To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(71)

“How are you doing with your list, gel?” Her aunt thundered from the wide-backed King Louis chair she occupied, freezing Eleanor mid-movement.

Satin yapped once, nudging her again. “It is coming along,” she answered, praying her aunt would find those words sufficient so Eleanor wasn’t forced to, in the light of a new day, think about the most intimate, personal pieces she’d shared with Marcus. Or his palpable grief and regret.

“What does that mean, ‘it is coming along’?” her aunt barked.

She sighed. Of course, that assurance would have never sufficed. Marcia glanced up curiously from her plate of eggs and toast. Avoiding her gaze, Eleanor cleared her throat. “Just that. It is coming along.”

“Do you believe I’ll be content with your veiled non-answers?” The older woman mumbled something under her breath that sounded a good deal like didn’t-have-the-sense-God-gave-a-goose. “You will be able to cross the theatre from your list, gel. We’ll attend this evening.”

At the prospect of visiting those noisy, vibrant gardens amongst the unkind ton, her heart sank. God how she missed the simplicity of the countryside quiet.

“The opera,” Marcia breathed, clasping her hands to her chest. “It is so very grand in London. I never wish to leave.”

A denial sprung to her lips and Eleanor forcibly tamped down the panic. Her daughter loved the glittering world of polite Society. Just as so many other young girls were surely wont to do, Marcia longed to take part in balls and attend operas and stroll through Hyde Park. She dreamed of one day finding a charming gentleman. Never knowing, that by the circumstances of her birthright and Eleanor’s past, this world was closed to her. Sadness squeezed at her heart, and as though he’d sensed her sudden disquiet, Satin jumped at the side of her chair. The loyal pug licked at her hand with his coarse tongue. Eleanor stroked Satin once more. “What a good boy you are,” she cooed.

“I’m not so weak that I’d be distracted, Eleanor,” her aunt barked from the opposite end of the table. “Even if you are complimenting my babies.”

Marcia giggled and the older woman favored her with a wink.

A smile pulling at her lips, Eleanor inclined her head. “And I would never be so foolish as to think a woman such as you is anything but strong.”

The lady’s cheeks filled with color and she shifted on her seat. “Never think to silence me with compliments, either,” she muttered. Though the happy glint in the woman’s rheumy eyes hinted at pleasure over that compliment.

“I wouldn’t dare,” she said solemnly marking an “X” on her chest.

Satin worked his two front legs furiously against the leg of the chair. Eleanor winced as his sharp nails worked a wear pattern into the once flawless mahogany.

“No worries about that,” her aunt thumped her cane. “Material pleasures are to be enjoyed. By dogs, too.” She favored the faithful dog on her lap with an affectionate stroke.

Footsteps sounded in the hall and the trio looked up as the butler entered.

“Lord Wessex has arrived.”

At his unexpected announcement, the silver fork slipped from Eleanor’s fingers and clattered noisily upon her largely untouched breakfast plate. Heart thumping wildly, she stared at the young servant. In the light of a new day with her ugliest secret laying open between them, Eleanor could not face him. Not when she was still feeling raw and exposed.

At the stretch of silence, the butler looked between his employer and Eleanor and cleared his throat. “That is, I have taken to showing the Viscount Wessex to the parlor where he awaits Mrs. Collins.”

The duchess inclined her head and the servant took his cue. He sketched a bow and backed out of the room.

Marcia clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, wonderful, Marcus is here,” she mumbled around a mouthful of scone.

“We do not speak with our mouths full, love,” Eleanor corrected, proud of the steadiness of her tone when inside she was a quaking, trembling mess. Perhaps she could feign a megrim. Or perhaps…

“You’re not going to turn away my godson, Eleanor Elaine,” the duchess boomed, thumping her cane on the floor.

“I did not say I was turning him away,” Eleanor complained, but neither did she climb to her feet and rush to the parlor. She’d resolved to not seeing him today. Following their midnight meeting, and all she’d shared, how could she face him? Oh, ultimately, she’d have to see him again, but not now. Not so soon after. To give her fingers something to do, she dangled a piece of bread over the edge of the table. Satin and Devlin raced forward and vied for supremacy over the offering. She grabbed another and Satin snapped it up and carried it back to his mistress’ feet.

“Why would Mama turn Marcus away?” Marcia asked, little wrinkles of confusion marring her brow.

“Because—” How could she explain herself in a way that would ever make sense to her small daughter who’d come to idolize him?

“Because she’s not as clever as I’d credited,” her aunt retorted.

Eleanor’s cheeks warmed. “I am not turning him away.”

“Then go,” her aunt shot back.

“Well, I like him,” Marcia said unhelpfully. “Even if Mama does not.”

“I like him just fine.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples. Goodness, she’d not have to feign a megrim, after all. The two ornery ladies before her now were causing one, all on their own.