To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) Read online

  “Someday,” she promised. She closed her eyes and drew in the fragrant, citrusy scent of her daughter’s hair. This is why she’d endure another Season and the threat posed to her heart when Marcus was near, and the threat to her sanity of one day seeing him.

  “You needn’t be worried, Mama.” Marcia scrambled backward. Then she beamed. “You need a friend.”

  “A friend?” There was not a friend she had in the world. “There is Aunt Dorothea.”

  Her daughter giggled. “Not Aunt Dorothea. Why, your friend, Marcus. You should invite him to go with you so you are not alone and then you won’t be afraid.”

  Marcus. Help her? Why, he’d more likely welcome a date with the devil than acquiesce to her request for help. For all her fears of men and their nefarious intentions, she did not believe Marcus capable of hurting anyone. Even with his sneers and his snarls, she never believed he would hurt her.

  Marcia hopped to her feet and held out her hand to help Eleanor up. “Come along, Mama. We need to find a new hiding place.”

  With a little laugh, she took her daughter by the hand. “You, my dear, need to find your way back to your nursemaid and return to your lessons.” A groan escaped her daughter as they walked hand in hand abovestairs. And perhaps it spoke to Eleanor’s desperation, but as they made their way through the corridors, she rather thought there was merit to her daughter’s suggestion. She certainly required a friend.

  Unfortunately, however, she’d forfeited all rights to Marcus’ friendship when she’d left him with nothing more than several empty lines dashed upon a piece of parchment.

  Chapter 9

  Through the years, Marcus had come to enjoy ton events. Where most gentlemen sought ways to avoid those crowded affairs, Marcus had moved with an ease and comfort. He presented a carefree smile which polite Society had come to expect. He’d filled his life with inanity and quite reveled in it. Polite events and even more impolite events had provided a diversion from the horrors that still lingered from his youth. A young man of twenty-one, he, the Duke of Crawford and Lionel, the future Marquess of Roxbury had reveled in the impolite—they’d taken their pleasures in the Dials and only two of them returned alive.

  Yes. Most balls provided a diversion.

  Most.

  Seated at the breakfast table, with his copy of The Times up, Marcus fixed on one line.

  …The Duchess of D hosting her first event since the passing of the Duke of D…

  Which had certainly not proven newsworthy to Marcus when he’d accepted that particular invite weeks prior. It was, however, significant with the arrival of a certain lady who’d be acting as companion to the duchess. For Eleanor’s assurance that evening past under the half-moon with stars as their witness, that they needn’t see one another and that they would move within entirely different Social spheres, they both knew that to be just another lie she’d fed him.

  His fingers tightened reflexively upon the pages. No, there was no escaping. From her. From her charges in the garden at quarter past midnight. As though the life he’d lived in her absence was one he should be shamed by. As though she had been the honorable one and he—

  “Do stop growling, Marcus. It is impolite.”

  The paper slipped from his fingers and he found his mother frowning at him with stern-faced disapproval. Her orders were met with a flurry of giggles and he looked to Lizzie and Lady Marianne Hamilton. So the lady would now take breakfast with his sister, now. He inclined his head. “My apologies, ladies. It is…” Marcus blinked.

  Lady Marianne settled her elbows on the table and leaned forward in a way that put her impressive décolletage on display. “Have you not found anything that pleases you…on those pages, my lord?” She parted her lips slightly in a wanton invitation. “Surely there must be something of interest.”

  Unbidden, his gaze went to the cream white mounds fairly spilling over the top of her gown. Yet, the Marquess of Atbrooke’s sister, the most sought after Diamond that Season was nothing, if not an innocent. He fixed his attention on the young lady and her come hither stare. With her midnight black curls piled high atop her head and crimson, too-full lips, the lady was a lush beauty who at any other time would have commanded his notice; a young woman who recently had commanded his notice.

  Lady Marianne turned her lips up in a slow, enticing smile.

  So why could he not stop comparing her practiced smile to another young lady’s? A woman purer in her golden beauty; with freckles on her nose, and honest, if now guarded, crystalline blue eyes framed by spectacles.

