“How very arrogant you’ve become, Marcus. You are a rogue.” Yes, he’d fashioned himself into the indolent, charming rogue as a means of protecting himself from ever being hurt at the hands of a woman. He’d never been ashamed of who he’d become—until now, with the disappointment and sadness reflecting in the soulful depths of her eyes. “You expect I should take a gentleman to my bed because I am a widow? You’d have me sacrifice my self-respect and honor for what? A fleeting union of two people in a shameful act that should not exist beyond the bonds of marriage?”
A shameful act? “Is that how you view the act of making love, Eleanor?” Had her husband been one of those coolly detached sorts who snuffed the candle and came to her with coverlets drawn and her nightshift between them? What a bloody fool.
“I don’t view the act of making love in any way,” she said between gritted teeth. She darted her gaze about, as though seeking escape. The rapidity of her movement sent a golden curl tumbling from her chignon. She tucked the tress back inside her bonnet.
“That is a shame,” he murmured. “A lady such as you should think of it, Eleanor, and think of it often. You should celebrate the power of a man’s touch and dream of taking that man,” Preferably only him. “In your arms and—”
She yanked her hand free of his. “I do not want your empty words of passion and desire.” That was all he had to give anymore since she’d stolen off with his heart.
“Ah, yes. You want my friendship, for however many tasks you have left on your uncle’s list? And then what, Eleanor? Will you disappear and run off, leaving,” me, “London behind?”
Eleanor nodded and he started at that honest response. “I do not want Marcia to grow up in this world.”
“Where will you go?” he tossed back, desperately requiring that answer so this time, when she walked out of his life, he didn’t spend every day wondering where she’d gone to, was she happy, and worrying he’d never again see her. When she remained silent, annoyance stirred in his belly. “No response? Even now, you’d not tell me where you made your home? That isn’t a friend, Eleanor.” Suddenly, it was very important he know who she’d been, what she’d done, and where she’d gone in these eight years. At the very least, she owed him that much.
For a long while, she said nothing, and he thought she intended to remain silent. “The north coast of Cornwall,” she said, her faint voice so soft he thought he might have imagined it. But then she cleared her throat. “A small village called St. Just.”
Cornwall. A bitter laugh escaped him. She’d traveled to the opposite end of England. The emotional and physical gulf between them had been equally great. “Did your husband hail from there?”
She gave her head a slight shake. The muscles of her throat moved and she directed her attention to her tightly clasped hands.
Then, he asked the most important question he’d had all these years, the answer mattering as much now as when she’d been a young lady of eighteen. “Were you happy?” For the hole she’d ripped in his heart with her leaving, he’d never wanted to imagine a world in which she’d not been the smiling, laughing girl she’d been.
“I had Marcia.” She paused. “Of course, I should be happy.”
How neatly she sidestepped his question; her evasion more telling than affirmation or denial. “Ah, but it’s not a matter of should you have been or should you not have been, but rather, were you?” Marcus shifted the reins to his opposite hand, and caught one of her tensely held ones. He slid his fingers into hers, interlocking the digits. He studied them. How very effortlessly they fit together.
“I was,” she said softly, her eyes on their joined hands.
Marcus braced for more words from her on the paragon who’d held her heart, but she remained stoically silent. How was it possible to feel both this lightened relief, melded with jealousy for what they had known together? He removed his hand from Eleanor’s and once again shifted the reins so he might more easily guide the curricle through the gates of Hyde Park, down the path clogged with carriages. Eleanor loosened the strings of her bonnet and pulled the piece free. She set it down on the bench beside her and closing her eyes, she turned her face up to the sun.
A vise squeezed off all hint of airflow as he worshiped the sight of Eleanor bathed in the warm rays of the springtime sun. It kissed the honeyed blonde of her curls, casting an otherworldly glow upon her. She was perfection. She was unfettered and untainted in her beauty; pure, while the women about those polished beauties of Society were as false as their smiles.
Eleanor opened her eyes and their gazes collided. “What is it?” she asked, touching her hand to her mouth.
