Panic twisted at her insides. She could not do this. The man who’d stolen her virtue in the cruelest, most vicious way possible lurked like a specter; with Eleanor but one ball or soiree away from confronting the ugliest part of her existence.
A slight tugging at her skirts brought Eleanor’s attention down to her gape-mouthed daughter. “You are a princess.” The awestruck whisper drew Eleanor back from the edge of madness.
A tattered and torn princess. “How can I be a princess when you are one? There cannot be two princesses.” She tickled her daughter at the sensitive spot behind her nape until snorting giggles escaped her small, bow-shaped lips.
“S-stop.”
Eleanor relented.
“Then I shall be a princess and you shall be a queen.” Her daughter had inherited Eleanor’s romantic spirit; that same spirit that had drawn her into hidden alcoves and fragrant gardens and ultimately led to her ruin. Fear curled her belly. For what had Eleanor’s whimsy brought her, except for a broken heart and ruined name? Marcia pulled at her hand. “And tonight you must find a king and I shall have a new papa.”
Agony slashed across her heart. In all her thoughts of Marcia’s happiness, not once had she thought her daughter had a need or desire for a man to call Papa. There had been Eleanor’s father, who’d treated the child with the same tenderness and love he’d shown her, his only child, through the years. Eleanor sank to her knee in a fluttery dance of satin skirts. “Oh, love,” she said when she trusted herself to speak. “We don’t really need a new papa though, do we sweet?” She brushed a loose, blonde curl back behind her daughter’s ear. “You have a mama.”
Little brow furrowed, Marcia scuffed the tip of her slipper upon the floor “Of course we don’t need a new papa.” A smile lit her face. “But it would, of course, be nice to have another. It is always merrier with three.”
Ah, her father’s words echoed across time, spilled from her own daughter’s lips. How many times had he said that precise phrase to Eleanor? “It is also just perfect with two, though, isn’t it?” She ruffled the crown of curls until Marcia drew back with annoyance.
“Well, that isn’t what Grandfather said? He said three.”
Eleanor sank back on her haunches. “Yes, he did, didn’t he?” she murmured to herself. Except that had been years ago, when he, a robust, powerful man of forty-nine years had viewed himself as invincible and his life unending. Foolishly, Eleanor had allowed herself to believe and hope in that very same thing. For what could her life be without the steadfast support of a father who by Society’s dictates should have cast her and Marcia out, and had, instead, given up all and redefined their lives?
“What about Marcus?”
She blinked. “Who?”
“Marcus.” Marcia pointed her eyes to the ceiling. “Your friend. I am sure he would be a splendid papa.”
So this vicious, agonizing wrenching was what it was to have an already fractured heart broken all over again. Pain weighed on her chest, making it difficult to draw forth breath. “Oh, sweet, you do not even know the viscount.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Eleanor recognized the lie in them. Marcus, with his steadfast devotion to his sister and the sweet tenderness reserved for those worthy of his affections, those fortunate ones were treated like the princesses and queens Marcia spoke of.
Marcia wrinkled her mouth. “Well, I still believe he would make a wonderful papa.”
For some other child he would, but it would never be her daughter. A vise tightened about her heart, wrenching every pained regret and dream she’d had from the organ. “I am sure he will make someone a wonderful papa, but he is just a friend,” she added one more lie to the mountain of falsities she’d constructed her life upon. She tucked another curl behind her daughter’s ear. Yes, he would be a splendid papa for some fortunate little girl or boy, but it would not be Marcia. Viscounts did not marry ruined women who’d adopted a false name and given birth to a bastard daughter. “Now, off you go,” she said climbing to her feet. “You should be abed and Aunt Dorothea is likely thumping her cane in annoyance at my delay.”
“But surely I can watch Aunt Dorothea’s guests as they arrive.” Marcia clasped her hands at her heart. “I so wish to see the guests. No one will notice me, Mama. You know I am the very best hider—”
“Woah,” Eleanor said on a laugh. She placed her lips close to Marcia’s ears. “Just for a bit and where no one can see you.”
