With an unrestrained laugh, Daisy swatted his arm, earning curious stares from the nearby lords and ladies. “You are a flirt, Marcus.” At one time they would likely have turned up their noses at the young lady’s display. Having wed Auric, the Duke of Crawford, two years ago, she was now permitted certain luxuries and freedoms.
“Oh, undoubtedly.” He winked and she laughed all the more.
Of course, having known the lady since she was in leading strings, he’d come to know she’d dug her talons into the particular details surrounding his presence here and would not relent. “It has not failed to escape my notice that you’ve ignored my observation.”
“Your observation?” He deliberately slid his gaze out to the ballroom floor, taking in the twirling couples. He knew very well what observation Daisy referred to.
“You know very well what observation I referred to.” Then, having known the young lady most of his life, she’d developed a rather bothersome tendency of predicting his thoughts.
“I’m merely here as chaperone.” It was a blatant lie. Crawford eyed him with a dogged intensity that indicated he knew as much, but was too loyal and proper to counter the claim. Yes, Marcus’ mother and sister were hardly in need of his company. Yet night after night after night, and now, as Daisy had pointed out, a fourth night, he’d taken to attending exceedingly dull events he’d have normally avoided at all costs. Well, not all costs. Through the years, the tedium of those affairs had been broken by certain widows.
His gaze collided with one of those very women and he stared blankly at the top of her head. How many empty, meaningless entanglements had he become involved in through the years, all with the intent of driving out the remembrance of Eleanor? Only now, with her back in his life, he saw the lie he’d perpetuated against himself. He could never forget her. Would never. For with the empty ache her betrayal had left inside his heart, the damned useless organ did, and forever would, belong to her. “Fool.”
“Marcus?”
He snapped his attention back to Daisy, who eyed him with a blend of concern and consternation. “Er, I was…” Heat climbed his neck.
Both duke and duchess stared at him with matching expressions, silently pressing for answers.
He searched for a safe reply. “I was—”
His gaze traveled to Eleanor who carried a glass of punch to her aunt, and was promptly surrounded by a swarm of suitors. A visceral hatred unfurled, burning hot inside him.
Only, by the feral gleams in the gentlemen eying her with lascivious stares throughout the ballroom, he was no longer the only one who’d developed a keen awareness of Mrs. Eleanor Collins. With a curse, he downed the contents of his champagne in one long, slow swallow. He slammed the empty glass down upon the silver tray of a passing servant with such force it rattled the other crystal flutes sitting there.
From the corner of his eye, he spied Daisy and Crawford exchange a look. Damn them and their knowing stares, and worse, the damned intimacy they shared; a bond he’d once shared with the woman now being ogled like a confectionary treat prepared by the king’s baker.
“I don’t suppose this is the er, person who has you—”
“No.”
“Distracted,” Daisy finished for her husband. Then with her innocent, always-hopeful stare, she took in the woman Marcus had made the mistake of studying overly long. Gone was the clear-eyed young lady who’d stolen away with him in hidden alcoves and private gardens, sprinting down corridors, hand in hand, risking ruin for those stolen moments. In her place was this aloof ice princess, resplendent in the palest pink satin. With her squared shoulders and the tilt of her chin, her proud, regal bearing would make a queen envious. The Duchess of Devonshire said something at her side and Eleanor responded, never so much as averting her gaze, trained on the crowd.
Look at me. Look at me and want me as you did. For that would be the ultimate revenge upon the lady who’d so betrayed him. Taking her in his arms and showing her such pleasure that she regretted the fact that any man had come before him and after they knew mindless pleasure in each other’s bodies, then Marcus would be the one to cast her from his life.
As though sensing his attention, she froze. The lady darted her gaze about the room, passing over the interested lords converging upon her. Then her eyes met his across the ballroom. Marcus wanted to manage a mocking grin, avert his eyes, and give her the cut direct. After all, their paths, as she’d succinctly pointed out, need never cross and the lady would be fine if they didn’t. Instead, he continued staring like every other besotted fool present. God, how he despised himself for the hold she had over him, still.
