To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(76)

Trust him… She stilled. Nay. Trust yourself. Trust that you are deserving, trust that you are capable of giving and knowing love, in every form, and if he asks it, give yourself over to him…

For too long, she’d given control of her thoughts, emotions, and happiness over to the demon who’d visited her in Lady Wedermore’s gardens. Through her own sense of guilt in being in those expertly manicured grounds, she’d taken ownership of that night. If she had not left the ballroom and had, instead, been a proper, respectable lady, then even now she would be married…and more…happy. But she had, in a stolen moment of impropriety, placed herself in that monster’s arms…and for that she was blameworthy.

Now, with the orchestra soaring, there was a cathartic healing, in the music, the soothing calm of the foreign Italian, and her own at last settled thoughts. Eleanor drew in a cleansing breath. The horror and fear of that night would never, ever go away; it would always be an indelible part of who she had been, but it did not have to be all that defined her. Her future, her daughter, her ability to laugh and love, those were the ultimate triumphs.

She looked across at Marcus. He stared down at the stage below, but then, as though he felt her gaze, glanced out across the sea of Society. And she wanted those moments with him.

Eleanor smiled.



Tonight Eleanor would complete the items on her list. With those tasks now finished, she would be free to dance out of his life, this time, never to return.

In the dim concert hall, Marcus stared across to where Eleanor sat. He soaked in the sight of her in her pink satin skirts, traveling his gaze over her cherished face, wanting to remember every delicate plane from the shock of freckles on her nose to the pale blonde of her hair, ethereal in its shimmering beauty. He wanted to commit every part of her to memory so that when she inevitably left, there would be this moment to cling to.

As though feeling his stare, Eleanor straightened her long, graceful neck and found him with her eyes. Their gazes collided.

I love you, Eleanor Elaine Carlyle, and I will love you until I draw my last breath…

She smiled and he sucked in a sharp breath. Oh, she had smiled many times since her return to London almost a fortnight ago. But this tilt of her lips was so vastly different than the melancholy, almost pained expression she’d worn since their reunion. This was the smile of her youth, of unfettered joy and excitement, and it was an alluring grin that transformed her from haunting, ethereal beauty to this spirited nymph.

Marcus stared across the auditorium, ignoring the performance below and the loud whispers throughout the hall, transfixed by that smile.

“It is quite magnificent, isn’t it, my lord?” That sultry purr cut jarringly into Marcus’ musings. Lady Marianne stared at him, and then with an unabashed boldness, she ran her fingertips along the lace trim of her plunging décolletage and trailed a path with her hand down his thigh.

He stiffened and stole a glance at his mother and sister who were blessedly preoccupied with the performance. “My lady, remember yourself,” he said tightly out the corner of his mouth.

She leaned closer, pressing her breasts against his arm. “But I do remember myself quite clearly when you are around. I remember that I want you,” her breath tickled his ear. “And that you are in the market for a wife.” Lady Marianne squeezed his thigh, shifting her hand higher, and he jumped.

At one time, the cool, emotionless entanglement this lady presented, one where he’d have a feisty minx in his bed and a proper viscountess on his arm would have been all he sought in a match. No longer. And, stealing another glance at Eleanor who looked at the stage below—not really ever. He’d only wanted Eleanor.

Marcus made to move Lady Marianne’s hand from his person, when she slipped her fingers into his. Marcus gritted his teeth. Had he ever admired the young lady’s form? Her blowsy, wantonness stood in stark contrast to the innocence he’d come to love in Eleanor. “I am,” repelled. “Flattered by your attentions, however, my heart is otherwise engaged.” He spoke without malice, giving the determined young lady the truth to quell her attempts at seduction.

A hard glint iced over her brown eyes and a chill went through him as that menacing glimmer transformed her into a woman whose ugly shown from within. It tamped out all traces of the midnight-haired Diamond who’d captivated the ton. “I see,” she bit out and stiffly drew her fingers from his.

The soaring crescendo of the performers upon the stage came to an abrupt halt, signaling the end of the first act. Marcus leapt to his feet, earning questioning looks from his mother and sister. “If you will excuse me a moment,” he said curtly. “I see someone I need to pay my respects to.”

Leaving the young ladies in the care of his mother, Marcus shoved through the red velvet curtains and all but sprinted through the still empty corridor. He made his way with long, purposeful strides to the one box which had commanded his attention, when a figure stepped into his path.

Marcus cursed as he nearly collided with Lady Marianne Hamilton’s brother, the Marquess of Atbrooke. Bloody hell.

“Wessex, you are in something of a rush,” the other man drawled.

He sketched a quick bow. “Atbrooke, a pleasure.”

It was a lie. The man was a notorious reprobate who even with his title of marquess could not entice a marriage-minded miss, or a desperate to make a match with her daughter, mama. He tried to step around him.