The little girl clapped excitedly. “I cannot wait to have a Season.” She skipped to the door and then froze at the entrance. “Someday, I will find a prince, Mama.” With her child’s faith, she gave a jaunty wave and after a slight struggle with the door handle, wrested it open, and fled.
Eleanor stared at the open door a long moment, and then drawing in a steadying breath, started for the door. Her fingers twitched with the urge to wrestle the fabric of her skirts. With each soft tread of her slippered feet down the corridor, through the halls of her aunt’s extravagant home, panic built slowly and steadily in her breast. For the terror in reentering Society, there was something calming, something reassuring, in being in the safety of Aunt Dorothea’s townhouse. With her knowledge of every secret corridor, and carte blanch of the entire home, she could escape from the noise and crush of guests present.
And she would not be entirely alone through the horrid ordeal. Marcus and his family would be there. Even as his earlier reaction to her in Madame Claremont’s shop had hinted at a man not in the least interested in anything other than seduction. Yes, experienced women like Eleanor were suitable for a man’s bed and not much more than that. Gentlemen like Marcus wed proper young ladies.
Lady Marianne Hamilton flitted to her mind. By the furious glare she’d favored Eleanor with at the modiste’s, the lady had intentions for Marcus.
A little sob tore from her throat but she didn’t break her stride. As much as she longed to shut herself away and hide from the past and the possibility of seeing him, she’d not give him any more control than she’d allowed him these years. Instead, she took ownership of her fear, drawing forth his vile visage which had too much control of her these years; her unknown attacker, with his brandy-scented breath and his cruel fingers and that mocking laugh.
Fear froze her mid-step and she pressed her palms against the wall and drew in a calming breath. Then another. And another. The repeated rhythm her father had coaxed her through the years when the nightmares had come with ferocity and a staggering frequency. When her breathing settled into a calming, even cadence, she carefully stepped away from the wall. Eleanor smoothed her palms over her skirts, composing herself, and made her way to the foyer. She paused at the top of the stairs, casting one last, longing glance at the path she’d just marched, longing for the innocence of Marcia who was free to avoid all these affairs.
Her aunt paced back and forth, her two dogs nipped wildly at her skirts. One of the pugs looked up to where Eleanor stood frozen and barked once. The duchess spun about. “At last.” She passed a glance over Eleanor’s person and then gave an approving nod. “I’ve been waiting. It’s not done to be late to one’s own ball.”
The gentle reproach set Eleanor into motion. “Forgive me,” she offered, hurrying down the stairs. As she reached the bottom, Satin abandoned his mistress and rushed to Eleanor. He jumped at her skirts. Oddly comforted by his presence, she stroked the silky, soft spot between his eyes and he nudged her hand in approval.
“Well, come along, gel,” her aunt commanded.
Knowing how that famed queen of France had felt on the final march up the steps of the guillotine, Eleanor trailed behind her aunt, silent as they made their way to the ballroom.
“The boy was right,” her aunt said from the corner of her mouth.
Marcus. He’d been referred to as a boy since he’d been a lean, charming youth with a ready smile and even years later, with a broadly powerful frame and hardened, cynical grin, he was still “the boy” to Aunt Dorothea.
“About your
pink skirts. I fancied you’d look a deal better in the orange with a turban, of course.”
For the first time since she’d woken that morning with the terror of the evening staring back at her, Eleanor felt the faintest stirrings of amusement. “Of course,” she said with a smile. “Every young lady requires a turban.” Not that she was truly a young lady anymore.
“Wipe that melancholy from your face. You’re a young lady. Any gentleman would be glad to wed you.” Glad to wed me? A never wed widow with a bastard child? Unlikely. “Not, mind you, that I’m advocating you to wed just any gentleman. Pompous prigs, the most of them are.”
Her aunt startled a laugh from Eleanor. Oh, how she loved the enlightened woman.
“Do you know who is not a pompous prig?”
She fought back a groan at her aunt’s none too subtle attempt at matchmaking. “Er…”
“Wessex.” Not the boy, this time. “Oh, he’s become a rogue, one of those charming gentleman.”
