The only question remained: how to earn her love and trust…again?
Chapter 17
The next morning, seated at the breakfast table, Satin and Devlin vied for Eleanor’s attention…and not for the first time since her arrival, she welcomed the pugs’ distraction. It prevented her from focusing on all she’d shared with Marcus.
She curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. Nay, that wasn’t true. One couldn’t very well forget the ugly, humiliating parts she’d shared with him…the only person, other than her father, whom she’d let into the lie that was her life.
Satin yapped at Eleanor’s feet and she looked down at the panting pug. “Oh, you are not content to let anyone else have attention, are you?” she murmured, favoring the dog with a gentle pat. She offered him a strip of bacon, which he grabbed between his crooked teeth.
Devlin growled.
“Do hush,” she chided. “There is certainly enough for the both of you.”
He shoved the top of his head against her chair, as though in canine agreement, and then bounded across the room to his mistress’ side.
“How are you doing with your list, gel?” Her aunt thundered from the wide-backed King Louis chair she occupied, freezing Eleanor mid-movement.
Satin yapped once, nudging her again. “It is coming along,” she answered, praying her aunt would find those words sufficient so Eleanor wasn’t forced to, in the light of a new day, think about the most intimate, personal pieces she’d shared with Marcus. Or his palpable grief and regret.
“What does that mean, ‘it is coming along’?” her aunt barked.
She sighed. Of course, that assurance would have never sufficed. Marcia glanced up curiously from her plate of eggs and toast. Avoiding her gaze, Eleanor cleared her throat. “Just that. It is coming along.”
“Do you believe I’ll be content with your veiled non-answers?” The older woman mumbled something under her breath that sounded a good deal like didn’t-have-the-sense-God-gave-a-goose. “You will be able to cross the theatre from your list, gel. We’ll attend this evening.”
At the prospect of visiting those noisy, vibrant gardens amongst the unkind ton, her heart sank. God how she missed the simplicity of the countryside quiet.
“The opera,” Marcia breathed, clasping her hands to her chest. “It is so very grand in London. I never wish to leave.”
A denial sprung to her lips and Eleanor forcibly tamped down the panic. Her daughter loved the glittering world of polite Society. Just as so many other young girls were surely wont to do, Marcia longed to take part in balls and attend operas and stroll through Hyde Park. She dreamed of one day finding a charming gentleman. Never knowing, that by the circumstances of her birthright and Eleanor’s past, this world was closed to her. Sadness squeezed at her heart, and as though he’d sensed her sudden disquiet, Satin jumped at the side of her chair. The loyal pug licked at her hand with his coarse tongue. Eleanor stroked Satin once more. “What a good boy you are,” she cooed.
“I’m not so weak that I’d be distracted, Eleanor,” her aunt barked from the opposite end of the table. “Even if you are complimenting my babies.”
Marcia giggled and the older woman favored her with a wink.
A smile pulling at her lips, Eleanor inclined her head. “And I would never be so foolish as to think a woman such as you is anything but strong.”
The lady’s cheeks filled with color and she shifted on her seat. “Never think to silence me with compliments, either,” she muttered. Though the happy glint in the woman’s rheumy eyes hinted at pleasure over that compliment.
“I wouldn’t dare,” she said solemnly marking an “X” on her chest.
Satin worked his two front legs furiously against the leg of the chair. Eleanor winced as his sharp nails worked a wear pattern into the once flawless mahogany.
“No worries about that,” her aunt thumped her cane. “Material pleasures are to be enjoyed. By dogs, too.” She favored the faithful dog on her lap with an affectionate stroke.
Footsteps sounded in the hall and the trio looked up as the butler entered.
“Lord Wessex has arrived.”
At his unexpected announcement, the silver fork slipped from Eleanor’s fingers and clattered noisily upon her largely untouched breakfast plate. Heart thumping wildly, she stared at the young servant. In the light of a new day with her ugliest secret laying open between them, Eleanor could not face him. Not when she was still feeling raw and exposed.