He shook his head. “It is…” Everything. “Nothing.” Marcus guided them off the well-traveled path, away from the crowds of lords and ladies out for their excursions. He leapt from the curricle and motioned forward a boy hovering about. Marcus withdrew a sack of coins and tossed it to the child who easily caught it. “Care for my mount and there will be more.” Gripping Eleanor at her narrow waist, he helped her to the ground. She looked at him askance. “Your uncle did not know you well enough to know you never enjoyed a curricle ride.” She’d once likened rides in Hyde Park to being a creature on display at a museum for all to gawk and gape at.
Eleanor started. “You remember that?”
Marcus remembered all about Eleanor Elaine Carlyle. He winked. “The duke failed to stipulate a length or duration to that carriage ride, so I daresay this shall suffice?”
The muscles of Eleanor’s throat moved and a sheen of tears dusted her eyes. She blinked them back and then allowed him to lead her down the walking trail.
He opened his mouth to speak, when his sister’s voice slashed into their exchange. “Marcus!”
Their gazes swung as one to Lizzie who wound her way determinedly through lords and ladies. At her side, marched a very determined, and a boldly staring, Lady Marianne Hamilton. The duo came to a stop before him and Eleanor and he damned the unwanted intrusion.
“Mrs. Collins, Marcus, what a surprise it is to see you here,” Lizzie said, breathless from her near sprint to reach them. She brushed a damp, loose curl behind her ear. “Then it is really no surprise. You do so love rides in Hyde Park, just as Marianne does. Don’t you, Marianne?” Lizzie turned her attention on the lady at her side.
“I do love to ride, my lord.” Lady Marianne peered at him through thick, smoky lashes. “Perhaps we might one day have the pleasure of riding…together.”
He choked, but by his sister’s wide, innocent smile, she’d failed to note the young woman’s veiled innuendo. By the tense set to Eleanor’s shoulders, however, the more experienced widow detected the other lady’s interest—and if the fury spitting in her eyes was any indication, she was anything but pleased with the woman’s attentions.
Why would Eleanor be jealous? Why, unless she still felt something for him? A lightness filled his chest at the evidence of Eleanor’s interest.
“Do you enjoy riding, Mrs. Collins?” Lady Marianne asked Eleanor.
She smoothed her palms over the front of her skirts. “I…” She was afraid of horses. Another piece that made Eleanor Elaine the woman she was. “Do not…” she finished.
Lizzie slipped her arm in Marcus’. “I would speak to you a moment, brother. There is a favor I would put to you.”
He swallowed a curse as his sister steered him away. “Can it not wait, Lizzie?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You’ve been unpardonably rude.”
Marcus cocked his head.
Lizzie pointed her eyes at the sky. “To Mar…” At his narrowed eyes, his sister coughed into her hand. “That is, to myself.”
Bloody hell. From over the top of her head, he caught Eleanor’s gaze. She gave him a slight nod and smile, and then turned her focus to something Lady Marianne said.
“…the opera. And it would be so splendid. Don’t you agree?”
He swung his attention back to Lizzie and blinked furiously. What was
she on about?
Lizzie tapped a finger against his lapel. “The opera. I simply wish you to accompany me to the opera.”
He’d learned long ago to be wary of statements from Lizzie that began with “I simply wish…” Marcus folded his arms and winged an eyebrow up. “What else?”
She forced a smile. “You are always so suspicious, Marcus.” She trilled a laugh that made him wince. “That is all.” In a weak attempt at nonchalance, she patted her curls. He turned and started back for Eleanor when Lizzie called out. “Oh, and Marianne will be joining us.”
Marcus resisted the urge to drag his hands over his face. Who would have imagined his sister would have proven to be a more meddling matchmaker than his blasted mother?
“I do not like you, Mrs. Collins.”
