To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(54)

And as he stood there, staring after Eleanor’s daughter, the first niggling question crept in—what did Eleanor Collins have to be fearful of?





Chapter 13


The following afternoon, Marcus sat in his office and stared into the contents of his brandy glass. He swirled the snifter in several slow circles and took a sip. With a curse, he took a long swallow of his drink, grateful when a knock sounded at his office door. “Enter,” he called out.

The door opened. “Oh, dear,” his sister said from the entrance of the room. “You’re ever so serious again.” He stiffened and turned around.

Lizzie sailed into the room in a noisy flurry of skirts. Her faithful friend, Lady Marianne, trotted along behind her, attired in a low-cut, sapphire satin gown a mistress would have compunctions wearing at this hour.

Marcus could not help but compare this woman’s jaded cynicism to Eleanor’s reserved thoughtfulness and dignity. Years younger than Eleanor, Lady Marianne possessed a worldliness that had once appealed to Marcus. Now he found himself repelled by the brazen promise in her eyes.

Sensing his attention, Lady Marianne misinterpreted it as favorable and toyed with her décolletage. Marcus quickly shifted his attention away. He set aside his glass and sketched a bow. “Lizzie,” he greeted wary of the mischievous glimmer in her revealing eyes. With her telling reactions, she would have been horrendous at the gaming tables.

“Marcus. I thought you might accompany me,” she cleared her throat. “That is, accompany us,” she motioned to the young lady hovering at the edge of the door. “To Kensington Gardens.”

He glanced over at the dark-haired young lady, Lord Atbrooke’s sister. “Hello, Lady Marianne,” he greeted, struck not for the first time by a flash of pity for the young woman linked to the notorious reprobate.

“My lord,” she whispered. A suggestive smile danced on her lips and lest he encourage his sister’s friend any more than he had with his two dances earlier that Season, he glanced away.

“The gardens, Marcus,” his sister prodded calling him back to the real reason for their visit. “Will you accompany us?”

“I—” Two pairs of wide, hopeful eyes studied him intently and he sighed. The alternative to not joining them would be to remain here haunted by the memory of Eleanor, last evening…and every evening before. “I would be honored to accompany you ladies,” he acquiesced, wincing as his sister emitted a loud squeal.

“I’ve already had the carriage ordered up.”

Of course, she had. He’d been unable to deny his sister anything through the years, and she knew he was neatly wrapped about her smallest finger and had been since she was a blubbering babe with barely any hair atop her head.

Except a short carriage ride later, strolling behind Lizzie and Lady Marianne, Marcus found himself wishing he were just this once, a less devoted brother. The infernal prattling that had filled the confines of his barouche continued with an incessant force, as he longed for the sanctuary of his office. Or his clubs. A parlor. A stable. An empty church. Really, anywhere but here in the midst of Hyde Park during the fashionable hours.

Just then, another round of giggles erupted. “Come along, Marcus, we are to the private gardens,” his sister cheerfully ordered. With a sigh, he followed after them, down the dirt path, to the less traveled, floral sanctuary completed not long ago by Queen Charlotte. Lady Marianne stole a peek over her shoulder at him. She hooded her smoky eyes in a sultry invitation. His sister said something to the dark-haired young woman, calling her attention back but not before he saw a spark of promise in her gaze. Lizzie tugged her friend into the thick maze of flowers.

He took a step to follow behind them, but then with the same dogged awareness that existed since Eleanor had first stepped outside her aunt’s townhouse and into his life, he felt her there.

Lizzie and her friend glanced over their shoulders, back at him, and Marcus waved them on. As the pair rushed off, he trained his gaze on Eleanor’s familiar sun-kissed curls tightly drawn back. She sat upon a blanket, beside a kaleidoscope of colored blooms. Seated as she was, she may as well have been a woodland sprite stealing a moment in the floral gardens. A book lay on her lap, while she stared down at those pages as though they contained the answer to life.

The breath left him on a slow exhale. It took a concerted effort, but he removed his gaze, and looked to where his sister and her companion strolled, and then turned once more to Eleanor. After last evening’s sherry and champagne indulgence, he’d believed the lady would be shut away battling a wicked megrim. Then she closed her book, a small groan escaped her, as though the slight thump of pages meeting pages had ravaged her head.

She stilled and stretched her long, proud neck like a startled deer. How many times had he worshiped the wild, fluttery pulse that had beat with an awareness of him? Eleanor glanced about and her gaze locked on his.

For an instant, joy radiated from the crystalline blue depths of her eyes. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone, so he was left to wonder if the moment had merely been fleeting. He gave her a long practiced, wry smile. “Mrs. Collins,” he greeted, sketching a bow.

Eleanor hesitated and then with obvious reluctance, stood. “My lord.”

Someday, you shall be a viscountess… I don’t care about that, Marcus… No, it hadn’t mattered. In the end, she’d chosen love. Someone else’s love. He should leave. Instead, he took a step toward her. Marcus stood before her feeling like an untried youth. He beat his palm against his thigh. “Are you here—”