To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (10 page)

Marcus shifted, angling his body in such a way that Eleanor was shielded from the small party conversing at the opposite end of the room. That subtle movement brought their bodies close. Tension dripped from her slender frame. “And we are both adults now, aren’t we?” he whispered close to her ear. “There are no rules of propriety.” As adults not bound by the same strictures of Society, they could avail each other of the pleasure of one another’s arms.

Eleanor’s breath caught. “Are you attempting to seduce me?”

“Would you like that, Eleanor?” he asked softly. He brushed his hand over her fingers and she gasped. Her lids fluttered wildly and a surge of masculine triumph gripped him. She may have wed another, but she desired him, still. “I have missed your kiss, Eleanor.” He reveled in her flushed cheeks, her quickened breath and damned the audience that prevented him from taking her in his arms and showing her just how much. “And I would wager you’ve missed my kiss, as well.”

Her lids fluttered open and she passed stricken eyes over his face. Swiftly withdrawing her hand free of his sleeve, Eleanor stumbled away from him. Shocked hurt replaced her earlier desire and that hot emotion danced in the silver flecks of her blue eyes. “I have no interest in being seduced by you.” Was it anger or desire that caused her voice to quiver so? “And you, my lord, are in the market for a wife. Are you not?”

“Ah,” he discreetly captured the golden curl that had sprung loose of her chignon, relishing the satiny softness of that tress. He’d not tell her that supposition was based on gossip fueled by two nonconsecutive dances and his own mother’s machinations. “But I am not yet married and neither are you.” But she had been. The faceless paragon she’d wed danced around the edge of his musings and resentment trickled to the surface. He tamped it down, forcing his lips up in a half-grin and released the lock. “Never tell me you’re interested in that role this time?”

It was the absolute wrong thing to say. That is, as far as seductions went.

Eleanor stood there, her chest heaving. If looks could burn, she’d have reduced him to a charred pile of ash at her feet.

From across the room his sister concluded playing her piece.

“Eleanor, girl, come along and regale us with a song,” the duchess called out.

Eleanor jerked her head toward the ladies assembled at the opposite end of the parlor. She squared her shoulders. “If you will excuse me, Aunt Dorothea? I promised Marcia I would read to her.” She made her polite goodbyes to his family and before the duchess could respond, Eleanor dropped a stiff curtsy, snatched her skirts away from Marcus, and fled. She paused in the doorway and cast a befuddled glance in his direction.

He winged an eyebrow upward and that slight movement propelled her forward.

The lady gone, Marcus gave his head a wry shake. These were sorry days indeed, when a young woman reacted so to his attempts at seduction. His smile slowly widened. Except, the blush on her cheeks and rapid breaths bespoke her desire. He was not through with his seduction of Eleanor Collins.

No, he’d only just begun.

T
hat night, with quiet echoing through the duchess’ townhouse, Eleanor sat perched on the edge of her bed. The moon’s glow penetrated the break in the curtains and cast a silvery white light upon the hardwood floor.

He attempted to seduce me.

Well, not quite, as they’d been in the presence of company. But Marcus’ husky words and thickly veiled eyes had spoken to his intentions for her. With a sigh, she withdrew her unneeded spectacles and tossed them onto the nearby night table. By the pages she’d read of him in the gossip columns—sought after, whispered about rogue—it should really come as no surprise.

And yet, for all her indignation and shock, standing with their bodies nearly flush, his breath tickling her skin, there had been something else…something more…

A gentle spiraling heat began in her belly that harkened back to the times she’d spent in Marcus’ arms. After years loathing the thought of any man’s touch, with but the brush of Marcus’ hand and nearness of his body, he’d awakened her to the truth—she still felt. For him. It had only ever been him. As she’d stood there in her aunt’s parlor, with the haunting strains of Dibdin echoing throughout the room, her heart had tripped a beat with the desire to know the promise of passion; when she’d long ago given up any thought of ever knowing, ever
wanting
to know anything in a man’s arms. How could she when the nightmares still came and her flesh still burned from the shame of the attack?

She slid her eyes closed a moment. For in this instant, she did not think of her attacker or the terror in being used for a man’s pleasure. She thought of the tantalizing promise Marcus had dangled that had not elicited fear or shame. There had been something so very heady, something invigorating in wanting to know the promises Marcus hinted at.

He would be a gentle lover. For the passion in his fathomless blue eyes, she’d no doubt that he would stroke her with the same tenderness he’d once shown.