Eleanor started. She opened her mouth, but no words came out for the flawlessly perfect, exotic beauty. In fact, she may as well have imagined the virulent statement from the young lady in her elegant, pale blue, satin skirts. Lady Marianne stood silently staring after brother and sister in the near distance. But all doubts over the realness of that admission were shattered as the young woman spoke once more.
“I haven’t liked you since you arrived in London and snared the viscount’s attentions and I’ve not liked you since you began inserting yourself into his life.”
Having battled countless sneers and unkind whispers when she’d made her Come Out years earlier, Eleanor could well handle a spiteful eighteen or nineteen-year-old brat. “You are nothing if not honest,” she said dryly. She cast a hopeful look in Marcus’ direction. Alas, salvation was not coming from that score. Marcus remained engrossed in discourse with his lively sister.
“Are you making light of me, Mrs. Collins?” the young lady hissed.
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
At Eleanor’s attempt at droll humor, Lady Marianne Hamilton pursed her lips. She opened her mouth as though to launch a stinging attack on Eleanor, but then proved that years of lessons on decorum and propriety could not be easily forgotten—even in the face of spiteful hatred for an interloper like Eleanor. “He is a splendid gentleman, isn’t he?”
Eleanor choked. Surely, she’d heard the young lady wrong.
Lady Marianne Hamilton made a tsking sound. “Why, an experienced widow, you’ve no doubt appreciated His Lordship’s physique.”
Heat slapped Eleanor’s cheeks as she was reminded once more how hopelessly out of place she’d always been amongst the vipers of polite Society. “It is hardly appropriate to speak about—”
“Oh, come, a woman such as you? Why, the least shocking thing you’ve surely done is pant after the viscount.”
A woman such as her? A sudden cold stole through Eleanor and a panicky unease unfurled in her belly. She fought to calm her racing heart. There was no way this woman knew her past. No way…
Lady Marianne turned her lips up in a slow, knowing grin. “You see, Mrs. Collins, noblemen such as the viscount wed young ladies such as me. His sister even knows it, and it is why she’ll matchmake for me and interrupt whatever scandalous deeds you intend with Lord Wessex.” She flicked a glance up and down Eleanor’s frame and she drew her shoulders back under the insolence of that stare. The young lady peeled her lip back in a sneer. “The viscount will dally with a merchant’s daughter, but ultimately, he’ll wed a lady—” She preened. “Such as myself. So you may carry on with Lord Wessex, but I intend to wed him and his fifty thousand pounds.”
Eleanor saw, breathed, and tasted fury. His fifty thousand pounds? “Is that all he is to you? A fat purse to catch?” She would sooner slice off her own fingers, one at a time, than see him wed a creature such as this.
“That is not all he is. I will enjoy stealing off to the gardens with him…” Another icy shiver raced along Eleanor’s spine as the young woman flounced her dark curls. Lady Marianne leaned close, dropping her voice to a barely discernible whisper. “And you do know much about midnight meetings in the gardens, don’t you?”
The earth shifted under her feet. Eleanor clutched her hands to her throat at the ugly, horrifying truth. She could not know. She could not. The young woman smiled through Eleanor’s silent torment. “After all, you are a widow and widows do know of midnight meetings in gardens, do they not?”
Eleanor dropped her arms to her sides and blinked once, twice, and a third time. Of course, she could not know. How could she? She balled her hands at her sides, detesting Lady Marianne Hamilton with a seething hatred. These grasping, title-seeking women who knew nothing of love and warmth. Eleanor tipped her chin up a notch. “Some lofty noblemen you speak of will assuredly wed you. But that man will not be Lord Wessex. He is entirely too good and clever to wed a coldhearted creature such as you.” She prayed her words to be true. For even as Eleanor with her tattered past no longer deserved him, this woman deserved him even less.
Lady Marianne gasped and Eleanor took advantage of the lady’s momentary shock. She turned on her heel and marched away, back to the curricle. Fury burned in her veins and fueled her movements. Surely Marcus would never fall prey to that viper’s charms? Surely he—She gasped as someone took her at her elbow. Drawing her arm back, she swung about, but Marcus easily clasped her wrist, catching the blow.
