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?”
A protest sprung to Eleanor’s lips but then the servant wisely handed over the lead to the older, slower pug. Little snorting giggles escaped Marcia as she allowed herself to be led down the fashionable, blessedly quiet sidewalk. Mrs. Plunkett hurried after her charge.
As they made their way to the end of the street, Eleanor studied her daughter’s jaunty steps. Guilt pulled at her. The foundation of Marcia’s life was nothing more than a weakly constructed lie and the moment that unsteady base was kicked out from under her, Marcia’s fate would be cast into the same shadowy, murky haze of Eleanor’s herself. But perhaps the lie could persist. Her daughter could find and wed a polite, respectable gentleman of the gentry who might not care if he, nay, when he, discovered the truth of his wife’s legitimacy.
Eleanor’s heart wrenched. For that detail would matter. To any and all. It was why they belonged in the country, removed from polite Society where the people removed from the ton were less driven by cruel gossip and the woes of others.
A small cry split the quiet, cutting into Eleanor’s musings and her heart paused a beat. She found Marcia with her gaze. Devlin wrestled his freedom from Marcia’s sm
all fingers. The miserable pup yapped and danced past Mrs. Plunkett’s reaching hands. Then he spun about. His little legs worked hard and fast as he raced in Eleanor’s direction.
She narrowed her eyes on him and, for a moment, he froze. “Oh no you don’t, you miserable bugger,” she declared. His pink tongue lolled out the side of his mouth from the exertions of his efforts, and then responding to the challenge there, he tore around her and raced onward, back down the route they’d previously traveled.
Eleanor started after him and stuck her booted foot out, effectively trapping his leash. “Ha!” she exclaimed, triumphant. Her daughter clapped excitedly, hoisting her clenched hands aloft and waving them in victory.
Despite herself, Eleanor laughed…and then registered the curious stares trained on her. She flitted her gaze about. A handful of lords and ladies on the street gawked in return. Eleanor swallowed hard, as all her dratted efforts to remain invisible were quashed—by a fawn pug that just then took advantage of her distraction and pulled free.
Bloody hell.
“No, Mama,” her daughter groaned, her expression crestfallen. The footman bounded after the blasted pup, sailing past Eleanor. Giving her head a shake, she set out in pursuit, gaze trained on the fawn ball of fur. For all her aunt had done for her and Marcia, she couldn’t very well go and lose the lady’s beloved dog.
A tall, broad-muscled gentleman stepped into Devlin’s path. The dog collided with a gleaming black Hessian and then staggered back, dazed when the stranger bent and scooped up the leash. Relief swept through Eleanor as she lengthened her strides. “Thank you so much, sir,” she panted, breathless, as she stopped before the gentleman and reached out to collect that leash. “I did not…” She glanced up and her heart tripled its beat.
The tall, golden-haired stranger turned a hard, unforgiving glare on her that froze her thoughts. It suspended movement and time, and held her trapped in this peculiar moment where the world carried on around her in a great whir of noise and motion. Her heart quickened. She’d, of course, known that there was a very strong likelihood that with her return to London in the role of companion to the Duchess of Devonshire, with the walls of his townhouse sharing her aunt’s, their paths would again cross. But the tales she’d read of him long ago in the papers had filled her with a false hope that he’d be so busy with his clubs and mistresses that they’d never again meet.
From where he stood on the London street, Marcus Gray, Viscount Wessex, looked at her through thick, long lashes that did little to conceal the fury snapping in his eyes. The seething recognition there sent her staggering back a step.
“Miss Carlyle,” he said with a hard edge of steel to his words.
Emotion stuck in her throat. Gone was the sweet, gentle, young man who’d teased her and clipped a lock of her hair to hold it forever close. In his place was this silent, terrifying, broad, powerful stranger. Then, a mask dropped in place, tamping out all previous fury so she was left to wonder if she’d merely imagined it. He tipped his lips up in a slow, wicked smile. An odd fluttering unfurled in her belly.
“We meet again.”
Marcus.
Chapter 4
Of course Miss Eleanor Carlyle would not stay buried. Of course she’d reemerge when a young lady unlike her in every way, had garnered his notice. The irony of this moment could not have been penned better, even from Shakespeare himself.
The lady now wore spectacles and the pale blonde hair he long remembered was tugged back in a tight chignon. But the severe hairstyle and wire-rimmed frames could not detract from Eleanor Carlyle’s ethereal beauty.
A handful of gold curls popped free in protest of the hideous coiffure; those loose coils, the ones he remembered from his past. Marcus resisted the urge to jam the heels of his palm into his eyes and try to drive back the image, for he knew by the honeyed scent that clung to her skin, that she was, indeed, real. That tantalizing summer fragrance had haunted his waking and sleeping moments.
By God, the traitorous, deceitful minx had returned.
A hard, humorless laugh escaped him and her cheeks went waxen. After years of forgetting, or trying in vain to fully forget, and losing himself in empty entanglements with other, equally lonely women, Eleanor had returned.