At the stretch of silence, the butler looked between his employer and Eleanor and cleared his throat. “That is, I have taken to showing the Viscount Wessex to the parlor where he awaits Mrs. Collins.”
The duchess inclined her head and the servant took his cue. He sketched a bow and backed out of the room.
Marcia clapped her hands excitedly. “Oh, wonderful, Marcus is here,” she mumbled around a mouthful of scone.
“We do not speak with our mouths full, love,” Eleanor corrected, proud of the steadiness of her tone when inside she was a quaking, trembling mess. Perhaps she could feign a megrim. Or perhaps…
“You’re not going to turn away my godson, Eleanor Elaine,” the duchess boomed, thumping her cane on the floor.
“I did not say I was turning him away,” Eleanor complained, but neither did she climb to her feet and rush to the parlor. She’d resolved to not seeing him today. Following their midnight meeting, and all she’d shared, how could she face him? Oh, ultimately, she’d have to see him again, but not now. Not so soon after. To give her fingers something to do, she dangled a piece of bread over the edge of the table. Satin and Devlin raced forward and vied for supremacy over the offering. She grabbed another and Satin snapped it up and carried it back to his mistress’ feet.
“Why would Mama turn Marcus away?” Marcia asked, little wrinkles of confusion marring her brow.
“Because—” How could she explain herself in a way that would ever make sense to her small daughter who’d come to idolize him?
“Because she’s not as clever as I’d credited,” her aunt retorted.
Eleanor’s cheeks warmed. “I am not turning him away.”
“Then go,” her aunt shot back.
“Well, I like him,” Marcia said unhelpfully. “Even if Mama does not.”
“I like him just fine.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples. Goodness, she’d not have to feign a megrim, after all. The two ornery ladies before her now were causing one, all on their own.
“Marcus danced with me,” Marcia piped in and then promptly took another bite of her scone.
Eleanor dropped her arms to her sides. Her heart danced a peculiar rhythm in her chest at that loving tableau presented with her daughter’s innocent admission. “You…”
“Danced with him. A waltz,” Marcia said happily around her full mouth.
Proper manners be damned, Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek to keep the countless questions from tumbling from her lips.
“Oh?” the duchess drawled.
And the astute seven-year-old girl registered the focus trained on her and preened. She gave a pleased nod. “Well, I was watching the ball, as Mama said I could, and was returning to my chambers, and ran into Marcus in the hall.”
“The hall,” her aunt parroted. “Whatever was the boy doing in my corridors during the ball?”
Eleanor’s cheeks burned and she turned a prayer skyward. Please do not look at me. Please do not…
The Lord proved otherwise busy, as He invariably did. Her aunt narrowed her knowing gaze on Eleanor.
“Well, he was dancing with meeee,” Marcia said with a roll of her eyes.
“Ah, of course,” her aunt said wryly. “That was what he was doing in my corridors.”
Marcia nodded. “He allowed me to waltz on his boots and I very much like him, Mama.”
An image flitted through her mind of Marcus balancing Marcia on the tops of his shoes while he guided her laughingly about the floor; the dream so very
real because of what her daughter had just painted. Her throat worked and she cursed the silent attention now trained on her.
Daughter and aunt stared expectantly back at her.
And in this instance, facing one Marcus to the two probing ladies before her was vastly preferable. She surged to her feet and started her march to the door. Because she really didn’t care to be called a coward. And she cared even less to have her intelligence questioned. It was not a matter of intelligence or bravery. Well, mayhap it was a bit of bravery…but rather—self-preservation. She sought to protect what little remained of her dignity. “I will go see His Lordship.”
“Marcus,” Marcia called out.
The older woman fixed an equal part pleased, equal part triumphant, smile on her niece. “Run along, gel. Run along.”
Eleanor exited the breakfast room, when her daughter’s whispered words carried through the doorway. They froze Eleanor.
“…Do you think he will marry her…?”
There was such hope in her little girl’s wonderings that pain lanced at her heart.
“I do.” Her aunt’s firm assurance jerked her back into movement and, with frantic steps, Eleanor rushed down the hall.
