To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(93)

Marcia wiggled away and took Eleanor’s face between her hands. “Will we return?”

How insistent Marcus had been in thinking they would again meet, but just as Eleanor hadn’t deluded herself then, neither would she hold a foolish optimism now. It was as her aunt said; Marcus would wed another and they would each live their lives with a regret for what might have been.

“Mama?” her daughter prodded, tugging at her hand.

“Someday.” Never. How many fabricated truths was her daughter’s existence based on?

Marcia leaned close and peered into Eleanor’s eyes, as though sensing a lie and seeking the truth. The carriage hit another jarring bump in the road and Eleanor tightened her grip on Marcia, hugging her close. “Mama,” her daughter grumbled against her chest. “You are squishing me.”

Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes at the eerie similarity to her arrival in London almost three weeks ago. “Well,” she said, her voice hoarsened with emotion. “It is because you are ever so squishable.”

Only this time, there was no giggle. Her daughter jutted her chin at a mutinous angle and glowered all the more. “All we do is hide. We have no friends. We have no f-family. You just keep us locked away from the world. And I like the world, Mama,” her daughter spoke with a strident plea. “But you are afraid. Afraid of everything.” With each word uttered, she slammed her hand against her opposite palm. “Going to the park, and talking to kind strangers, and having fun, and I hate it.” Then, in a show of defiance, she shoved off Eleanor’s lap and scooted over to her seat. “I am tired of hiding from the world.” Turning her face away, Marcia directed her gaze out at the passing countryside.

Those stinging condemnations buffeted around the carriage and sucked the air from Eleanor’s lungs. With her intuitive words, Marcia saw more than Eleanor had in eight long years—perhaps in the whole of her life. She gripped the edge of the bench.

Forced to look at her pitiable existence through a child’s eyes, Eleanor saw a woman who was running. She stared blankly at the opposite wall. She’d been running for so long that she’d forgotten what it meant to stay or how to find the courage to even do so. With Atbrooke’s threat against Marcia, Eleanor had thought of nothing but escape.

Except, with her mind still ringing from her daughter’s accusations and her aunt’s disappointed charges, Eleanor truly looked at herself. The person she was and the manner she lived her life served as an example for Marcia.

What meaningful lesson had she really given her daughter in hiding from the world? And worse, what lesson would she teach Marcia if she ran from Atbrooke’s threats?

I cannot leave.

The marquess might make good on his threats or he might not. But Eleanor was not alone. There was Marcus, and her aunt, and Marcia. With them at her side, Eleanor could face the threats and hold her head with pride. That was the lesson she would give her daughter.

Scrambling onto the edge of her seat, Eleanor shot a hand up and knocked hard on the ceiling.

“Ma—?”

“Woah.” The driver’s thunderous shout ripped through Marcia’s inquiry and Eleanor pitched wildly against the carriage. Her daughter’s cry peeled off the walls as the barouche lurched, swayed, and then settled into an abrupt halt.

The forgotten book on the floor slid atop Eleanor’s feet. Silence thundered, punctuated by the rapid beat of her heart.

Marcia broke the quiet, giving a tug at Eleanor’s hand. “What happened?”

Shifting on the bench, Eleanor claimed her daughter’s hands. “We are not leaving,” she said firmly.

The girl’s eyes formed round moons. “We aren’t?” she whispered.

Eleanor shook her head. “We are going back to London.” To Marcus and Aunt Dorothea. And whatever danger lurked in London, still, they would face it as a family.

An excited cry split Marcia’s lips and Eleanor grunted as her daughter slammed into her side. The book tumbled off her foot and she glanced distractedly down. A scrap of ivory vellum caught her attention. Furrowing her brow, Eleanor retrieved it and unfolded the note. As she skimmed the page, her heart caught.

Oh, God.

“Mama, what is it?” Concern made that question come out hesitantly.

Eleanor managed to shake her head.

“Mama?”

“It is—”

And then thundering hooves registered in the silence. The rumble of the driver’s voice split the quiet countryside and penetrated the lacquered carriage.

“Is it highwaymen?” Marcia whispered, as she scrambled over to the window.

“I’m sure it is not, sweet.” Fingers shaking, she drew back the curtain and peered out the window—at Marcus. She gasped and the fabric slipped from her fingers. There was nothing else for it. She was seeing him everywhere. Even in the countryside, away from London.

“Who is out there, Mama?” Anxiety wreathed Marcia’s face as she curled close against Eleanor’s side.

“No one, sweet,” she murmured and peeked around the curtain once more. Her heart started. His face shadowed with a day’s growth of beard, his clothes rumpled and dusted, and his golden tresses gloriously tumbled, there was not a more magnificent specimen of a man in all the kingdom. She gulped. Even if he did wear a ferocious scowl.

Turning the reins of his mount over to the duchess’ servant, Marcus strode the remaining distance to the carriage. “I have been looking for you, Eleanor,” he called out. Those words echoed through the quiet countryside.