  He jumped as his sister called out. “Come, Marcus, have you not heard Marianne’s question? It is entirely rude of you to fail to respond. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

  Skin flushed, he looked to his mother, who thankfully remained engrossed in the contents of her plate. “Indeed, Marcus.”

  Marcus reached for his cup of coffee and took a sip. “The information on the pages is entertaining enough, Lady Marianne.”

  Belatedly realizing the unintended veiled innuendo to those words, Marcus silently cursed at Lady Marianne’s widening smile. Setting his cup down so hard the black brew spilled over the side, he grabbed his copy of The Times and buried his face behind it once more. With a beauty such as Lady Marianne seated across the table and making eyes at him, he should be fixed on that particular lady. After all, he was a hot-blooded, living, breathing male. Though he had no intention of wedding any time soon, despite his mother’s machinations, this cool, beautiful ice princess would pose the perfectly safe match for him. At the very least, he should hold her form and figure in masculine appreciation. Except… While his sister and friend resumed their prattling, he fixed his stare on one name contained within the pages of The Times.

  …The Duchess will be joined by her niece, Mrs. C. Not much is known of the lady beyond…

  Instead, he sat fuming about the duchess’ blasted niece.

  “…Oh, do hush, Lizzie, you are absolutely splendid in any color you don.”

  And yet, how could he not mourn the loss of what she’d represented? When life was hell, she’d dragged him out from the mire of misery, guilt, and despair, teaching him it was all right to smile once more.

  “…Why must I wear white? This is my second Season?” His sister’s lamentations cut across his musings and he again lowered his paper.

  His mother tapped a hand on the table. “It, at least, presents the idea of a just on the market miss, Lizzie.”

  His sister snorted and shoved her spectacles on her nose. “Anyone who pays attention to gossip columns knows precisely what I am.”

  Lady Marianne made a sound of protest and covered Lizzie’s hand with her own.

  Marcus’ smile dipped. “And what is that?” he said, welcome for the diversion away from thoughts of Eleanor and Lionel’s murder.

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m a wallflower and one who wears spectacles, at that.”

  How could not a single gentleman have realized his sister’s worth? Fools, the lot of them. “There is nothing wrong with spectacles,” he said, his frown deepened.

  “Of course there is, Marcus,” his sister said slowly. “Gentlemen do not want to wed a woman with spectacles.” Eleanor’s bespectacled visage flitted across his mind. Even with her tresses pulled tight to her nape in a hideous chignon and the spectacles on her nose, they couldn’t mute the lady’s effervescent beauty still, all these years later.

  Their mother and Lady Marianne made simultaneous sounds of protest.

  “Oh, pish-posh,” Mother said. “You are plenty beautiful to wed.”

  As she launched into a rapid defense of her daughter’s beauty, Marcus leaned over and whispered in his sister’s ear. “We shall get you colorful skirts.”

  Her eyes lit with happiness and she clapped her hands together.

  “Marcus,” his mother scolded. “She cannot…”

  “She can and she shall,” he promised and tugged on one of his sister’s ringlets. He’d come to appreciate long a
go that joy was fleeting, and it was best to steal it when and where one could. If a colorful gown would bring even a dash of happiness to his sister, then she’d have it. “Color is what makes life interesting, isn’t that right?”

  “How very fortunate you are to have such a loving brother, Lizzie,” Lady Marianne said softly, dropping her chin atop her hand. “One who will take you even now to a modiste.”

  “Truly, Marcus?” He bit back a curse as his sister scrambled forward in her chair. “Will you accompany Marianne and me?”

  Marcus looked past the troublesome minx, Lady Marianne, whose brown eyes even now sparked with mischief, to his mother.

  She shook her head tightly. “I will not support the purchase of any non-white or ivory garments, Marcus.”

  Bloody hell. He searched his gaze about the room for escape.

  Lizzie hugged his arm. “You are the very best brother,” she said softly. Her plump face settled into a solemnity that erased all her earlier happiness. “Not because of the gown, but because you wish to see me happy. You will make some young lady a very wonderful husband.” She tipped her head at an odd angle.