Eleanor jumped up and the cool of the hardwood floor penetrated her feet. She began to pace. When she’d received her aunt’s summons, calling her and Marcia to London, she’d wanted to ball it up and burn it. For London represented nothing more than the pain of loss: of a once pure love, a shattered innocence, and all the dreams she’d carried that would never come to be. When desperation drove Eleanor to accept the post of companion, she’d deliberately not allowed herself to think of Marcus.

After all, lords like Marcus did not pine for young ladies of their youth. No, those bored noblemen who took their pleasures where they would, lived for their own enjoyment. That wasn’t the man he’d been, but by the gossip columns she’d carefully snipped from copies of
The Times
, it was the man he’d become.

She’d not truly allowed herself to think of Marcus beyond the agonizing thought of what might have been. As such, she’d never once considered a man such as he would set out to seduce a bespectacled widow, attired in hideous brown skirts.

Eleanor stopped midstride and the midnight quiet echoed around her. And though there was a triumph in her body’s response to him…there was an excruciating pain at his interest, as well.

For she didn’t want him to be one of those indolent lords. She wanted to have arrived in London and found the gossips proven wrong; to see him as a man driven by more than the pleasures of the flesh.

As though in mockery of that foolish wish, her gaze snagged upon the ormolu clock atop her fireplace mantel. Ten minutes past twelve.

At fifteen past the hour, I will always be there. And we shall always know where we two are.

Her throat worked painfully with the force of her swallow. Twelve fifteen had always been their hour; the special time reserved for them. Regardless of ball or soiree or a quiet, eventless evening, midnight in the gardens belonged to them. And he’d always been there. She captured her lower lip between her teeth so hard the metallic hint of blood flooded her senses. Except once. Once he had not come and from that, their precious hour had been stolen forevermore.

…Were you waiting for me, sweet…?

Her body jerked, as the taunting maniacal laugh worked about her brain. With a small moan, Eleanor dug the heels of her palms into her eyes in a desperate bid to shake free of his memory.

She’d not allow him that hold. Not tonight.

Turning on her heel, she marched over, and grabbed her spectacles. Eleanor placed them on, and then collected her modest night rail from the vanity chair. She shrugged into the white garment and then strode to the door. Pulling it open, she peeked out into the hall.

The lit sconces cast an eerie glow upon the thin, crimson carpet lining the corridor. Eleanor hesitated and then stepped outside the same rooms she’d occupied as a girl of eighteen. Drawing the door closed behind her, she made her way through the hauntingly quiet halls. The floorboards creaked and groaned in protest to her footsteps, and she quickened her stride. Eleanor came to a stop at the servant’s entrance and, glancing about once more, she slipped into the narrow stairway. Grasping the rail, she felt her way down the stairs. Her ragged breaths filled the small space, and when she reached the base of the stairs, she sprinted down the corridor.

For the familiarity of this place, she may as well have been a girl of eighteen, once again. Eleanor skidded to a halt beside the arched oak door and with trembling fingers, pressed the handle and stepped outside.

Of course, time had proven that when the dark demon of her past stole into her thoughts, she could not so easily shake free of his hold. This moment was no exception.

The fragrant scent of roses slapped at her senses sucking her back to a different midnight hour. Her feet twitched with the urge to flee the walled-in grounds and keep running—away from this area, away from this townhouse, away from her past.

Eleanor willed her heart to resume its normal cadence.

You are not the same weak girl you once were, Eleanor Carlyle.
She clenched and unclenched her jaw. She’d not allow him his hold to stretch here to these grounds. Not in these gardens that belonged to her and, at one time, Marcus. With trembling fingers, Eleanor yanked the door closed hard behind her. A cold chill raked along her spine, raising gooseflesh on her arms. In a bid for warmth, she scrubbed her hands back and forth over the chilled flesh and looked about.
Do not think of it. Do not think of that nameless stranger…
She willed herself to think of Marcus, instead. His gentle teasing and the lock of hair he’d snipped in these very gardens and her first kiss and…

Another mouth, a foreign one, forced its way into those beautiful musings.

With a shuddery gasp, Eleanor leaned against the wood and found makeshift support from the hard surface. She closed her eyes as the memories slid in like insidious poison of a different garden, on another moonlight night. A jeering laugh echoed around the chambers of her mind and her breath grew ragged, dulling the night sounds.

Enough
!

Drawing in a deep, calming breath, she counted to three and forced her eyes open.

