Eleanor scrabbled her hands about her neck and gripped the collar of her modest, frilled, white nightshift. “Don’t you see, Marcus?” She lifted her palms up. “I am a widow, but that does not make me a whore. And I’ll not play the role of whore for you.”
Shame sent heat racing up his neck. He took a languid step toward her, even as a volatile tension thrummed inside him. “You speak of there being something wrong in renewing where we left off.”
A sad, quiet laugh escaped her. “Is this where we left off?” She raked a disappointed stare up and down his person. “With you determined to bed me and then move on to wed some proper English lady with a title and a spotless reputation?”
The air crackled and hissed with her stinging accusation and a curtain of fury descended over his vision. How dare she paint any intention he had to marry as dishonorable? She had been the one who’d turned him over for another. “Let us be clear, I would have wed you. It is you who left, so do not make my intentions of the past the dishonorable sort.” His harsh tone drained the color from her cheeks and, yet, she proved as courageous as she’d always been.
“What of now?” She quirked a golden eyebrow. “Are these intentions honorable?” Silence fell between them and Eleanor gave a sad shake of her head. “That is exactly what I thought, Marcus. Find some other willing woman to take to your bed, for that woman will not be me.”
Why? Why could it not be her? And was she even now, all these years later, still so hopelessly in love with her husband that she could not even countenance even the thought of another man in her arms or in her life? He balled his hands into hard fists, despising that such a truth should even matter.
She stopped with her fingers on the door handle, and then wheeled to again face him. “You speak of the man you became.” The moon cast a haunting glow on her pale cheeks. “But the truth is, I did not make you anything.” She motioned to him and he went taut at that dismissive gesture. “This is who you would have become. You are such a part of this world I never truly belonged to. Perhaps you would have married me.” I would have. I would have filled your days with laughter and turned the world upside down if it dared chased away your smile. Marcus curled his hands at the force of that empty dream. “But you would have become the rogue the world knows.”
“And is that why you left?” As soon as the words left his terse lips, his body jerked erect. How pathetic, how desperate, those words were, for this woman who’d never been deserving of him.
“Oh, Marcus,” she said softly. With an ethereal grace, Eleanor drifted over. “I left for the both of us. Neither of us could have ever been happy with one another. Not truly and not forever.” Another night bird called its song, haunting and sweet. She clasped her hands together and stared briefly down at the interlocked digits. “I should leave.”
Yes, she should. In fact, she should have never returned. Then he’d not feel any of the old hurt and pain of her betrayal. “Not at all,” he said stiffly. “I will leave you to your company. But before I do, Eleanor, know that before you leave London, we’ll know the pleasure to be had in each other’s arms.” A flash of fear sparked briefly in her eyes and then was quickly gone so that it might have been nothing more than a trick of the moonlit night.
Without another word, Marcus tipped his head and strode over to the wall. He hefted himself over the ledge, sliding down the side. He claimed a seat on the wrought iron bench.
His ears attuned to her every movement, he detected Eleanor’s shuddery sigh and then the click of the door as she disappeared inside her aunt’s townhouse.
Chapter 8
Her aunt’s dinner had been a disaster. The interlude in the gardens with Marcus was an even greater one. But she’d survived.
That is, after all, what Eleanor had perfected over the years. The art of survival. Surviving when one’s heart was being torn open from the agony of loss. Surviving when the only parent one remembered, who’d given up all to try and salvage a hopeless life, died. Surviving when the horrors visited upon her should have destroyed her.
Two nights after the duchess’ intimate party, Marcus occupied every chamber of Eleanor’s mind. For with his parting pledge, he’d forced her to contemplate both how it had once been between them and the hell that had come to her in a different garden at her attacker’s hands. And in her musings, Marcus wrestled control away from that night of horror.