  At that peculiar, less than subtle movement, he shook his head. Lizzie jerked her head once more and he followed her less than discreet nodding to where her friend sat smiling boldly at him. Marcus shifted. By the invitation in Lady Marianne’s smile, she was welcoming the role of prospective future viscountess. “Shall we?” he asked, his voice coming out garbled as he hopped to his feet.

  A short while later, Marcus strode down the fashionable end of North Bond Street, trailing behind his sister and Lady Marianne. He conceded the role of chaperone was one he could do without. His sister said something to the young lady accompanying her on her shopping expedition. Lady Marianne glanced back at him, a wicked promise in her eyes.

  Before Eleanor had reemerged, Marcus would have been tempted by the promise in Lady Marianne’s eyes. Now, as Lady Marianne trailed the tip of her tongue over the seam of her lips, there was somehow a wrongness in appreciating the lady’s lush beauty. He silently strung together a stream of curses. Why could Eleanor not have stayed away? Why, so he could welcome the lust and lack of emotion he’d known with every other woman after her?

  This time, when Lady Marianne peaked over her shoulder, Marcus deliberately looked away.

  There had only been one, and would forever only be one, woman who’d held his heart, even if she’d not been deserving of that foolish organ. Except, Eleanor hadn’t evinced the jaded, cynicism of the Lady Mariannes of the world. Fresh from the country and uninfluenced by the ton, she’d laughed and smiled with an abandon to captivate even the most broken of men—which he’d been.

  The two ladies came to a stop beside a shop front and then filed inside like a row of ducks on their way to water. He lingered outside, reflecting not for the first time on his exchange with Eleanor several evenings ago in the gardens.

  They’d both established that even with the shared street between them, there was little reason for them to see one another, and they assuredly would not be moving in the same Social spheres. Eleanor had undertaken the responsibilities as companion to the Duchess of Devonshire, and Marcus would visit ball after ball in the comfortable role of rogue he’d adopted these years. Those truths should bring relief and yet, there was none. Instead, he thought of Eleanor, in her drab, brown skirts and tightly drawn curls, impoverished, reliant on her aunt for survival, and he didn’t want her relegated to that dark and dreary world, even if it did preserve his sanity. She should be attired in the finest satins and silks, only those gowns would not be the whites and ivories befitting the innocent she’d been. Now, she could and should be draped in those bold hues that conjured wicked thoughts. He fisted his hands, loathing the idea that her status as widow had earned her the right to those bold colors.

  With a silent curse, he stomped up the handful of steps into the shop, determined to shake Eleanor’s potent hold on his thoughts. He’d already ceded too much power to her years ago. He’d be damned if he allowed her any more of that control, just because he pitied the poor relation she’d become.

  He closed the door of the shop, and hovered at the entrance, taking in his sister and Lady Marianne examining bolts of fabric. Marcus tugged at his cravat. Gentlemen didn’t belong in a modiste’s shop, and but for the visits he’d paid to the fashionable shops with his mistresses over the years, he’d studiously avoided them.

  A sharp yap filled the establishment. He stiffened and looked about. A fawn pug came bounding toward him. The snorting ball of fur plopped at Marcus’ feet and licked his boot. He narrowed his eyes. A very familiar snorting ball of fur. The dog’s curled tongue lolled sideways out of his mouth. It was hardly the little bugger’s fault for sharing walls with a certain temptress. Marcus bent down distractedly and patted the pug on his head.

  From within the shop, a familiar, aged voice called out. “Pay attention, gel. What do you think of this fabric?” He stilled as the duchess’ gruff tone echoed off the walls of the establishment.

  Marcus straightened. Of course the lady would be here. The lady was everywhere.

  Drawn forward, Marcus advanced deeper into the shop.

  “You need a ball gown, gel. We cannot have you dancing in those drab, brown skirts.” He and the duchess were of like opinion in this regard, but then the implications of that pronouncement sank into his mind; Eleanor properly attired in decadent silks and satins which conjured the most forbidden thoughts, all of which found the lady on her back, arms outstretched and her hair cascading in a golden waterfall about her. “If you’ll not pick a swatch, I’ll do it on my own. You can’t have a Come Out in those brown skirts.”

