To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (4 page)

F
rom the edge of the majestic floor-length windows, Eleanor gazed through the gap in the brocade fabric, down into the crowded London streets. A small, sad smile played on her lips, reflected in the crystal windowpane. How very much had changed in eight years. Innocence died. Funds faded. And security became—precarious, making her dependent on that beloved aunt who once took her in for that first, and only, London Season.

Eleanor pressed her forehead to the sun-warmed windowpane and the cold metal of her spectacles bit into her face. Ignoring the biting sting of the wires, she surveyed the people below. Lords and ladies moved arm in arm down the fashionable end of Mayfair. A particular couple snared her notice. For the impeccably attired gentleman with golden curls and the blonde-haired lady on his arm might have been a moment frozen in time eight years earlier…of herself…with another, equally grinning, whispering, young lord.

The massively rounded, panting dog at her side scratched Eleanor’s skirts. Distracted, Eleanor looked down and found the incongruous pair of her aunt’s dogs—two pugs, one black, one fawn—now eying her.

They had been sniffing at her skirts for the better part of the morning. Eleanor sighed. And all because she’d made the mistake of giving one of the mischievous devils a biscuit from her breakfast tray the first morning meal she’d taken here, one week earlier.

That dratted biscuit. She stroked them both atop their silken heads and leaned close. “Now, go.”

They sat, showing her precisely what they thought of her and her orders.

Secretly she’d admit only to herself, she rather loved their devotion.

“They don’t listen well,” her aunt called across the room. As though to accentuate that very point, she pounded the bottom of a silver cane, crafted in the shape of a serpent, upon the hardwood floor, calling them over.

The dogs sniffed again at Eleanor’s skirts. “You settling in, gel?”

“Quite,” she murmured, patting Devil and Satan on their backs. They really were quite atrocious names for such docile, bothersome creatures.

…You could charm the devil himself, Marcus Gray…

Unbidden, Eleanor slid her gaze over to the window and pulled the brocade curtain aside. No, it was not a hope of seeing him that called her notice, but rather the crisp, blue skies and abundant sunshine and—

“And your daughter?”

Eleanor released the edge of the curtain with alacrity. “Also, well, Your Grace. Thank you for asking.”

“Your Grace?” Her aunt settled back in the sofa she occupied and gave an inelegant snort. “Who is this polite, proper gel and what has she done with the spirited, always giggling girl I remember?”

The operative word being girl. “She’s grown up,” Eleanor replied automatically, looking down at her aunt’s loyal dogs. Then, life did that to a person. It jaded you and chipped and cracked away at the innocence you carried, so all that remained was a glimmer of who you had once been.

“I preferred you giggling.”

Eleanor smiled.

“There, that’s better. Now, look at me, gel.” The gruff command brought Eleanor’s gaze to her aunt. “Stop hovering at the edge of the window. You’ve hardly left the corner since you arrived five days ago.”

“Seven,” Eleanor swiftly amended. She’d returned
seven
days ago without so much as a glimpse or whisper of him beyond the gossip sheets. The muscles of her belly tightened. Gossip columns that happily reported on the gentleman’s roguish pursuits; so much so that she dared wonder if there was, in fact, another Viscount Wessex. Then, the king would not have been in the habit of turning out
multiple
Viscount Wessexes.

Eleanor stole another glimpse. It was curiosity more than anything else that called her focus back to that cobbled road.

“You counting, gel?”

She whipped her head back around. “Counting?”

“Seven days and not five. Are you unhappy here? I didn’t bring you here to be melancholy and sad.”

“I’m sorry.” Remorse filled her and Eleanor quickly released the curtain. Widowed almost a year now, the Duchess of Devonshire had demonstrated her first display of weakness in the form of a letter she’d sent to her only niece offering employment as her companion. Eleanor’s fingers tightened reflexively into tight balls as anxiety swamped her chest, making it difficult to draw breath. She could not be sent away. The allowance given Eleanor was the stability she would rely on to care for her daughter and never have to be dependent upon the whims of a man through the uncertain fate of marriage. “I will strive to do better,” she pledged.