“Close your mouth, Marcus.” Daisy’s teasing whisper jerked him thankfully back from his own self-recriminations.
She’d made a fool of him once and he’d allow her to do it again. He snapped his lips together so quickly, his teeth rattled.
“I daresay we’ve found what has enhanced your responsibilities as chaperone,” she continued.
Crawford settled a hand at the small of her back, and a look so intimate, a connection that didn’t require words passed between them, and Daisy’s smile dipped. “Oh.”
That piteous, soft exhalation knotted his stomach, as his weakness for Eleanor Carlyle, now Collins, exposed him before his sole friends in the world. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with forced lightness. “I’ve devoted enough of my brotherly services this evening and intend to seek out my clubs.” His was a desperate effort to preserve his dignity. Before Daisy could issue any further questions or comments, he sketched a quick bow and started for the entrance of the hall.
He intended to leave. He intended to march through the crowd, past the colorful peacocks and swaggering swains who now sought a certain widow’s attention and, ultimately, her affection. He intended to do any number of things that didn’t involve looking back at Eleanor. But he cast a single, impulsive glance over his shoulder and then he spun on his heel and stared openly at the cocksure swains clamoring for her dance card.
Marcus balled his hands at his sides. Didn’t they know the lady detested dancing in crowded rooms? Didn’t they know the only reason she’d tolerated those awkward steps of the quadrilles and country reels was for the fleeting moments when Marcus could hold her in his arms? But then, how could they know that? How, when she’d left and wed another? How, when those thoughts no longer held true?
He forced himself to stand a silent observer to her success as she garnered the attention of the ton. Her aunt stood a useless chaperone at Eleanor’s side, appearing bored by the whole display of attention when, in actuality, if she were wise, she would be a good deal more cautious with her niece’s reputation. Any number of gentlemen would gladly have Eleanor to wed or in his bed.
They were welcome to her; every last fawning, leering fop in the bunch.
Determined to set her from his thoughts once and for all, he turned to leave—and registered her waxen skin. Gone was the pink blush of her youth. The pinched set to her mouth and the panicked gaze that flitted about hinted at a woman who despised the attention now shown her just as much as Marcus himself did, but for altogether different reasons.
Had her love of her husband been so very great that the focus she’d earned felt like a betrayal of sorts to the hero Marcia had briefly mentioned? A fop in purple satin breeches and a sapphire blue coat reached for her dance card. Eleanor jerked her arm close to her side and gave her head a terse shake. The young dandy, who by the look of him was not much older than Marcus had been when he’d made the mistake of trusting his heart to her, looked crestfallen. Until Eleanor said something. Lord Herington nodded like a chicken pecking at feed and then spun on his heel. He sprinted through the crowd and made for the refreshment table.
Ah, so the lady was not interested in the attention being shown her and she’d become very adept at rejecting unwanted advances. On the heel of that was the niggling wonder of all the gentlemen who might have pressed their attentions on her after the honorable Lieutenan
t Collins had died. Marcus wanted to take each of those faceless, nameless men apart with his bare hands.
Marcus should leave. And yet, he remained. Just then, Eleanor’s gaze collided with his once more. There was an almost pleading in her soft blue eyes that even across the room called out, beckoned him. She wanted him. Not in the ways that had anything to do with the flare of passion that had always existed between them, but rather in a way that drew on the friendship they’d once known.
If he were wise, he’d ignore that desperate look in her fathomless stare. But then, he’d never been wise where Eleanor was concerned. Silently cursing himself for his inherent weakness for her still, he strode across the ballroom, bypassing those who inclined their head in greeting, his gaze trained forward.
The faint stirrings of a waltz echoed around the ballroom. Did he imagine her shoulders sinking with relief as he cut a swath through the collection of gentlemen she’d amassed? “Mrs. Collins, I believe you promised the next set to me.”
