To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (9 page)

He took in her drab, brown skirts and again a loathing filled him for the man who’d wedded her and left her dependent upon the charity of relatives for her and Marcia’s survival.

Tired of the stilted silence between them, he spoke. “Do you find your meal unsatisfactory?”

Eleanor’s head shot up. At her prolonged silence, he arched an eyebrow. Once upon a lifetime ago, she would have given him a teasing wink and witty rejoinder. “No.” As though to prove the contrary, she popped a bite into her mouth. Those long, elegant fingers that had once effortlessly twined with his, like naked lovers united as one, she reached for her wine glass. The tremble of her fingertips drew his notice.

He took in the delicious sight of her crimson lips upon the rim of that glass, hating himself for envying the crystal object as he did. The lady had left him, chosen another, wedded, and returned, giving no indication that he’d been anything more to her than a mere diversion—and yet he still hungered for her. “And are you enjoying the pigeon in white sauce?”

She passed a dubious stare over the contents of her plate, the wariness in her eyes suggested a fear that he’d tampered with her food. “Er, yes. Very much.” Which was very much, a lie. The lady hadn’t taken any more than one corner nibble until now.

Marcus settled back in his chair, making himself comfortable, taking an unholy delight in the manner in which she shifted under his focus. Good. With the effortless ease with which she’d shattered his heart and violated his trust, the lady should squirm. “Or tell me, Mrs. Collins? Do you find yourself enjoying the pigeon one moment, and then being so very…
enticed
by the lemon roast that you completely forget—the pigeon?”

Red color suffused her cheeks and she raised her eyes to his. The silver flecks danced with fury, a reminder of the passion that had once been so very strong between them. Then with slow, precise movements, she picked up her fork and knife and delicately carved a piece of pigeon. “I don’t know, my lord.” He narrowed his eyes. She’d “my lord” him, would she? “I find the sweet aspect of the pigeon infinitely more agreeable than the bitter taste of the pig.”

By God, had she just called him a pig? With a pointed look and very deliberate movements, she popped a piece of pigeon into her mouth, confirming that very supposition. The audacity of her. And yet…despite the lady’s thinly veiled insult, a smile pulled at his lips.

Marcus rested his arms on the sides of his chair and drummed his fingertips, all the while studying her in silence. A girl-like blush blossomed on her cheeks and she studiously avoided his gaze. Alas, he’d spent the past years charming lonely widows and courtesans. The defenses Eleanor sought to erect were flimsy ones at best. “Never tell me you’re nervous to be alone with me?” he drawled. He examined her through thick lashes and her skin burned ten shades hotter.

She spoke quickly. “Don’t be silly.” Too quickly. Belatedly she lifted her gaze to his. “Nor are we alone.” She looked pointedly to the guests engrossed in discourse about the table.

“But we could be,” he promised on a whisper, and leaned close, so close his thigh pressed against hers.

The slight, audible intake of her breath met his ears and he relished the lady’s flushed cheeks, the muscles of her throat moving rapidly. For Eleanor’s quick flight from his life, her reaction revealed a woman who was not immune to him. Marcus continued his deliberate seduction. “What if I said I came tonight to see you?” He hooded his lashes. “That I was compelled by your presence?”

Eleanor looked about and then when she returned her attention to him, she spoke in hushed tones. “I would say I don’t believe you. I would say you don’t see me differently than any widow you’ve bedded.” She gave him a long, sad look. “You are not a man
any
woman holds power over.”

He stilled. Her faintly accusatory edge not lost on his jaded ears. Did she not realize the power she’d held over him all those years ago? He’d have brought down kingdoms to secure her love. He dropped his eyes downward to where she viciously scrabbled at the fabric of her dress and the carefree response on his lips died. Eleanor followed his stare and immediately released the fabric and yanked her head up. God, even in the hideous garment she’d the beauty to rival Aphrodite. Yes, she could feign indifference, but the lady was as aware of him, all these years later, as she’d been as a woman of just eighteen, and there was something empowering in that discovery.