Eleanor knew. She gripped the edge of her skirts, taking her aunt’s words like a lash to her soul. She’d read the gossip pages from long ago and knew just what he’d become, abhorring every woman who’d entered his life and given him that gift Eleanor never had, nor ever could.
A twinkle lit the woman’s eyes. “Remember what I said about reformed rogues.”
She swallowed a groan. Not this again.
“They make the best husbands,” her aunt said. “Did I ever mention that your uncle was a rogue?”
Eleanor smiled gently, allowing the older woman the happiness of her memory. Let one of them have happy memories to sustain them.
“Yes, he was a rogue, until he wed me.” The duchess’ expression took on a faraway quality that softened her otherwise gruff countenance.
The old, childless Duke and Duchess of Devonshire had been hopelessly and helplessly in love. Until now, Eleanor had never considered the people they’d been in their youth. Had they once snuck away to hidden alcoves and danced with ruin, so they might know a stolen kiss and the thrill of each other’s company as Eleanor and Marcus had once done? The couple had found love and, yet, had never known the joy of being parents. Eleanor, on the other hand, had tasted love and lost, and would remain unwed, but would know the unadulterated joy of her daughter’s love.
What a cruel game fate played.
They reached the ballroom and Eleanor blinked, jerked abruptly back into her late uncle’s dratted list. Just five, nay four, items now, until freedom was hers in ways she had never allowed herself to dream of, or hope for.
“It is time.”
As Eleanor stepped inside the ballroom awash in the chandelier’s glow, an eerie sense of stepping back into a different time forced Eleanor’s feet to a stop and she remained fixed to the spot, staring out at the grand space. There’d been a time when an eager excitement had filled her at the prospect of stepping through the front doors of the distinguished townhomes. That had been quickly quashed by the unkind ton—noblemen who had ultimately decided her worth among them. She closed her eyes a moment. Not all gentlemen. One had been so very different. He’d not minded that she was born of a modest background or a horrid dancer. He’d been her friend, and almost her lover, in every sense of that word.
Eleanor forced her feet into movement and, drawing a steadying breath, fell into the role of companion alongside her polished, ever-confident aunt.
“You appear as happy as I am about this event your uncle insisted on,” Aunt Dorothea said in a none-too-subtle whisper, ringing a startled laugh from Eleanor.
They made their way to the front of the receiving line to greet the duchess’ still arriving guests.
Guilt needled at her. Secretly she’d hoped her aunt would have seen to her responsibilities as hostess and Eleanor could have slipped belatedly into the ballroom, escaping any scrutiny. The crush of guests already milling about the crowded room spoke to just how late she’d been. “I am sorry to have made you tardy to your own affair.”
“Your uncle’s affair,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “Determined to have some ducal control even in his own grave.” There was a wistful quality there, which softened those words. The duchess lifted her chin in a regal greeting to guests who dropped curtsies and bows. “Eleanor, my dear. I am a duchess. As such, I’m afforded certain privileges. Arriving late to my own ball is one of them.” She leaned close and spoke in a less than conspiratorial whisper. “Though in truth, even if I wasn’t a duchess, I wouldn’t give a jot about missing the bloody thing.”
The blunt admission brought a startled laugh from Eleanor, attracting stares. She quickly smoothed her features into a mask.
“Bah,” her aunt rapped her on the arm with her fan. “I’ve said it before. I prefer you laughing and bold, Eleanor. Ah, here comes Isabelle.” Sure enough Marcus’ mother made her way through the crush of guests, toward the duchess. “Will you run and fetch me a glass of punch?”
“Of course.” Eleanor bussed her aunt on the cheek and, squaring her shoulders, started her march down the length of the ballroom. With each step, an invigorating sense of control filled her. In this moment, braving the ton and tackling the items upon her uncle’s list, she re-exerted a hold over her life.