Chapter 11
Surrounded by a sea of suitors, not a single one of the gentlemen could hold sway over Eleanor’s attentions or affections. They pressed in on her, like flies on a confectionary treat left in the summer sun, until she struggled to draw breath. As her aunt performed introduction after introduction, the names of the leering men blurred together, the woman’s words coming as though down a long hall.
Eleanor’s body trembled and she could not keep from searching the room for that monster. Do not think of him. Except, in her mind, she saw his mouth moving as he’d warned her away from Marcus. Those same lips that had crushed hers and cut off airflow.
She was going to faint.
“Lord Fitzroberts…”
Her aunt gave her a questioning look.
Eleanor nodded, forced a smile, and curtsied. As Lord Fitzroberts or Fitzherbert proceeded to speak with her aunt, Eleanor looked about for Marcus.
In all her most hellish days, the joyous memories of Marcus had sucked her back from the vortex of despair and fear.
Then she found the viscount with her eyes and her breath caught hard. Nay, Marcus. He would always be Marcus. The wry, cynical man he’d become had stood off to the side, boldly watching her. Had any other man studied her in that possessive, penetrating way, she’d have fled the hall in terror. For all that had come to pass, and the horror she’d known, her heart still thudded wildly with desire for him.
“Eleanor,” her aunt snapped her back to the moment. Brandishing her cane, the duchess motioned to a tall, lanky gentleman. “This pup is the Earl of Primly. A good fellow.” That earned a disapproving frown from the gentleman. Then, what gentleman would care to be so categorized by the eccentric duchess?
The lean gentleman flushed. “Th-thank you for the k-kind w—”
“I didn’t mean it as a compliment,” she stated with a bluntness that only deepened the color upon the earl’s sharp cheeks. “I was merely stating fact. Not a thing wrong with Primly.” She shifted the tip of her cane to one of the gentleman ogling Eleanor’s décolletage. “You may continue on Westfield.” Cheeks flushed, the young gentleman with thick Byron curls slunk off. Aunt Dorothea thumped her cane three times. “Ask for her dance card, Primly.”
Obligingly, he reached for Eleanor’s card.
The earl froze, mid-movement, his hand outstretched; those long fingers he’d put upon her person. The young man was harmless, or appeared to be so, but then there had been another with an easy grin who’d ultimately stank of brandy and sin. Oh, God. She could not do this. “No.”
“Eleanor?” her aunt prodded.
Her feet twitched with the urge to shove past the lecherous lords and run as far and as fast as her legs could carry her and continue running all the way back to the far-flung corner of Cornwall. She searched about for escape when, through her crush of suitors, Eleanor’s gaze collided with Marcus’.
He grinned. “Mrs. Collins, I believe you promised the next set to me.”
Her heart caught and she stared transfixed as the assembled gentlemen parted. Marcus came to a stop and eyed her through thick, hooded, golden lashes.
His words were a blatant lie, and a poor one at that. Every gentleman here knew Marcus, the Viscount Wessex, had not spoken to her until this moment. And yet, for his steady, reassuring presence and his innate ability to know when she needed him, Eleanor loved him all the more.
“There you have it,” her aunt said to the men lying in wait. “Mrs. Collins has pledged this set to Wessex.”
Some of the cloying panic in the attention being thrust upon her eased and Eleanor shot out a hand and placed her fingertips along his coat sleeve and allowed him to guide her away from the crush of gentlemen. With an ease that made her heart ache, Marcus tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and led her on to the dance floor for the waltz. “Marcus, I—”
“Come,” he said quietly as he moved her hand onto his shoulder and positioned his own at her waist. “You’ll not make me a liar before your rather impressive collection of suitors.”
She nodded. “Yes, I would.” Her hand fell to her side and he quickly moved it back into place.
“I daresay a waltz would be a very small thank you for having separated you from those swains.”
“It would.” The orchestra launched into the full hum of the haunting melody of the waltz and couples moved about them in the slow one-two-three step. “But I do not know the waltz.”