A child’s giggle ripped through the moment, promptly dousing all trace of desire. His gaze strayed to Marcia. The little girl sat beside his sister, her plump, white cheeks illuminated by the warm glow of the candelabra. Whatever she said at that precise moment roused his sister to laughter. Suddenly shame slapped at his conscience; shame for hungering after Eleanor still and attempting to seduce her before polite company, and before her young daughter, no less.

Self-disgust gripped him. Reluctantly, he looked to Eleanor and found her studying him warily and it gave him pause. Who had put the suspicion there in her expressive eyes? Was her husband responsible for that cynical mistrust? Marcus gripped the arms of his chair hard, not wanting to imagine Eleanor dependent upon a husband who’d treated her with anything but kindness. Even as she’d broken Marcus’ heart, he did not want to believe she’d suffered in any way over the years. He attempted to thrust aside the lurking questions.

Except…now his mind had wandered down a path for which there was no irrevocable course. And the questions about Lieutenant Collins flooded his consciousness: What manner of father had he been to the girl? Had they been a happy family?

As though sensing his attention, Marcia glanced across the table and gave an eager little wave. A golden curl tumbled over her brow and she shoved it behind her ear. Emotion pulled at his heart. What did small girls with golden curls do with their days? All the little pieces he would have known had she been his. Marcus dropped his elbows on the table and called over to the little girl. “Tell me, Marcia, how does a young girl spend her days?”

Seeming to note the attention of all the guests shift her way, Marcia sat prouder in her chair and firmed her little shoulders. “I enjoy reading.” Which did not surprise him. Eleanor had been a voracious reader. How many libraries had they snuck away to during
ton
events? “I like to sketch.”
I’m an atrocious artist.
A skill the girl had likely acquired from the papa. His gut clenched. Then she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I also like to fence. My mama said my papa was a master fencer.”

Marcus stiffened, grateful for the duchess’ boisterous laugh that saved him from responding. “A girl who fences. You’ve raised a splendid child,” the older woman said, hoisting her glass aloft in toast.

Mother and daughter locked stares and some unspoken, powerful communication passed between them. Then with a sigh, Marcia dropped an elbow onto the table and buried her head into it. His mind traveled the path of time back to a younger Eleanor and he locked in a fencing match with invisible swords. She, becoming tangled in her satin skirts and landing in an ignoble heap upon the floor. He coming over her… The stem of his wine glass snapped and a servant rushed forward to relieve him of the burden and right the mess.

And not for the first time since he’d found Eleanor and that silly dog on the street, he damned her for returning and throwing his world into tumult. Just then, with every fiber of his being, he hated her for the pain she’d wrought. Never again would he yield that control to any woman.

The duchess called Marcia’s attention back and the remainder of the meal continued with no further exchange between him and Eleanor. For all intents and purposes, they may as well have been strangers, and as the meal concluded and Marcia was escorted abovestairs by her nursemaid, he briefly entertained the idea of making his excuses. He squared his jaw and stole a sideways glance at Eleanor. He’d not be the hurt and wounded pup, driven off.

And so, escorting his hostess and her small smattering of guests to the parlor, he took an unholy delight in the way Eleanor cast a glance back over her shoulder at him. She troubled the flesh of her lower lip as she’d done whenever she was worried or contemplative and then swiftly diverted her attention forward. That slight nuance so patently hers, that only he knew—

Pain lanced through him as they moved down the hall. For that wasn’t true any longer. Another had known her and known her in ways Marcus hadn’t, nor ever would.

“When did you become so serious?” The duchess charged as they turned down the corridor and continued on toward the hall.

“I’ve always been serious,” he said with a too-charming smile.

The older woman rapped him on the arm with her fan. “And you’ve become a liar. I’m old, Marcus, I’m not blind. I read the papers. You’ve become a rogue in
your
old age.” She waggled her thick eyebrows. “Though I’ve read Lady Marianne Hamilton has snared your notice. I expected better for you,” she scolded.