Her aunt and daughter spoke so casually of marriage. One was the hopes of a fatherless child, the other of an older woman, romantic by nature, who did not know all the darkest, ugliest secrets that made Eleanor an unsuitable match for anyone. She reached the White Parlor and paused at the entrance to the room. Marcus stood at the floor-length window with his hands clasped behind his back. The sight of him, with his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and strong thighs, was the beautiful perfection of a man who deserved more than a woman who’d been used by another.
He stiffened. As he turned, she braced for the veiled disgust and hesitancy of a man who didn’t know what to do with a woman who’d shared her secret shame, and the moment stretched into an eternity of her mourning Marcus as he’d been before; kissing her, touching her, and unguarded in his attentions. A half-grin marred those perfectly formed lips; a smile that reached his eyes, and for the sincerity there, all the way into her heart which beat for him. “Eleanor.”
“M-Marcus,” she greeted, running her palm over her skirts. She searched for a hint of repulsion but found nothing but the same, smiling man he’d been. Nay. Eleanor lingered on his eyes. Where the jaded glint of a man long ago brokenhearted and betrayed had once been, was now a tenderness she didn’t know what to do with.
Then he spoke. “I have thought long about your list.” Marcus rocked on his heels. “I will not hold you to our previous arrangement.”
Her heart paused mid-beat. No! She smoothed her palms down the front of her skirts. “You will not?” she managed, proud of the steady deliverance of that useless question.
He shook his head. “I will not.”
He’d likely realized the folly in courting a ruined woman. That truth gutted her. “I-I will see to the list on my own, Marcus. Thank you for helping me complete the items that you did.”
“Tsk, tsk, love.” With the husky timbre to his retort, he was the charming, practiced rogue, once more. “I didn’t say I would not assist you.” He strode slowly toward her, hopelessly elegant in his sleek, black attire. “I, however, will not hold you to the remainder of the Season.”
Grief scissored through her. What if I want you to? She’d been such a coward these years that she could not bring herself to utter the humbling question hovering on her lips. She stiffened as he lowered his head and claimed her lips in a tender, gentle meeting. He tasted of love and truth and new beginnings and she wanted all of it, only with him.
Marcus raised his head. “I want you to remain here because you want it, Eleanor.” His breath fanned her lips and brought her lids fluttering. “I want you to stay in London not because you require the role of companion to your aunt and not because your uncle or I willed it. I want you to be here because you wish to be.” A familiar, errant, gold curl fell over his brow and he offered her a slow smile that met his eyes. “And because I’m a selfish bastard, I want you to want to be here because you wish to be with me.”
Warmth flicked to life inside her heart…as the slow, gradual understanding of his offer crept in. He would not force her to do something. He’d allow her choice, when the most elemental one had been stolen from her before. And God help her, she fell in love with him all over again. Wished to be the woman he deserved. Wished to be a woman who could share his bed and give him children.
He offered her his elbow and, her world in tumult, she eyed it in abject confusion.
“What are you doing, Marcus?” she whispered.
He brushed his fingers down her cheek, and then tipped her chin up, forcing her eyes to his. “Why, I am escorting you to Gunther’s.”
Gunther’s?
“Item five,” he reminded, running the pad of his thumb over her lower lip as he was wont to do.
Item five? Her list. Yes, a gentleman of Marcus’ honor would uphold the pledge he’d taken to help her. Nothing would prevent him from doing so. Not even midnight revelations of her dark past.
Marcus lifted one eyebrow. “You do remember item five?”
“Of course,” she said dumbly. Liar. You only recall what item was on the list because he just reminded you. “Gunther’s. Ices at Gunther’s.” Foolish girl, what did you secretly hope? That he’d come to swear his undying love and to ask you to be his viscountess, as your aunt and daughter suspected?
Then in a move better suited a brother with a younger sister, he chucked her under the chin. “Shall we?”
Eleanor placed her hand on his sleeve and allowed him to escort her on to item five, and the beginning of the end of her list.
