, had tasted love and lost, and would remain unwed, but would know the unadulterated joy of her daughter’s love.

What a cruel game fate played.

They reached the ballroom and Eleanor blinked, jerked abruptly back into her late uncle’s dratted list. Just five, nay four, items now, until freedom was hers in ways she had never allowed herself to dream of, or hope for.

“It is time.”

As Eleanor stepped inside the ballroom awash in the chandelier’s glow, an eerie sense of stepping back into a different time forced Eleanor’s feet to a stop and she remained fixed to the spot, staring out at the grand space. There’d been a time when an eager excitement had filled her at the prospect of stepping through the front doors of the distinguished townhomes. That had been quickly quashed by the unkind ton—noblemen who had ultimately decided her worth among them. She closed her eyes a moment. Not all gentlemen. One had been so very different. He’d not minded that she was born of a modest background or a horrid dancer. He’d been her friend, and almost her lover, in every sense of that word.

Eleanor forced her feet into movement and, drawing a steadying breath, fell into the role of companion alongside her polished, ever-confident aunt.

“You appear as happy as I am about this event your uncle insisted on,” Aunt Dorothea said in a none-too-subtle whisper, ringing a startled laugh from Eleanor.