Her aunt leaned forward and Eleanor stiffened as the other woman brandished the tip of her cane under her nose. “Do you think I’m one of those miserable ladies to send a girl away? My niece, no less?” The dogs shifted nervously under the suddenness of their mistress’ movement.

“No,” she said softly. “I…” Except, she allowed those words to trail off, unspoken. For she no longer knew what to believe of people’s motives and intentions. The truth was, for all her silence on the matter, her aunt likely knew that there had never been a Mr. Collins, and that the golden-haired child belonging to Eleanor would never possess the lineage to gain her entry into the
ton
. Cool, smooth metal touched her chin as Aunt Dorothea used her cane to nudge Eleanor’s attention upward.

“Look at me, gel.” Attired in her usual round gown made of Italian muslin, with its high waistline, her aunt’s dress was suited to styles at least twenty years ago. “The modiste sheds tears when I order my gowns made up.” Eleanor’s lips twitched. “I’ve two dogs that sleep in my bed and accompany me wherever I go. Do I strike you as a woman who gives a fig for Society’s opinion?”

Eleanor took the older woman in for a moment; her father’s sister who’d married well when no one had dared dream a merchant’s daughter would ever make an estimable match. The older woman had always marched to the proverbial beat of her own drum. Oh, how Eleanor admired her that strength.

Noting her scrutiny, Aunt Dorothea wagged her eyebrows. “Because I don’t care a jot about what anyone thinks or says.” There was a wealth of meaning to those words. Words that conveyed the clear truth that Eleanor had already suspected—she knew. Or rather, the duchess likely thought she knew, but in actuality could never glean the full truths of Eleanor’s sad, sordid past.

Agony squeezed her heart. “Appearances matter,” Eleanor managed to say.

Her aunt snorted. “Only if you are stupid enough to care.” With that, she sat back in her seat, signaling the discussion was at an end. Relieved to have the matter done, Eleanor looked at the two books resting before her aunt; Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
and
The Tales of Lord Alistair’s Great Love.
Eleanor scooped up the gothic novel she’d been reading from earlier that morn. Her lips twitched. The duchess was, and likely always would be, a great romantic, and yet, what an unlikely and remarkable diversity in her reading.

“You’ve a problem with my books, gel?”

“No,” she said instantly. And she didn’t. She admired her aunt’s love for love. Eleanor found hope in knowing that at least some people still believed in those sentiments. Though the actuality was that Eleanor far preferred the practicality of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work to the romantic drivel of those novels her aunt favored. She opened to the page she’d last left on when Aunt Dorothea held a hand up.

“Enough reading for the day. Your daughter needs a walk. Take the nursemaid and a footman and go.”

Eleanor’s pulse picked up, and she gave her head a quick shake. “Oh, no.” She’d be a daft ninny to fail to recall a day eight years ago when she’d walked down her aunt’s front steps and collided, literally collided, with Marcus, the future Viscount Wessex. “I have my responsibilities to attend here,” she insisted. For in truth, even as she craved the blue skies and country air, she could not bring herself to go outside.

There were too many demons out that door.

The past.

Marcus.

Him. The blackheart who’d singlehandedly shattered her future.

To leave this townhouse, Eleanor risked losing the much-needed control she’d claimed in her life.

Her aunt scoffed. “Youth is wasted on you fools of young age when you’d hover at a window and consider it a
splendid
time. When I was your age, gel, I was dancing in fountains and traveling the Continent.” Her aunt’s dry words brought a smile to Eleanor’s lips. In a staid and stilted world of London Society, there was something so very remarkable and admirable about this woman before her. Sensing Eleanor weakening, Aunt Dorothea waggled her white eyebrows. “The girl I remember loved trips to the park and visits to the museum. And she certainly didn’t linger at the window like an old recluse surveying the streets below.”

