To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(75)

“He is with that miserable Hamilton girl. I never liked her mother. I liked the father even less. The brother, the Marquess of Atbrooke, is a scoundrel and the girl is mean. Isabelle should know better than to let that one near her daughter.”

In her denigration, the duchess spoke with a matter-of-factness, and yet that did little to dull the pain of seeing Marcus settle into his seat, and the determined, grasping lady insert herself shamefully between brother and sister.

“Never understood why my goddaughter would ever be friends with that one,” her aunt said and Eleanor blinked, welcoming the distraction.

She smiled at the protective, albeit grumpy, duchess. “Oh, Aunt Dorothea.”

The old woman waved her off. “Bah, I am not speaking those words for your benefit. The girl is shameful in a way that young ladies should not be shameful.” The duchess tightened her mouth. “Pressing herself against my godson in that manner, and with Isabelle inside the box?” She made a sound of disgust.

Even across the wide expanse of the auditorium, Eleanor could easily see the manner in which Lady Marianne shoved her full breasts against Marcus’ shoulder. Green jealousy raged within her. It twisted and turned like a vicious cancer growing in power until it spread through every corner of her being. Her feet twitched with the urge to storm the theatre and remove the tentacle-like grip the young woman had on Marcus. The lady smiled, displaying two perfect rows of even, pearl-white teeth. She leaned up and whispered something into Marcus’ ear and Eleanor’s breath caught hard and fast in her chest.

“…It is about more than his fifty thousand pounds. He has a remarkable figure…”

Nausea churned in her belly and she searched Marcus for some hint of interest in what the lady offered—sexual pleasures he craved, but ones Eleanor could never provide him. Alas, his face remained an immoveable mask that gave no indication of his thoughts, desires, or even the crowd of onlookers taking in the show being put on by Lady Marianne and the Viscount Wessex. Bitterness pulled Eleanor’s lips up in a smile. Why, what more of a show was needed than the one before the ton now?

Her skin pricked hot under the intensity of the duchess’ stare. Eleanor forced her attention down to the stage, praying for the performance to begin. Praying for the night to end. Praying, when she’d long ago learned the futility of prayers.

“That boy loves you.”

Eleanor jerked.

“And you can go on carrying whatever secrets of your past that made you leave him, but he cannot wait forever for you, Eleanor. He waited eight years and, this time, if you leave, he will end up with another.”

A lump formed in Eleanor’s throat and she tried to swallow. Her aunt painted an agonizing image of Marcus; a devoted, charming husband with a delicate beauty on his arm. They would have flawless, breathtaking, golden-haired babes and he would be the manner of father who unfailingly protected and loved those children. She thrust back the vicious imaginings. But it was too late. Her aunt had presented Marcus’ future, with Eleanor neatly omitted, and she could not un-see it.

Her aunt twisted the blade all the deeper. “It may not be Lady Marianne Hamilton.” She gestured broadly to the room. “But it will be one of them. And you have to ask if that is something you can live the remainder of your life with.”

I have no choice…

“We always have a choice, Eleanor Elaine.”

Eleanor started, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

Just then, the chandeliers were lowered and dimmed, and the orchestra built steady into the Overture of Torvaldo e Dorliska. Knight Torvaldo launched into song and the refined tenor demanded notice, and yet…Eleanor flicked her gaze across the theatre and her breath caught.

Marcus stared boldly back; his lips curved in a smile, his concentration turned solely on her. Only Marcus could manage to make a woman feel as though she were the only lady in a hall brimming with people.

His words from yesterday came rushing back. His determined pledge to earn her love. So many years she’d believed herself damaged; her soul as scarred as her body, for what was taken from her. Yesterday, Marcus had looked inside and known the thoughts she’d denied even herself. She did believe herself undeserving of love. The shame she carried, so great that she’d been unable to countenance sharing that dishonor with anyone. Instead, she’d allowed a stranger who stank of brandy to steal not only her virtue, but her own sense of self-worth.

Until Marcus.

She looked to him once more and found his gaze still unwavering upon her.

He forced her to look at what her life was, and more, look toward the life she dreamed of for her…for Marcia.

Why can I not marry him?

The threat hovering in the corner of her mind danced to the surface. That bastard who’d stolen so much would reenter her life and warn her away from Marcus? She firmed her jaw. She’d not allow him that power. What more could he do to her that he hadn’t already done? So what was keeping her from Marcus?

He knew all and loved her regardless.

Eleanor bit her inner cheek. There remained the whole marital bed business. Anxiety tightened the muscles of her stomach. Could she truly subject herself to that horror? Could she spread her legs and take a man inside without feeling the remembered horror and pain? Except…she’d not been repelled by Marcus’ kiss. In his arms, she’d felt for the first time alive in ways she’d been long dead. She’d burned with passion and a hunger for more. And with his gentleness, Marcus would never bring her hurt.