Seated on the pink sofa, she eyed the volume of Mary Wollstonecraft’s work on her lap, studying the gold lettering upon the leather book. She trailed her fingertips over those letters, recalling Marcus as he’d been; tempting and charming, and yet…cynical. A shell of the man he’d been. A man who’d kissed her with the same passion of his youth, but with a new roguish experience. An experience that came from years of countless courtesans and widows he’d bedded. She closed her eyes a moment torn between hating him for that knowledge and loving him for awakening this yearning within her.
After her rape, she’d believed herself incapable of feeling anything but revulsion from a man’s touch. The memory of Marcus’ searing kisses, the burn of his questing hand as he’d explored her body, all those once beautiful acts, had been torn asunder by another so that she’d come to view them as vile, violent, and shameful.
Just as Marcus had introduced her to the hint of passion years earlier, now he’d awakened her to the beautiful, healing truth—she was still capable of feeling something in a man’s arms—something beyond hurt and pain. Her heart caught. Nay, not just any man could stir this need inside her. It had only ever been and would forever only be Marcus who had the power to make her feel and celebrate the glorious wonder of desire.
And she loved Marcus all the more for it. Eleanor forced her eyes open and stared blankly down at the book. She loved him, even as his guarded eyes revealed a cynical man, mistrustful and jaded.
Is that because of me? Her heart wrenched. Surely a man who’d moved on to become a notorious rogue, taking his pleasure where he would, did not harbor ill-will for the young lady who’d set him free? He would if he loved me and I broke his heart…And he’d never given her reason to doubt his love. Yet, she’d somehow convinced herself that what he’d felt for her had merely been the romantic sentiments of a young man who didn’t truly know his mind and certainly not his heart. That had made the agony of leaving him bearable.
“I believe you are the one in need of a companion, gel.”
Her aunt’s words brought Eleanor’s head up so quickly the spectacles slipped down the bridge of her nose. She pushed them back into place. “I’m sorry,” she murmured and hurriedly opened the tome, fanning the pages to the last chapter of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work.
“Bah, I’ve had enough of Mrs. Wollstonecraft today.” The older woman leaned over and plucked the volume from Eleanor’s hands. “I wish to speak to you about why I had you come here to London.”
Panic jumped in her chest. “I will strive to do better,” she said quickly. When her aunt’s missive had arrived she’d been conflicted with warring sentiments; fear of returning and gratitude for the salvation offered Eleanor and Marcia. “I know I’ve been distracted.” A vast understatement. She’d been woolgathering worse than a debutante who’d just made her Come Out and found love. Eleanor would know. She’d been that girl.
“You think I’m aiming to send you away, Eleanor Elaine?” Aunt Dorothea never used her name. Except when displeased.
Eleanor buried her shaking fingers in her skirts. “No?”
Her aunt snorted. “I’ve no intention of sending you away.” Relief sagged Eleanor’s shoulders. “Entirely for selfish reasons,” the duchess added, her cheeks flushed. The usually stoic woman likely didn’t wish to shatter the image she’d established as gruff, stern matron. “I do not care to be alone.”
Not unlike her aunt in that regard, Eleanor could certainly identify with those sentiments. After Father’s passing, even with Marcia, she’d been besieged by the aching loss of his steady, reassuring presence. “I won’t lea
ve you alone,” she said softly. Even if being in London would ever rouse terror in her belly and agony in her heart.
The woman’s wrinkled throat worked. “Of course you won’t,” she said gruffly. She thumped her cane and the two pugs trotted over. With a bent and aged hand, she rubbed them on the tops of their heads. “I lied to you, though, gel.”
Eleanor angled her head. “Aunt Dorothea?”
“I know you’d not have come otherwise.”
She shook her head. “I don’t under—”
“Your uncle left you ten thousand pounds.” Her aunt continued to pat her two dogs.
At the duchess’ matter-of-fact deliverance of those life-transforming words, Eleanor’s heart picked up a frantic pounding born of hope. “What?” she whispered. All the greatest terror that had robbed her of rest over her and Marcia’s fate dimmed and a lightness drove back the terror that had weighted her waking and sleeping thoughts since Father’s passing.
