To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(64)

“I don’t view the act of making love in any way,” she said between gritted teeth. She darted her gaze about, as though seeking escape. The rapidity of her movement sent a golden curl tumbling from her chignon. She tucked the tress back inside her bonnet.

“That is a shame,” he murmured. “A lady such as you should think of it, Eleanor, and think of it often. You should celebrate the power of a man’s touch and dream of taking that man,” Preferably only him. “In your arms and—”

She yanked her hand free of his. “I do not want your empty words of passion and desire.” That was all he had to give anymore since she’d stolen off with his heart.

“Ah, yes. You want my friendship, for however many tasks you have left on your uncle’s list? And then what, Eleanor? Will you disappear and run off, leaving,” me, “London behind?”

Eleanor nodded and he started at that honest response. “I do not want Marcia to grow up in this world.”

“Where will you go?” he tossed back, desperately requiring that answer so this time, when she walked out of his life, he didn’t spend every day wondering where she’d gone to, was she happy, and worrying he’d never again see her. When she remained silent, annoyance stirred in his belly. “No response? Even now, you’d not tell me where you made your home? That isn’t a friend, Eleanor.” Suddenly, it was very important he know who she’d been, what she’d done, and where she’d gone in these eight years. At the very least, she owed him that much.

For a long while, she said nothing, and he thought she intended to remain silent. “The north coast of Cornwall,” she said, her faint voice so soft he thought he might have imagined it. But then she cleared her throat. “A small village called St. Just.”

Cornwall. A bitter laugh escaped him. She’d traveled to the opposite end of England. The emotional and physical gulf between them had been equally great. “Did your husband hail from there?”

She gave her head a slight shake. The muscles of her throat moved and she directed her attention to her tightly clasped hands.

Then, he asked the most important question he’d had all these years, the answer mattering as much now as when she’d been a young lady of eighteen. “Were you happy?” For the hole she’d ripped in his heart with her leaving, he’d never wanted to imagine a world in which she’d not been the smiling, laughing girl she’d been.

“I had Marcia.” She paused. “Of course, I should be happy.”

How neatly she sidestepped his question; her evasion more telling than affirmation or denial. “Ah, but it’s not a matter of should you have been or should you not have been, but rather, were you?” Marcus shifted the reins to his opposite hand, and caught one of her tensely held ones. He slid his fingers into hers, interlocking the digits. He studied them. How very effortlessly they fit together.

“I was,” she said softly, her eyes on their joined hands.

Marcus braced for more words from her on the paragon who’d held her heart, but she remained stoically silent. How was it possible to feel both this lightened relief, melded with jealousy for what they had known together? He removed his hand from Eleanor’s and once again shifted the reins so he might more easily guide the curricle through the gates of Hyde Park, down the path clogged with carriages. Eleanor loosened the strings of her bonnet and pulled the piece free. She set it down on the bench beside her and closing her eyes, she turned her face up to the sun.

A vise squeezed off all hint of airflow as he worshiped the sight of Eleanor bathed in the warm rays of the springtime sun. It kissed the honeyed blonde of her curls, casting an otherworldly glow upon her. She was perfection. She was unfettered and untainted in her beauty; pure, while the women about those polished beauties of Society were as false as their smiles.

Eleanor opened her eyes and their gazes collided. “What is it?” she asked, touching her hand to her mouth.

He shook his head. “It is…” Everything. “Nothing.” Marcus guided them off the well-traveled path, away from the crowds of lords and ladies out for their excursions. He leapt from the curricle and motioned forward a boy hovering about. Marcus withdrew a sack of coins and tossed it to the child who easily caught it. “Care for my mount and there will be more.” Gripping Eleanor at her narrow waist, he helped her to the ground. She looked at him askance. “Your uncle did not know you well enough to know you never enjoyed a curricle ride.” She’d once likened rides in Hyde Park to being a creature on display at a museum for all to gawk and gape at.

Eleanor started. “You remember that?”

Marcus remembered all about Eleanor Elaine Carlyle. He winked. “The duke failed to stipulate a length or duration to that carriage ride, so I daresay this shall suffice?”

The muscles of Eleanor’s throat moved and a sheen of tears dusted her eyes. She blinked them back and then allowed him to lead her down the walking trail.

He opened his mouth to speak, when his sister’s voice slashed into their exchange. “Marcus!”

Their gazes swung as one to Lizzie who wound her way determinedly through lords and ladies. At her side, marched a very determined, and a boldly staring, Lady Marianne Hamilton. The duo came to a stop before him and Eleanor and he damned the unwanted intrusion.

“Mrs. Collins, Marcus, what a surprise it is to see you here,” Lizzie said, breathless from her near sprint to reach them. She brushed a damp, loose curl behind her ear. “Then it is really no surprise. You do so love rides in Hyde Park, just as Marianne does. Don’t you, Marianne?” Lizzie turned her attention on the lady at her side.