A tall figure stepped into her path and a startled gasp escaped her. “Forgive m—” She glanced up at the gentleman and her body went hot and then cold. For years, she saw this man everywhere, saw him with such clarity that she’d often believed he stood before her real as the day he’d been in that moonlit night that had irrevocably changed her life. Eleanor pressed her eyes tightly closed and called on the coaxings her father had taught her long ago. Wake up. One, two, three, wake up. Only this time, there was no waking. The devil before her was as real as Satan in the flesh.
A slow, jeering smile formed on his lips. Though softer around the middle with the passage of time, the hawkish nose and cold brown eyes of the gentleman staring down at her marked him as her dark demon. “Miss Carlyle.” It was that same slightly mocking tone that had echoed in Lady Wedermore’s gardens. “Or is it Mrs. Collins, now, I believe?” Oh, God, how did he know that? What else did he know? Her body went cold.
In her sleepless nights, of which there were many, she would lay abed imagining the words she would hurl were she to ever again see the nameless stranger who’d fathered her child. She’d crafted lists upon lists of horrible, ugly words and curses that no lady had a right to. Yet, in this instance, every single one went out of her head.
A liveried footman came by with a silver tray and Eleanor stared blankly as the gentleman at her side rescued a glass of champagne, casual when her heart could never resume a normal beat. “Champagne, Mrs. Collins?” Anyone to hear that offer would see a gentleman before them.
Eleanor knew better. “Leave,” she said quietly. How was that one word so very steady?
The servant looked askance and, with a bow of his head, rushed off. And coward that she was, Eleanor made to go, as well.
Her attacker blocked her escape. “I see you’ve resumed where you left off with Wessex.”
A dull humming filled her ears. I am going to be ill. To keep from crumpling into a boneless heap on the sidelines of her aunt’s ballroom, Eleanor pressed a hand against the smooth, white pillar. The cold of that stone penetrated her gloves and she welcomed the chill on her clammy flesh.
Then he lowered his head. “I cannot tell you, Mrs. Collins, how much I dislike that.” He sipped from his flute. “You are to stay away from him, Eleanor.”
What should her relationship with Marcus matter to this man? Or was this merely another attempt to dominate her? Well, she’d give him nothing more than he’d taken that night. He’d already stolen so very much. “You do not have leave to use my Christian name.” The sharp retort burst from her lips. With all the power he’d claimed over her and her life, she would have this control.
He snapped his eyebrows into a single line, but otherwise ignored her command. “Consider this your warning to stay away from
the viscount.”
She flicked her gaze about the room. Lords and ladies laughed and chatted at every turn. Couples danced the intricate steps of a country reel. Through the inanity, Eleanor’s world quaked under her feet. How was the earth, in fact, still moving when time stood still in this horrifying exchange?
Then from across the room, she caught sight of her aunt conversing with Marcus’ mother and there was a stabilizing reassurance in the casualness of that exchange. Eleanor ratcheted her chin up several notches. “You, sir, can go to hell.”
And though not the vitriolic diatribe she’d always planned for the man, Eleanor swept away, her skin burning from the look he trained on her.
Marcus studied the crush of guests with a distracted boredom from over the rim of his crystal champagne glass. Marcus had resolved to forget Eleanor and all the broken promises between them. Except, given the evening’s festivities and the close proximity of their residences, it was a near impossible feat.
Unbidden, his gaze sought, and found, Eleanor as she cut a path through the ballroom. With a glass of punch in hand, she marched with a single-minded purpose. A swirl of dancers swallowed his sight of her.
He cursed.
“Goodness, Marcus, never tell me you are woolgathering,” the Duchess of Crawford’s teasing voice drawled from beyond his shoulder.
Marcus whipped around, adopting one of his effortless grins. “Lady Daisy Meadows. My girl of the flowers.”
Daisy stood alongside her husband, the Duke of Crawford, who, by his black scowl, appeared to take exception with Marcus’ possessive endearment for their late friend Lionel’s sister.
“She is no longer of the Flowers,” Crawford said in that coolly austere tone he’d adopted over the years.
“Ah, yes,” he said on a sigh. And knowing it would infuriate the other man, he leaned close to Daisy and said on a loud whisper, “She’ll always be my girl of the flowers.”
To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) Page 13