  Eleanor’s murmured response was lost to him.

  Marcus fisted his hands at his sides. The lady had professed to being in London for no other reason than to serve as companion and, yet, by all intents and purposes was prepared to take the ton by storm as the young widow, returned to polite Society. His sister and her friend forgotten, he followed the duchess’ clipped and commanding voice, and froze. He peered down the aisle to where the lady stood alongside Eleanor.

  The older woman stood beside the modiste with two bolts of fabric in her hands—a pale yellow satin, better suited to a young debutante, and a garish orange muslin. Eleanor shook her head with such vigor she’d give herself a headache for her efforts. “…No need…”

  Marcus stood as a silent observer, eying those fabrics, neither of which would suit Eleanor. Not anymore. At one time, yes. Now, she should be adorned in crimson reds and rich burgundies. He gripped the wood pillar. With her golden tresses, he’d have her in the softest, luxuriant, pink silk; a touch of innocence with a suggestive allure.

  “There is always ivory,” the duchess muttered something to herself as she moved her hands over various samples laid out.

  “Ivory would be a perfect choice,” the modiste exclaimed in a thick, outrageously embellished, and most definitely, false French accent.

  “I am too old for ivory,” Eleanor declared at her side.

  An inelegant snort spilled past the older woman’s lips. “I’m old, gel. You are young.” She flicked the sleeve of Eleanor’s brown dress. “Even if you insist on dressing yourself like a pinch-mouthed governess.” Dismissing Eleanor’s continued protestations, she turned her attention to the plump shopkeeper. “We need a ball gown and another swatch of fabric.”

  The duchess’ words merely reminded him of the lie she’d uttered in the gardens. So the lady was here for a London Season, and no doubt to find another hus—Marcus growled.

  From across the shop, Eleanor snapped her head up and their gazes collided. Color rushed her cheeks, and where Lady Marianne’s blushes had held little appeal, the sight of Eleanor, as she’d once been, unrestrained and sincere, filled him with a potent wave of longing. He braced for the moment she jerked her attention away. “Hullo,” she greeted, breaking the silence, and shattering his expectations.

  “Mrs. Co
llins,” he drawled, strolling the length of the aisle. The pug trotted along at his side.

  The duchess looked at him. “What are you doing here, boy? Surely nothing appropriate can bring you here.” She softened that recrimination with a sly wink.

  The ghost of a frown marred Eleanor’s lips.

  “I’ve accompanied my sister and her friend,” he put in, his gaze trained on Eleanor.

  Some of the tension left Eleanor’s frame. So the lady was bothered by the idea of him with another. What an inexplicable reaction from a woman who’d thrown him over for another.

  The duchess patted his hand. “You’ve always been a good boy, Marcus.” She spoke of him the way she might one of her prized, legendary dogs.

  He and Eleanor shared a look and her lips slowly tilted up in a hesitant smile. How very guarded she was. She protected the smile the way the King’s Army preserved peace.

  “You’ll help us, Marcus.” The duchess thumped her cane. “Not that I require help,” she said, waggling her eyebrows. “But this one,” she gestured to Eleanor. “With her brown and gray gowns believes herself of a great fashion sense.”

  He quickly passed a gaze over Eleanor. The lady could don the coarsest, darkest fabric and still shine more resplendent than the sun. “Oh?” he asked noncommittally. Marcus winced as the duchess flipped her cane forward and jabbed him in the knee. “Being a rogue all these years, you’ve forgotten your manners, I see. You owed the girl a compliment.”

  “Aunt Dorothea,” Eleanor protested, her expression as pained as her tone. She looked to Marcus and gave a pleading shake. “You really do n—”

  “Ah, yes, indeed,” he said softly. He claimed Eleanor’s hand. Her fingertips trembled within his as he raised them to his mouth. “With your beauty, you could set a trend where ladies abandon their white skirts for the shades of gray and brown your aunt now disparages.”