“You do not know how to waltz?” He gave his head a bemused shake. “I’d not considered the dance had not arrived from the Continent until you left.”
In the time she’d been gone the inane details of life—the dances deemed appropriate and practiced within the distinguished ballrooms of London, the cut of a gown, the style of a cravat—had all changed. How very insignificant when compared with how her life had been altered. She did another search of the room and a chill raked her spine. He was here. Watching. Her. Her exchange with Marcus.
“Trust me,” he said quietly, jerking her to the moment. She darted her gaze about. Lords and ladies twirled about them; trained rabidly curious stares on them. Yet as smoothly confident as he’d always been, unfazed by the ton’s interest, Marcus positioned her arms once again and then settled his hand at her waist. Through the fabric of her gown, her skin burned from the heat of his touch, momentarily robbing her of breath, in a response that had nothing to do with terror or remembrances of the past and everything to do with her body’s subtle awareness of him as a man.
“I do not know what I am doing, Marcus,” she whispered, jolting awkwardly through the dance.
He winked. “You can lurch to and fro and still evince a grace any lady would admire.” Those words were surely the same, effusive praise he reserved for all the ladies he took to his bed and yet a thrill went through her anyway.
Not wanting him to realize the hold he still held over her, she found her first real smile that evening. “And you’re the rogue the papers purport you to be.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Ah, you and those gossip columns, again. We need to find you new reading material.”
She silently cursed and immediately sidestepped that glaring admission. “There is a good deal to read about, Marcus, but I long ago stopped reading about your name.” Eleanor stumbled and trampled all over his toes. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I did warn you that you’d be better suited to find a different dance partner.” A woman of grace and his equal in every way. Eleanor loathed the unsullied lady with every fiber of her being.
“Why?”
“For stepping on your toes. I didn’t intentionally do so, though there have been times you’ve deserved it.”
Marcus shifted her in his arms and, drawing her closer, he helped lead her through the set. “Why did you read of the pursuits of a man you ceased to love?”
“Oh,” she blurted. Embarrassed heat singed her neck and warmed her cheeks. And when presented with his probing stare and a question she had no desire in answering for what it
would reveal, Eleanor stumbled against him.
He repositioned her once more. “Eleanor?”
She sighed. He was as tenacious as he’d ever been. “I never stopped caring about you, Marcus.” Loving him. She’d never stopped loving him. Until she drew her last breath, her heart would forever beat for him and only him.
“Caring.” He spoke in a flat, emotionless tone that gave little indication of his thoughts. “Not loving.” A sad smile played on his lips, erasing all the cynical bitterness he’d evinced since her return. “Since you returned, and I learned you’d wed, I told myself that I didn’t care, Eleanor. A woman who left as you did, forsaking all we shared, and giving nothing more than a note was undeserving of my regard and assuredly undeserving of my love.” With each word, he twisted the knife of pain deeper in her already broken heart. “But it was not your fault, Eleanor. Was it? You loved another and it would be wrong to resent you for having wed that man, even as I wished it had been me.”
Tears popped up behind her lids and she blinked furiously in a desperate bid to keep them from falling down her cheeks, in crystalline trails of agony. For it had been her fault. Had she not gone to those empty gardens, her life would have moved in an altogether different direction. And with the cynicism burning from within his eyes, she needed Marcus to know that she’d not been false in the words she’d given him. “What if I told you I loved you, once? Would that matter?”
Marcus considered her a long while. “At one time, yes.” He gave his head a sad, slow shake. “No longer, Eleanor. I’ve since moved on from the pain I knew after your betrayal.”
She snagged her lip between her teeth and bit down hard. Why did it matter that he’d abandoned the dream of them? Eleanor missed a step and Marcus righted her.
“It is a one-two-three count,” he whispered close to her ear.
How could he be so casual and unaffected when his blunt admission had slit open the still unhealed wounds of losing him? “It is scandalous,” she said in search of any words to give him.
To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) Page 14
