To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(58)

“Marcus?” Their gazes swung as one to the end of the walking trail where Lizzie stood beside her friend. Both young women shot glowers his way.

“I’ll be but a moment,” Marcus said to his sister.

All the while, the young lady with midnight black hair and catlike eyes, glared at Eleanor the way she might one of the slithering snakes atop Medusa’s head. A knot pebbled in her belly. With her venomous glances at Eleanor and the possessive stares turned on Marcus, the young lady cared for him, that much was clear.

The two women wandered off once more.

The foolishness in this scheme again reared its head when presented with the lovely, more importantly, innocent young lady with eyes for Marcus. “This was wrong,” she said stiffly, for too many reasons. The threat he’d pose to her heart, her senses. With jerky movements, she spun about and strode back the path they’d traveled.

“I will help you.”

His words brought her to such an abrupt halt she nearly pitched forward. She remained with her back presented to him.

“I will help you,” he repeated, from just beyond her shoulder and she jumped, failing to have heard his approach. Her heart raced at his nearness. “A pretend courtship then,” he whispered into her ear. She angled her head sideways to look at him and there, in his eyes, was all the passion of their youth, only restrained with a man’s total and absolute control. God help her, for the fears she’d carried these years and terror of ever having to bear the vile touch of a man, she now longed for Marcus’ kiss. Mayhap then, she could purge the ugly from her person.

“A pretend courtship,” she said, detesting the breathless quality of her voice.

He turned his lips up in a slow, seductive grin. “But for the rest of the Season.”

A protest sprung to her lips and he lowered his eyebrows. “My mother has unleashed every matchmaking mama and fortune-hunter upon me. My offer to help is not based on purely magnanimous reasons, Eleanor.”

“Marcus!” Lizzie called out, her tone this time beleaguered.

She gave a slow nod of capitulation. “Very well. You should go.”

“Will you miss me, sweet Eleanor?”

Until she drew her last breath. Eleanor forced a smile. “You’re a hopeless flirt, Marcus.”

He winked.

“Marcus!”

Their gazes swung together to the entrance of the gardens. Marcia sprinted past her nursemaid, not heeding the woman’s quiet reminder on proper behavior. She staggered to a halt before them, her little chest heaving with the exertion of her efforts. “Marcus. Mama, look. It is Marcus.”

“I see that, sweet, but you must refer to him as ‘my lord’.”

Alas, Marcus had always possessed a charm that could make a dowager forget the rules of decorum at Almack’s. “Oh, you needn’t do any such thing.”

“Yes, she does,” she said with a sharpness that brought her daughter’s head up. Not born a lady, nor even legitimate for that matter, Marcia would have to conduct herself in a manner above reproach.

Marcus favored Eleanor with a crooked grin and then he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I wouldn’t have you go about referring to me as Wessex. Rather dreary name.”

And Marcia was as charmed as any of those dowagers at Almack’s. She giggled into her hand. “I do prefer Marcus, but Mama has always said Wessex is a splendid name, too.”

He met Eleanor’s gaze and held it. “Has she?”

Even Marcia in all her girlish innocence detected the interest in his tone. “Oh, yes.”

Oh, no. Eleanor gave her head a slight shake, but her daughter either failed to see or chose to ignore that subtle movement. “His Lordship must return to his—”

In one smooth, effortless movement, Marcus sank to a knee and smiled at the little girl before him. With gold heads bent together and matching mischievous glimmers in their eyes, they may as well have been father and daughter, sharing a treasured moment while the world watched on. Marcia glanced up with her brown-eyed stare—the eyes of her true father, a monster who’d shattered Eleanor’s life, but also left her a gift.

“And has your mama spoken often of the name Wessex?” Amusement threaded his words, except under the nuances of that humor there was something deeper there; something that hinted at an urgency to know.

Seeming to delight in Marcus’ undivided attention, Marcia nodded with a solemnity better reserved for a woman years older. “Oh, yes. Surely you’ve heard the fairytale?”

Settling her hands upon her daughter’s shoulder, Eleanor made one more attempt at freedom from the humiliating agony of the exchange. “Marcia, it is time to return to see Aunt Dorothea.”

“But you said Aunt Dorothea was resting.”

At the knowing glint sparking in Marcus’ eyes, Eleanor pressed her lips into a firm line. “Surely Marcia might first share the fairytale of Lord Wessex,” he prompted.

“Is not about Lord Wessex, silly.” A giggling laugh escaped Marcia. Then with an impropriety that would have shocked any lords or ladies who happened to pass by, Marcia placed her palms on Marcus’ cheeks and spoke in very serious tones. “It is about King Orfeo.”

With matched solemnity he whispered, “Tell me about this King Orfeo.”

The world fell away as Eleanor stood transfixed, struck by the sight of Marcia’s small, delicate fingers upon Marcus. Any other gentleman would have likely stiffened or shifted with discomfort at the attentions given him by a child.