By the manner in which she troubled her too-full lower lip, she was not happy about seeing him. And why should she? She’d pledged to meet him in Lady Wedermore’s gardens and instead of meeting him, he’d found empty grounds. And when he’d paid call on her the next morning, nothing remained but a note handed him by one of the duchess’ maids.
Eleanor was the first to break the silence. “My lord,” she greeted. Her voice was a barely there whisper. The frames slipped down the bridge of her nose and she promptly shoved them back into place.
Good, the lady should be fearful. He folded his arms about his chest and winged an eyebrow up. “Is that all you’ll say, Eleanor? After all these years.” He made a tsking sound and she flinched, the movement nearly imperceptible. “I should expect a far warmer reception.”
As bold as she’d been when they’d met, she a girl of just eighteen, she squared her small shoulders and tossed her head back. “My lord, thank you for rescuing my aunt’s dog.”
He bit back a curse. Of course. The eccentric, pug-loving Duchess of Devonshire would ultimately drag her niece from whatever country rock she’d disappeared under when she’d absconded with his heart and happiness. All the old fury, the hurt, and rage that he’d thought safely buried, rose to the surface, threatening to boil over and consume him in a flood of emotions he’d thought dead. He took a step toward her and she backed up. “Never tell me you fear me, Miss Carlyle?”
She gave her head a frantic shake but continued her retreat, proving her unspoken denial a lie and Marcus delighted in the lady’s trepidation, for it spoke to her guilt, indicated she knew she was culpable of all the charges he could heap on her lying head. Then she came to an abrupt stop, forcing him to cease his forward movement or bowl her over. He stopped so close, a mere hairsbreadth separated them. Marcus registered the rapid rise and fall of her chest, her slightly parted lips and, God forgive him, he wanted her still—
“Hullo.”
He blinked, searching about, and then dropped his gaze downward to the wide-eyed girl looking up at him. Seven or eight years of age, with a riot of golden curls, the child had cheeks a cherub would envy.
Something pulled in his heart and he knew, knew without any confirmation, knew by the kissed by sunshine hue of her tresses and freckles on her nose. In all his imaginings of where Eleanor had gone and who she’d become, he’d never, ever dared consider that in that time, she had become a mother. For that would have made the man she’d chosen real in ways where he’d only previously existed as a shapeless, shiftless imagining. A man whom she’d truly loved and not the mere flirtation that she’d practiced upon Marcus. “Hullo.” His voice emerged garbled.
The golden-curled girl spoke, jerking him to the present. “What is your name?”
“That is not polite,” Eleanor gently chided, settling an almost protective hand upon the child’s small shoulders.
“Marcus,” he said quietly, ignoring the reproach in Eleanor’s tone, and then he thought to add, “The Viscount Wessex.” He dimly registered the duchess’ footman reaching for the leash. With numb fingers, Marcus turned the dog over, his attention reserved for the little stranger. “And who are you?”
The miniature version of Eleanor dropped a perfect curtsy. “I am Marcia Collins.”
He paused, as a distant remembrance trickled in. “Who needs a miserable son? I would have a daughter who looks like you…” Eleanor’s laugh, even after all this time, trilled around his memory. “And would you name her Marcia…?”
The little girl spoke, breaking into the memory from long ago. “Do you know my mama?” With those five words, he had confirmation of a question he’d already had an answer to and, yet, it still sucked the air from his lungs. The woman he’d given his heart
to had fled and was even now wed to another. She was a mother to this small child while Marcus lived his own empty life, pursuing his own pleasures. God, how he despised her for that; despised her with the same hatred he’d managed to bury years ago. Only now to be proven a liar in the street before the lady herself.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Marcia.” At the deliberate emphasis he placed on the child’s name, Eleanor tipped her chin up at a defiant angle, all but daring him with her eyes to mention the memory between them.
“The viscount’s mama is a friend of Aunt Dorothea,” Eleanor said quietly, her voice surprisingly devoid of emotion.
When had the young lady of his past become this stoic creature?
Marcia craned her neck back and unabashedly stared at him. “You know my Aunt Dorothea, then?”
“I do,” he said gruffly, schooling his tone around the child. After all, it wasn’t the girl’s fault that her mother had been a fickle, flighty creature.
Then those brown eyes went wide. “Did you know my papa, too?”
Jealousy, potent and fierce, filled him, threatening to consume him for the man who’d won Eleanor and given her a child. Then Marcia’s words registered.
“We should be going,” Eleanor said quickly, color rushing to her cheeks.
Did you know my papa?
Not: Do you know my papa?
And all the resentment and anger he’d borne toward Eleanor and the fleeting hatred he’d felt moments ago for the nameless, faceless stranger who’d taken her to wife, left Marcus, leaving in its place an aching regret for her loss.
Eleanor reached for her daughter and Marcus dropped to a knee, intercepting her efforts to spirit the girl away. “I did not know your father,” he said quietly.
Some of the excitement dimmed from the girl’s eyes. “Oh,” she said, scuffing the cobbled road with the tip of her boot. “My papa was a hero.” She raised her gaze to his. “He was a soldier.”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 4