In all the time he’d known Eleanor, those two glorious months long ago, and now, again eight years later, the lady had never been silent. Oh, she’d never been one of the prattling ones determined to fill a void of silence…but she had been at ease and comfortable. Assured.
Now, as he guided his curricle down the quiet streets of London, the hushed figure at his side bore no resemblance to the woman he’d come to know. He stole a sideways glance at her. Eleanor maintained a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the seat while she trained her gaze forward on the road before them.
The moment she had entered her aunt’s parlor, studying him with trepidation and fear emanating from within her eyes, it had taken all the strength he’d possessed to give her the smile she deserved.
Did she believe he would look at her differently for what she’d shared? Did she think he would find her anything but beautiful and strong for what she’d survived? She had more strength and courage than any grown man he knew; including his weaker self. When most women would have crumpled under the weight of life’s cruelty, Eleanor had moved on, finding a smile, and love for the child who’d been forced upon her.
And there was no other woman he would have for his wife. Even if she deserved better than a bounder such as he. He was selfish and self-serving because he could not live in a world in which she belonged to another.
“Did I ever tell you about my first tutor, Mr. Chapman?”
Eleanor blinked several times as though blinking back the fog of her own thoughts. She cast a quizzical look up at him.
“He was a miserable bugger,” he said cheerfully, guiding his mounts right at the end of the street. “I was a boy of seven. Not unlike Marcia, I delighted in exploring and certainly didn’t appreciate being shut away in the schoolrooms receiving lessons from miserable Mr. Chapman. I was a rotted student.”
Eleanor’s lips twitched. “I don’t believe you are rotted at anything you do, Marcus Gray.”
He’d been a rotted protector. That had been his greatest failing. He gripped the reins hard. “Have a care, love,” he said with false brevity. “Or I might believe you’re trying to charm a rogue.”
She laughed. “I wouldn’t even know how to try to accomplish such a feat.”
There was no, nor had t
here ever been, trying where Eleanor Carlyle was concerned. She’d wooed and won his heart with her unfettered smile and bold spirit outside their London townhomes. He’d been hopelessly and helplessly hers, since.
“What of your Mr. Chapman?”
“Right, right,” he continued, steering the curricle through a throng of conveyances. “Miserable Mr. Chapman was a miserable man. Stern, unbending, and—”
“Miserable?” she supplied with a little laugh.
“Yes, indeed. When I was a boy, I could not read. Two years of the bugger calling me a lackwit and lazy.” Even all these years later, he recalled the frustration of staring at the pages unable to make sense of the words upon them. The frustration had been so great that when in the privacy of his own company, he’d hurled those small leather tomes across the room. “He had a switch.” His skin still burned in remembrance of the lashes dealt. “He would ask me to read aloud and brought that switch down on me whenever I stumbled or struggled through those readings.” Which had been every single, horrid lesson.
The teasing light went out of Eleanor’s eyes. “Oh, Marcus,” she said softly and laid her hand over his.
He stared, transfixed a moment by the sight of her glove-encased fingers upon his person, wanting to have the right to that hand; wanting it joined with his forever. Marcus drew on the reins and guided the curricle to a halt on the opposite side of Gunther’s “For two years, I believed everything Chapman uttered. I believed I was a lackwit. Why couldn’t I read when I stared at those damned words day after day, hour after hour? Then one morning, my father entered in the middle of my lessons. Chapman was bringing that switch down on my back and my father stormed the room. He ripped that blasted birch from Chapman’s hands and snapped it in half.” Marcus neatly omitted the violent part, which resulted in his father beating the man with his own stick before destroying it. Gone too soon of an apoplexy at not even forty-two years of age, his father had evinced strength, honor, and love. Marcus held Eleanor’s gaze. “I, of course, learned to read. My father insisted on delivering every reading lesson until those words began to make sense.” He held his palms up. “It was not my fault I couldn’t read, Eleanor. Chapman made it a thing of terror and horror. It took my father to show me that words were things of joy and wonder.”
To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) Page 22