Eleanor shot a quick peak over her shoulder. Their gazes collided and she hastily looked away, but not before he saw the spark of pain that lit in her fathomless blue eyes.

“Hmm?” The Duchess went on, demanding his attention. “Will you marry that one? Surely, as your godmother, I’m deserving of that information from more than the gossip columns.”

In front of them, Eleanor stumbled and then quickly righted herself.

“What’s the matter with you, gel?” her aunt snapped.

“I merely tripped,” Eleanor said hurriedly, not deigning to glance back. The tension in her slender shoulders, however, hinted at the lady’s discontent. Did she care that he’d turned his attention on other women, finding, if not love, then a physical surcease with another? And why did he want that to matter?

“And she’s a horrid liar, that one,” The Duchess said in a hushed whisper he strained to hear.

“Oh?”

The older duchess snorted. “I don’t intend to say anything else on it. You want to know about the girl, you ask her yourself.” He blinked several times. She lowered her eyebrows. “And I won’t be swayed by a charmer such as you. Ah, here we are,” she said, as they entered the room, filing in behind Eleanor and his sister and mother.

As the ladies stood conversing, he studied Eleanor. The words exchanged lost in the distance between them. Periodically, Eleanor nodded and smiled. She should have been his. This should be a close gathering of those linked by familial connections. Instead, there was nothing but cool disdain, icy barbs, and insolent my lords and madams between them.

He tightened his mouth. All these years, he’d sought to bury the hurt caused by Eleanor’s defection. With her reemergence in his life, she’d pulled the carpet of control out from under his feet. He’d never forgotten her. He’d never moved on.

And he hated her for opening his eyes to that realization.

The Duchess of Devonshire stomped her cane on the floor. “You, Lizzie, play for us.” With that terse command, she slid into a pale pink armchair and his mother sat in the chair opposite. Ever obedient, his sister dropped a curtsy and rushed over to the pianoforte. She claimed a seat and began to promptly play.

Eleanor, however, hovered and he strode over, extending his elbow. “Would you stroll with me about the room, Eleanor?” he issued the challenge, partially believing she’d deny his request, yet wholly wanting her to put her fingertips upon his sleeve.

“He doesn’t bite, gel,” the duchess snapped over Lizzie’s playing. At the unexpected interruption, his sister, usually flawless upon the instrument, fumbled the keys and then immediately regained her footing.

Eleanor jumped and then hastily tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and allowed him to escort her to the perimeter of the expansive parlor. All the while, Lizzie’s haunting playing of Dibdin’s
Tom Bowling
echoed throughout the cavernous space.

“Did you not wish to join me, love?”

She eyed him with a wariness he’d not believed her capable of. “What do you want, Marcus?”

You
. The word rushed forth, born of truth. For all that had come to pass, he desired her still and he would not be content until he had known her in his arms. It spoke to his own weakness and her allure. “What do I want?” He wrapped those words in a seductive whisper that brought her lips apart. His gaze lingered on her mouth. “How can you not know?” Eleanor’s breath hitched loudly and he reveled in that slight audible intake that spoke of her awareness of him. “I want you to accompany me about the room.”

She looked at him with the same crestfallen expression of a child who’d had her peppermints plucked from her fingers. “Oh.”

“The woman I remembered enjoyed those stolen moments alone together.” How many words of love had he whispered in her ear as they’d strolled about this very space?

What a fickle creature she’d proven herself to be.

“Girl.”

Marcus cocked his head.

“I was a girl, Marcus. I was not a woman.”

Under the weight of that reminder, he took in her flared hips, her fuller breasts, straining the fabric of her gown. Yes, she was a woman, and for her betrayal, he wanted her still. Desire raged inside him; a hungering to know Eleanor in the only way he never had.

And why shouldn’t I? She is a widow. I’m no longer the infatuated boy.
There were no dangers in them sharing the pleasure of each other’s bodies. Perhaps after he’d taken her to his bed, then he could be free of this maddening sway she’d always had over him.