To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(53)

Which bounders? He scowled. No doubt, a woman with an ethereal beauty to rival Aphrodite would have been pursued by countless gentlemen who’d put to her an indecent offer. Just as I’ve done… Guilt needled at his conscience.

While he flagellated himself with guilt, Eleanor’s eyes took on a dreamy, far-off quality that sent warning bells clamoring. “Y-you’re the only man I’d let carry me, Marcus Gray. Are you certain you’ll—”

He yanked at his cravat. “I am certain.”

“Oh, very well.” At the forlorn note to those two words, he bit back a smile. Eleanor took her leave. And this time, remained gone.

With the silence his only company and her request dancing around his thoughts, Marcus dashed a hand over his eyes.

With her eyes and words, the lady had been all but pleading in her request for help and, yet, if he assisted her in completing the remaining items on that list, he risked being destroyed by her in ways he’d never recover. For his disavowal of the lady and their love, he’d proven he was not, nor ever had been, strong where Eleanor was concerned. The greatest risk she represented was to his heart and reason.

The sound of footsteps brought him spinning around. His heart started. Eleanor’s daughter stood several paces away, a wide smile on her lips. He stood there frozen, eying this tiny, miniature replica of her mother.

“Hello, Marcus.”

He dropped a bow. “My lady.”

A dimple filled her plump cheek as she skipped over. “Are you having the most splendid time?”

Words escaped him and he stared, unblinking. Had she observed his meeting with Eleanor? On the heels of that horrifying possibility, he racked his mind to think of any improper or scandalous words he tossed at her.

“I wish I was permitted to attend,” she continued, filling the void of silence with her child’s prattling.

Of course. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “Indeed, it is a splendid time.”

With a long, exaggerated sigh, she rested her cheek in her palm. “I saw but some of the ladies in their gowns. I was not quite close enough to make out the types of fabric. I believe most were in satin, but some were silk, and then Mrs. Plunkett came along and ushered me back to the nursery.”

“Mrs. Plunkett?” he asked slowly, in a bid to keep up with the girl’s rambling.

She nodded. “My nursemaid.”

“Ah, of course. I was quite skilled at evading my nursemaids and tutors, as well.”

Marcia folded her arms. “Yes, well, anyway, Mrs. Plunkett rushed me off before I could see any of the dancers. Have you danced this evening?”

His arms throbbed with the memory of Eleanor’s lithe frame. “I did,” he said giving his throat a clear.

“You are so lucky.”

Yes, he had been.

Marcia took another step closer. “Did you waltz?”

“But once. With your mama,” he felt compelled to add.

Her eyes lit up. “Truly?”

He crossed his heart and then bowed deeply. “Will you honor me with the second set, my lady?”

Marcia stifled a giggle with her fingers. “You are silly, Marcus. I do not even know the steps.” Nonetheless, she evinced her mother’s unwavering courage and climbed atop his boots, laughing uproariously as he awkwardly guided them about the floor.

And as her childlike giggles peeled off the hallway walls, a vicious envy threatened to devour him; envy for the man who’d called her daughter and for the happiness they’d surely known as a family, and for the regret that Marcia was not, nor would ever be, his child. With reality rearing its ugly head, Marcus brought them to a stop. “You are a splendid dancer. Your father must have been a skilled partner.” He wanted to call the words back as soon as they left his mouth.

Marcia shrugged. “I do not know. He died before I was born and Mama doesn’t speak of him.”

He opened and closed his mouth several times. Yes, she’d mentioned that she’d not known her father and he’d erroneously assumed she’d been a babe. His mind raced to do the calculations. The sadness in her eyes stymied all questions. “Your mother is a splendid dancer,” he said, in a bid to drive back the girl’s solemnity.

By the restoration of her gap-toothed smile, he’d succeeded in his endeavor. “You must like her very much because Aunt Dorothea said Mama is a rotten dancer.”

His heart missed a beat. From the mouth of babes… “I should return to the ballroom,” he murmured.

Eleanor’s daughter sighed and, once again, the gesture so very much her mother’s brought forth another swell of regret for all that could have been, but would never be. “I expect you’ll help her,” Marcia called out as he started to leave.

He froze mid-step.

“With her list. I told her you would help her because she is afraid and you are her friend.” At his silence, the little girl stitched her eyebrows together. “You will help her?” There was hesitancy in that inquiry.

He had resolved not to. He had decided when he’d sent her abovestairs to politely decline and move on from Eleanor Collins. Standing here, with her wide-eyed daughter before him, he could no sooner reject the offer to help than he could cleave off his own right hand. “I will,” he said quietly.

She beamed. “I knew it. Thank you for making sure my mother is not scared.” Then dropping a swift curtsy, Marcia fled down the corridor and raced up the servants’ entrance Eleanor had disappeared through a short while ago.