A smile pulled at the woman’s usually stern lips. “I’m the one with faulty hearing, gel, not you. Your uncle settled ten thousand pounds on you.”
As the implications of her aunt’s revelation sank into Eleanor’s slow to comprehend mind, she slid her eyes closed. A fortune. He’d left her a fortune which would allow her to care for Marcia, and never worry about being dependent upon anyone, and more…she’d never have to marry for convenience. A sob escaped her throat and she buried her face in her hands.
“Don’t do that, gel,” her aunt said, her voice gruff with uncharacteristic emotion. She patted Eleanor’s knee the way she did her beloved pups. “I loved your uncle, but it doesn’t mean he was intelligent in all the ways that matter, and certainly not in matters of a lady’s mind.” She snapped her fingers and the two dogs ambled off to their corner of the room where they claimed a spot on the sofa. “But there you have it.”
There she had what?
The old woman leaned forward in her seat, and the chair groaned its protest. “Men, they assume they know what is best for all.” Her aunt made a sound of disgust and Eleanor desperately tried to follow along.
Her aunt gave her a meaningful look.
Warning bells blared in Eleanor’s ears.
“He wants you to reenter Society, Eleanor.”
A pall of silence fell over the room.
The duchess’ words came as though down a long hall and Eleanor curled her hands into tight fists. No. She could not. “I cannot.” Did that weak, breathless avowal belong to her?
“The ten thousand pounds are contingent upon that, gel,” her aunt interrupted, settled her palms on the arms of her chair, like a king issuing a decree.
Nausea churned in Eleanor’s belly at fate’s cruel jest. So this is why she was here. It was not merely to serve as companion to her lonely aunt. Fear made her mouth go dry and with fingers that trembled, Eleanor grabbed the leather book from the seat next to her and pulled it close to her chest. After she’d made her hasty flight, she’d vowed to never return to the place where horror lived on in her memories. Only a need to see Marcia cared for had forced her to set aside those fears. She could not, however, have a Season. Not again. She was not so strong that she could dance with the threat of someday facing the man who’d shattered her world. That would destroy her in the ways he’d not already succeeded. Eleanor slowly lowered the book to the spot beside her on the sofa, proud of the steadiness of her fingers. “Aunt Dorothea, I am sure Uncle meant well, and I am grateful,” she said on a hurry. “But I do not need,” want “to take part in ton events,” she settled for, proud of the steady deliverance of those calm words, when inside her mind clamored.
To have hope and happiness dangled so very close, and then yanked back with a vicious cruelty. Why, with the shattered dream, she might as well have been the wide-eyed, hopeful girl she’d been all those years ago. Eleanor shook her head. “I cannot,” she repeated, this time those two words ringing with conviction.
“You do not have to wed in order to acquire the funds,” her aunt said with a frown. She reached inside a pocket sewn into the front of her gown, and fished around. “Ah,” she muttered. She withdrew a sheet of vellum.
The ormolu clock ticked away the passing moments as Eleanor eyed the page before finally accepting it with stiff fingers.
“Go on,” the older woman urged, jerking her chin at it.
Eleanor unfolded the page and quickly scanned the perfunctory list.
Don a colorful satin gown
Allow a gentleman to escort you in a curricle ride through Hyde Park
Dance one waltz at midnight
Attend a ball hosted by your aunt
Partake in ices at Gunther’s…with a gentleman
Attend a performance at the theatre
She furrowed her brow. These were the items comprising her late uncle’s list?
“Your uncle was about happiness,” her aunt said, bringing Eleanor’s head up. “He loved life and lived it to the fullest. He would have seen you happy.”
“I am happy,” she said automatically, folding the page. And she was. She had her daughter’s love and Marcia gave her life a purpose that had meaning.
The duchess scoffed. “This is you happy, Eleanor?”
Unable to meet the woman’s all-knowing eyes, she momentarily looked away. For in truth, even as Marcia filled Eleanor’s heart, she had not truly been happy since she’d left Marcus and crafted a falsified life for herself.