Yes, there had been a too-brief moment in time when she’d loved the thrilling excitement London represented. She’d seen the world through a girl’s eyes—craving those visits to the museums, parks, and oddity shops. Until she’d quickly discovered, London was filled with unkind figures who looked at her with loathing. They’d quickly shattered that naiveté about what this place truly was until she’d ached to return home. Then, Marcus had stepped into her world and he made it bearable. A wistful smile danced on her lips. Nay, he’d made it more than that. Together, she and Marcus smiled and laughed and teased and explored. For them, polite Society had ceased to exist.

“Not anymore,” Eleanor said at long last. “I am a grown woman now, Aunt Dorothea.” Even if in the deepest corner of her soul she missed strolling the grounds of Hyde Park and studying the magnificent flowers in bloom.

“That may be.” The duchess banged her cane. “But you are going outside. That is an order. Now, go. Take my boys and your daughter with you.” The childless woman’s dogs had become more children than canines to her over the years. As such, the lines between children and dogs had blurred somewhat, when the duchess spoke of Marcia.

Eleanor gave her head a jerky shake.
I can’t.
And yet…she curled her hands so tightly her nails punctured the skin of her palms. To remain shut inside was to make herself a prisoner. It represented one more absolute loss of control—at the hands of a man. She shoved to her feet. “I will go.”

Surprise lit her aunt’s eyes and she gave a pleased nod. “Good girl.”

Eleanor shoved to her feet and set the book on the table. With each step she took for the door, strength infused her spine. Yes, her aunt was, as usual, correct. Where was Eleanor’s spirit? She steeled her jaw. She’d not let life shape her into that cowardly, cowering figure that hovered behind curtains.

So it was, a short while later, Eleanor and Marcia stepped outside the front doors. Eleanor didn’t know what she expected. Thundering from the heavens above? Thick, dark storm clouds passing overhead to signify the folly of her venturing out, past the safe walls of Aunt Dorothea’s home? Alas, the sun shone bright and she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the glaring rays.

“Oh, Mama! It is splendid out.”

Her daughter’s words spurred Eleanor into action. Mindful of Mrs. Plunkett and the footman assigned as their escorts hovering in the open doorway, she started down the steps. “Indeed,” she said, smiling gently down at her daughter. For her cowardice, she’d not allowed herself to consider Marcia being closeted away in a new home. Her daughter had long been a child of the outdoors, sitting in the gardens with her dolls dancing at her feet. And just like a parakeet, caught for the world’s pleasure, Eleanor had gone and trapped her within Aunt Dorothea’s walls.

“Can we please go to Hyde Park?”

“No!” the denial exploded from Eleanor’s lungs.

Marcia cocked her head at a funny angle, dislodging a golden curl.

Drawing in a deep breath, Eleanor ruffled the top of her daughter’s blonde tresses. “How did you find out about Hyde Park?”

“Mrs. Plunkett.” Mrs. Plunkett was the nursemaid brought on by Aunt Dorothea so Marcia could have proper lessons. The young woman shifted guiltily on her feet and Eleanor gave the young woman a reassuring smile.

“Please, Mama?” Marcia yanked at her hand. “Can we not go? She said they have magnificent gardens and fountains and lovely ladies in grand gowns walk with gentlemen and—”

She dropped to a knee and settled her hands upon Marcia’s shoulders, and looked into her daughter’s hopeful, excited eyes. “We will go one day, poppet, I promise.” She promised. And lied. She’d no intention of risking seeing either Marcus or…
him
…as she’d taken to thinking of the other, nameless gentleman.

Little shoulders sank. “You’re lying.”

Odd, this child of seven should know her so well. “I’m not.” She hopped to her feet, ending any further debates on the veracity of Eleanor’s words. “Now, Aunt Dorothea has charged us the important task of walking Sat—Satin and Devlin,” she quickly substituted different names for the horrid names affixed those poor creatures.

Marcia skipped over to the footman with the two dogs at the end of leads, looking more like a captain guiding a ship at sea than a man being tasked with the chore of walking his eccentric employer’s frequently misbehaving pugs. “Can I hold one?”