Demons laid to rest, she took in the darkened garden with a now clear gaze. The soft, sweet smell of freesia and chrysanthemums blended, mixing with the stale London air. How very similar this space was all these years later. Why, the hands of time may as well have frozen a moment from long ago and held it suspended forever in this private Eden.

She looked at the high brick walls built about the enclosure. The blood red stones kept the ugliness of London outside and, through that, crafted a façade of purity. Eleanor skimmed her gaze about sadly.

A hungering to abandon London once more and return to the obscurity of the Cornwall countryside gripped her. For then, she’d not have to relive the worst parts of her life or the deepest parts of her regret. She’d not have to muddle through Marcus’ tempting promises and agonize over the bride he’d soon take.

Soon. She smoothed her palm over her nightgown. Soon, she would return with Marcia and then she could relegate this brief period of her life where other broken dreams went to die.

The lady hadn’t been immune to him.

For the flare of indignation and shock in Eleanor’s eyes earlier that evening, the blooming blush on her cheeks and the shuddery gasp she’d emitted spoke of a woman who desired him still.

With a glass of whiskey in hand, Marcus made his way through the empty corridors of his townhouse. The gold sconces lining the wall were lit intermittently, casting a shadowy glow off the satin wallpaper.

He came to a stop at the back of the townhouse and stared at the thick oak door between him and the outside gardens. He’d not entered this portion of the house in years. Absently, he finished his drink and set the glass down on a nearby mahogany side table.

Which in the scheme of life, it was an altogether long time to not move freely about your own home, and yet he hadn’t. So why, at fifteen minutes past midnight, did he now stand at the door of the very garden he’d avoided? Unbidden, his gaze went to the brick wall dividing the gardens next door. Because of her. For like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Eleanor Elaine Carlyle had reentered his life. And more, she’d stolen into his thoughts—whether he wished it or not.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and stepped outside into the cleverly walled-in space. Specifically crafted by his mother and the older duchess who lived next door more than thirty years earlier, when the two women easily convinced their husbands to purchase the adjoining homes.

The half-moon hung in the night sky casting a pale white glow upon the earth. With the green grass and the flowers interspersed with flawless boxwoods, he might as well have been in the English countryside. Except the thick London air bespoke the truth. He closed the door behind him and, hands clasped behind his back, wandered deeper into the grounds; his boot steps silent upon the thick grass.

This had been their place. This had been their tucked away sanctuary, where they always knew precisely when they would find one another. A quarter past twelve was their hour; shared by only them.

… At fifteen past the hour, I will always be there. And we shall always know where we two are…

Until Eleanor had gone and shattered that pledge. She’d not shown up.

A second night had come and gone and, once more, their spot remained empty…and it had been empty ever since, but for the gardener who tended this area.

A night bird called out. The sad, lonely cry filled the night sky.

Marcus stopped beside the high-backed, wrought iron bench. The white piece situated against the wall hadn’t always been positioned here. Rather, it had been dragged over, many years earlier, and from there on it had remained. He rocked back on the heels of his feet and in one fluid moment, built on insanity, he leapt up onto the seat as he’d done so many times. Extending his arms, he pulled up onto the edge and hefted himself atop the dividing wall.

With his legs hanging over the bricks separating his property from his neighbor’s, Marcus sat there surveying the Duchess of Devonshire’s also immaculate gardens. Yes, time stood still here, as well. The expertly tended rose bushes with their blooms now curled tight from the night chill, the ivy that clung to the brick wall, denser all these years later, and the only indication of that passage of time.

Marcus gave his head a wry shake. If the
ton
could see him, a notorious rogue who lived for his own pleasures hanging over the edge of his garden wall reminiscing of the only woman he’d truly wanted: a woman who, in the end, had wanted nothing more than a light flirtation.

A faint click thundered in the quiet and he shot his gaze toward the entrance of the duchess’ doorway. Of course she would be here. He remained motionless as Eleanor stepped outside with tentative footsteps. He should go. He should allow her the privacy she craved and carry on with his own life as he had after her deception. He turned to leave, and then looked to her once more. The sight of her froze him so that any and all movement became a feat only the gods were capable of. In her modest, white night wrapper, bathed in moonlight, the lady had the look of a fey creature about to dance in the quiet woodlands. His mouth went dry and he was unsure whom he hated more in that instant—her for the hold she still had over his senses or himself for that weakness. Marcus forced his gaze away from her gently curved, slender frame, up to her face, and he frowned.