“You just need to see to those items and then at the end,” her aunt said, calling her to the moment, “if no gentleman has earned your affections,” None would. “Then the funds are yours to do with as you wish, for you—” She closed her eyes. She could not do this. “Or your girl.”
Her girl. Marcia. The child she’d sacrificed all for. Numb, Eleanor climbed to her feet. She wandered over to the window and peeled back the curtain. She stared down into the very streets she’d met Marcus. When any other young lady would have gladly given up a babe forced upon them, Eleanor had known only love for her daughter. She’d devoted her life to Marcia, just as Father had given up the life he’d established as a respected merchant and spirited her away, fashioning a new life for them in the far-flung corners of Cornwall.
Then, that is what one did when one was a parent. You sacrificed all in the name of love. She dropped her gaze to the folded page. In the scheme of all she’d endured, these charges tasked by her late uncle were so very small and would see Marcia provided for in ways she’d never been. This list was about so much more than Eleanor. It was about her daughter’s future and security and time had already proven, Eleanor would do anything and be anything she needed to be for her child. “Six items,” she said, woodenly.
It was but six items; only three of them requiring her to allow a man near her.
“You always were a smart girl.”
A hysterical breath bubbled past her lips. If she’d been a smart girl, she’d not have gone off on her own and allowed herself to be trapped by a vile blackguard.
“And perhaps you’ll surprise yourself and find love.” Again, the word dangled unfinished between them.
“I won’t.” The denial ripped ragged from her. She’d never find love. She’d found love and that love would forever remain in the past; a gift to a younger, smiling gentleman from a younger, unjaded girl. Marcus, the way he’d been at one time, would always have her heart. Not this dark, bitter stranger she didn’t know.
“You and I both know you will, gel.” Aunt Dorothea gestured with her cane, motioning to Eleanor’s skirts. “And you’ll be needing new gowns for your Season. But for now, go.”
At any other moment she would have politely declined and remained to see to her responsibilities. “Thank you,” she murmured and all but flew from the room, desperate for escape. She sprinted down the corridors until her breath came hard and fast, took the corner quickly and came to a stop under a row of her late uncle’s distinguished relatives. Her chest heaved from the force of her emotion.
Cl
osing her eyes, she placed her forehead against the hard plaster wall, finding a comfort in the hard, cool surface. Her aunt spoke so easily of Eleanor rejoining polite Society and yet she didn’t know what had driven her niece away; didn’t know that Eleanor ruined, with a monster’s seed inside her belly, had fled and reinvented a life for herself based on flimsy lies that could be unveiled if anyone bothered with the young widow.
For nearly eight years, she’d given no one reason to wonder about Mrs. Collins, young mother, war widow, and that invisibility had brought her some semblance of security in her disordered world. She’d briefly mourned the loss of the innocent young lady she’d been in Miss Eleanor Carlyle, and then swore to never be her again and, more importantly, never to return. For to enter the glittering world of Society, she danced with fire and, worse, there was the possibility of seeing him. Eleanor sucked in a gasping breath and knocked her forehead against the wall to drive back his leering, grinning visage. Yet he’d slipped in, as he too often did, commandeering her thoughts. That unknown man, the tall, dark-eyed, black-hearted bastard who’d stolen what didn’t belong to him and forever shattered her world.
Restless, Eleanor pushed away from the wall and rested her back against the surface. Slowly, she sank to the floor and drew her knees close to her chest. Her skin crawled in remembrance of a cruel, punishing touch, the taste of his lips, brandy. Bile rose up her throat and threatened to choke her. She desperately needed the funds her uncle’s will provided for her. The vast sum would save her from any fears or uncertainties of her or Marcia’s future and yet, she may as well have been selling her soul to the devil himself in returning.
Eleanor dropped her chin atop her knees and rubbed back and forth. In coming back, a young widow, she risked becoming prey to other lecherous lords. Her skin burned hot with shame of that long ago night with a nameless stranger. Then weren’t all women, regardless of marital status, prey to those rakish, caddish gentlemen?
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 10