To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(45)

“Close your mouth, Marcus.” Daisy’s teasing whisper jerked him thankfully back from his own self-recriminations.

She’d made a fool of him once and he’d allow her to do it again. He snapped his lips together so quickly, his teeth rattled.

“I daresay we’ve found what has enhanced your responsibilities as chaperone,” she continued.

Crawford settled a hand at the small of her back, and a look so intimate, a connection that didn’t require words passed between them, and Daisy’s smile dipped. “Oh.”

That piteous, soft exhalation knotted his stomach, as his weakness for Eleanor Carlyle, now Collins, exposed him before his sole friends in the world. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with forced lightness. “I’ve devoted enough of my brotherly services this evening and intend to seek out my clubs.” His was a desperate effort to preserve his dignity. Before Daisy could issue any further questions or comments, he sketched a quick bow and started for the entrance of the hall.

He intended to leave. He intended to march through the crowd, past the colorful peacocks and swaggering swains who now sought a certain widow’s attention and, ultimately, her affection. He intended to do any number of things that didn’t involve looking back at Eleanor. But he cast a single, impulsive glance over his shoulder and then he spun on his heel and stared openly at the cocksure swains clamoring for her dance card.

Marcus balled his hands at his sides. Didn’t they know the lady detested dancing in crowded rooms? Didn’t they know the only reason she’d tolerated those awkward steps of the quadrilles and country reels was for the fleeting moments when Marcus could hold her in his arms? But then, how could they know that? How, when she’d left and wed another? How, when those thoughts no longer held true?

He forced himself to stand a silent observer to her success as she garnered the attention of the ton. Her aunt stood a useless chaperone at Eleanor’s side, appearing bored by the whole display of attention when, in actuality, if she were wise, she would be a good deal more cautious with her niece’s reputation. Any number of gentlemen would gladly have Eleanor to wed or in his bed.

They were welcome to her; every last fawning, leering fop in the bunch.

Determined to set her from his thoughts once and for all, he turned to leave—and registered her waxen skin. Gone was the pink blush of her youth. The pinched set to her mouth and the panicked gaze that flitted about hinted at a woman who despised the attention now shown her just as much as Marcus himself did, but for altogether different reasons.

Had her love of her husband been so very great that the focus she’d earned felt like a betrayal of sorts to the hero Marcia had briefly mentioned? A fop in purple satin breeches and a sapphire blue coat reached for her dance card. Eleanor jerked her arm close to her side and gave her head a terse shake. The young dandy, who by the look of him was not much older than Marcus had been when he’d made the mistake of trusting his heart to her, looked crestfallen. Until Eleanor said something. Lord Herington nodded like a chicken pecking at feed and then spun on his heel. He sprinted through the crowd and made for the refreshment table.

Ah, so the lady was not interested in the attention being shown her and she’d become very adept at rejecting unwanted advances. On the heel of that was the niggling wonder of all the gentlemen who might have pressed their attentions on her after the honorable Lieutenant Collins had died. Marcus wanted to take each of those faceless, nameless men apart with his bare hands.

Marcus should leave. And yet, he remained. Just then, Eleanor’s gaze collided with his once more. There was an almost pleading in her soft blue eyes that even across the room called out, beckoned him. She wanted him. Not in the ways that had anything to do with the flare of passion that had always existed between them, but rather in a way that drew on the friendship they’d once known.

If he were wise, he’d ignore that desperate look in her fathomless stare. But then, he’d never been wise where Eleanor was concerned. Silently cursing himself for his inherent weakness for her still, he strode across the ballroom, bypassing those who inclined their head in greeting, his gaze trained forward.

The faint stirrings of a waltz echoed around the ballroom. Did he imagine her shoulders sinking with relief as he cut a swath through the collection of gentlemen she’d amassed? “Mrs. Collins, I believe you promised the next set to me.”





Chapter 11


Surrounded by a sea of suitors, not a single one of the gentlemen could hold sway over Eleanor’s attentions or affections. They pressed in on her, like flies on a confectionary treat left in the summer sun, until she struggled to draw breath. As her aunt performed introduction after introduction, the names of the leering men blurred together, the woman’s words coming as though down a long hall.

Eleanor’s body trembled and she could not keep from searching the room for that monster. Do not think of him. Except, in her mind, she saw his mouth moving as he’d warned her away from Marcus. Those same lips that had crushed hers and cut off airflow.

She was going to faint.

“Lord Fitzroberts…”

Her aunt gave her a questioning look.

Eleanor nodded, forced a smile, and curtsied. As Lord Fitzroberts or Fitzherbert proceeded to speak with her aunt, Eleanor looked about for Marcus.

In all her most hellish days, the joyous memories of Marcus had sucked her back from the vortex of despair and fear.