“Never tell me you intend to blacken my eye now?” Droll humor laced his question.
The tension drained to her feet and Eleanor loosened her arm. “Marcus,” she said flatly. “I did not hear you approach.”
“Because you were sprinting away.” He peered at her. “Did Lady Marianne say something to upset you?”
“No.” Yes. Nothing that wasn’t the truth, however. “We’ve accomplished the item on the list, Marcus. There is no longer a need for us to be here.”
A muscle jumped at the corner of his eye. “Of course,” he said tersely. He lifted her up and easily handed her into the seat. “Let us return, then, and cross this item from your list. I have issued an invitation for you and your aunt to join my family at the theatre later this week.” He tightened his mouth. “Another item to strike from your list.”
As the curricle lurched forward, Eleanor bit her lower lip to keep from giving in to tears. She stared blankly out at the merry couples; unfettered in their happiness. Her gaze snagged upon a young blonde woman seated beside a golden-haired gentleman. Their eyes and faces demonstrated none of the mistrust that time had wrought upon Eleanor and Marcus. In fact, she might be looking at the couple, as they would have been if life had carried along its safer, happier trajectory.
But it hadn’t. Life had intruded and they could never, ever be that couple. Even if he offered for her and she wanted to accept, which she did, she could never give him the heir and spare he required as viscount. For the passion he’d roused with his kisses, her panicked reaction that morning was proof that no matter how much she wished it or willed it to be different, her mind and body were equally broken.
Her heart spasmed and she rubbed her palm over her chest to dull the ache. Her efforts proved futile. That organ had been broken long ago and could never be healed. How was she going to survive the rest of the Season, loving him more and more each day, while the chasm between them grew wide?
She looked up at him; silent and stoic when he was only ever grinning and laughing. Mayhap Marcus would not hate her so. Mayhap he would understand if she let him into her world in ways she’d never let anyone other than her father in; and he’d taken the truths and secrets to his grave. The risks of confiding anything in anyone had been too great; for her, for Marcia, for their collective future. The world was unkind to unwed mothers. It was even more so to the bastard children of those shameful mothers. As much as Marcus despised her for shattering his heart, he would never jeopardize Marcia’s safety or security. His gentleness with Marcia, his willingness to help Eleanor accomplish the tasks set out for her by her uncle, were proof that he was the same man he’d always been.
Yes, Marcus might be the affable, charming rogue to Society, but he was still the
fiercely loyal, considerate gentleman who’d first and forevermore captured her heart. He was unlike any other man.
And that was why he was deserving of the truth. So he could be free to make the match required of him as a viscount and not be burdened with the tasks Eleanor had been assigned by the late duke.
“Meet me in the gardens at quarter past the hour.”
For a long moment she suspected he’d not heard that barely there whisper, but then, with his gaze forward on the lines of curricles before them, he gave a tight nod.
Chapter 16
He was late. And Eleanor only knew he was late because she herself had not exited her chambers until quarter past the hour. Seated on the wrought iron bench, amidst the roses and gardenias, she scanned the garden wall separating their homes for sign of him.
A night breeze stirred the bushes and the cool air penetrated the fabric of her modest gray muslin dress. Her spectacles slipped down her nose and she removed the unnecessary pair. For eight years she’d almost never been without the lenses. Since she’d arrived in London, they’d been more of an afterthought. An afterthought when of all places, this is where she needed them most. She dropped her gaze to the rims. She’d used them as a means of protection. There had been something falsely reassuring about the spectacles. They were a kind of mask she’d put on to be what she wished the world to see because…what if they saw the truth? What if they saw the woman who was used and dirty and who still bore the traces of ugliness on her body and soul? More, what if Marcus saw her in all those worst possible ways? Tears flooded her eyes and she blinked back the useless drops. One squeezed past her lid and slid down her cheek, followed by another and another.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the garden wall and she hopped to her feet. Heart pounding hard, she quickly dashed her hands over her cheeks.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 20
