“Mrs. Collins,” 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.”
Eleanor’s breath caught and her lips parted. The room fell away. The incessant chattering of his sister and her friend at the front of the establishment, the yapping of the two pugs running about the shop, the modiste standing beside the duchess lifting different bolts for the lady’s examination. His gaze fell to Eleanor’s mouth and he hungered for the feel of her lips beneath his once more.
Then the duchess’ sharp bark of laughter cut across the moment and the world resumed spinning. “A hopeless rogue is what he’s become in your absence, Eleanor.”
With quick movements, Eleanor wrenched her hand free, disentangling their interconnected fingers, and he mourned the loss. He would have severed one of his hands years ago, just to know her touch once more. Now she was here and that caress should be so fleeting. Desperate to reclaim his footing upon a situation fast spiraling out of his control, he forced a smile. “I thought I’d always been a, how did you refer to it? Good boy?”
“Some rogues can be both. You’re one of them. Isn’t that right?” She turned the question to Eleanor.
Eleanor clasped her hands before her. “I daresay I’ve not much experience with rogues.”
Which only raised questions as to what kind of man she’d wed. Had he been a quiet, stoic soldier who’d shared Eleanor’s love of music and sonnets? If so, the man had quashed her spirit, and for that, had never been deserving of the effervescent girl she’d once been. With that demon between them, Marcus cleared his throat. “I’ve interrupted enough of your enjoyments. I should return to my sister. If you’ll excuse me.” He made to turn when the duchess stuck her cane out, blocking his escape.
“I’m not done with you, boy.” She jerked her head toward the beleaguered-looking modiste with her arms loaded with swatches of fabric. “Settle the matter and then we’re done with you. Eleanor needs a ball gown.”
Despite the lady’s protestations some evenings earlier, she’d reentered his world and had come to wreak havoc once more. He gave Eleanor a coolly mocking grin. “Does she?” he murmured, not taking his eyes off Eleanor. “And for what does the lady require a gown?”
Her cheeks flamed red. Instead of being cowed, however, Eleanor angled her chin back. “I daresay even you know what a lady requires a ball gown for.”
Even he? Oh, the little termagant. He folded his arms at his chest. “I would assuredly say a lady would require such a purchase so she might attend a ball.” He quirked a slow, deliberate eyebrow. “Except, by your adamancy several evenings prior, I know that can’t be entirely true.”
Eleanor snapped her lips into a tight line and refused to rise any more to his baiting. He tamped down disappointment, relishing the spirit sparked to life in her eyes. The duchess knocked her cane into the floor once more. “Are you two finished squabbling?”
Eleanor and Marcus responded in unison. “We’re not squabbling.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
They were both wise enough to say nothing on that score.
She made a sound of disgust. “Between the two of you, you cannot put forth a single suggestion on a gown. Perhaps your sister might.” The duchess glanced about. “Now where is your sister? I’d make my hellos.” The duchess, in her usual boisterous manner, bellowed for Marcus’ sister. Eleanor flinched and mouthed a silent apology.
Despite himself, he grinned at the eccentricity of the older woman.
From across the shop, Lizzie came hurrying down the aisle with Lady Marianne trailing close behind. The duo stopped and a wide smile wreathed his sister’s cheeks. “Your Grace, Mrs. Collins,” she dipped a curtsy. “It is ever so lovely to see you,” she greeted with a sincerity that brought an honest smile to the older woman’s wrinkled face.
“Come closer, girl.” She motioned Lizzie forward. His sister, ever obedient and proper, complied. “I’ve need of your assistance as your brother has proven wholly useless.” A little giggle escaped his sister and he frowned. “Regardless, you managed to have this one,” she jerked her thumb at Marcus, “bring you and,” she looked over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the lady hovering beyond Lizzie’s shoulders. “Your friend?” The wry twist to those words gave every indication as to her opinion on Lizzie’s choice in friends.
“Oh, yes. Marcus is the most wonderful of brothers. He is so very faithful.”
At his sister’s effusive praise, Marcus cleared his throat. “Allow me to perform introductions. Your Grace, Mrs. Collins, may I present Lady Marianne Hamilton?”
With the vitriolic glare trained on Eleanor, the tight-mouthed beauty at Lizzie Gray’s side spoke more with that look than any words ever could—Marcus, Viscount Wessex, belonged to her.
A vicious, cloying, and insidious envy snaked through her like a slow-moving cancer. It destroyed reason and logic and years of resolve in putting Marcus from her thoughts so that she stood, humbled and jealous, before this collection of politely chatting Society members.
Just then, Marcus said something that brought a blush to the young lady’s cheeks. The shop filled with answering laughs, and Eleanor stood there, the worst kind of interloper in a world she’d never belonged to. She slipped away from the exchange and retreated within the shop. Passing her hands over the tables of fabric, she absently studied the cheerful yellow and green pastels; cheerful colors deserving a virginal, cheerful wearer. And more, fabrics and gowns befitting the Lady Mariannes of the world.
Eleanor had never fit in this world. As a merchant’s daughter, her people were the makers and sellers of goods. She drew to a slow stop as Marcus inserted himself at the end of the aisle she strolled. Eleanor wetted her lips and glanced through the bolts of fabric and ribbons dangling from the ceiling that provided an artificial sense of privacy.
His sister and her friend remained conversing with Eleanor’s aunt.
As he strolled closer, Eleanor shot a trembling hand out and rested it on the wide, white column in a search for support. After their exchange in the gardens, she’d expected he’d abandoned his intentions to attempt to seduce her. And yet, the hot flare of desire in his eyes and the promis
e on his lips told an altogether different tale. She eyed him warily.
“Have you thought on the offer I presented you?”
She rounded her eyes. Surely, even Marcus was not so bold as to talk seduction in the midst of a shop with their families just steps away?
“I see you have,” he confirmed.
She concentrated on his cynical grin and hard eyes; welcoming that fury and embracing her own, for it prevented her from splintering to pieces before this man who owned her heart. Why, with his bold words and suggestive tone, he may as well have requested crimson fabric from the modiste and declared Eleanor his mistress. A panicky giggle bubbled past her lips. Ice flecked the cool blue of his eyes. Yes, the hard, unflappable gentleman he’d become would not take to being laughed at, and he likely interpreted her reaction as response to him and his highhanded ways.
“Have I said something to amuse you, Eleanor?”
Amuse her? Hurt and humiliate, certainly, but there was nothing at all entertaining in the suggestive glint in his eyes or the improper words on his lips.
“Not at all, my lord.” At his smugly condescending expression, she seethed, tempted to plant him a well-deserved facer. Refusing to let him see how his words affected her, she forced a smile. “I do appreciate that I now have certain freedoms. Not, however, the freedoms you speak of,” she dropped her voice to a hushed whisper and his intent stare fell to her lips. All the horror visited upon her by another mouth reared its vile memory and she retreated a step. Then without a jot of concern for propriety or the young ladies chatting with her aunt, she wandered down the long, wood table covered in bolts of fabric, putting much needed distance between her and Marcus.
Relentless, he advanced. “Oh?” Marcus drawled so low his words barely reached her ears. Nonetheless, Eleanor stole a glance about to ascertain whether anyone had overheard the shocking words from the roguish viscount. Alas, a brown skirt wearing, bespectacled widow speaking to a nobleman of Marcus’ caliber would never be cause for notice. “And what freedoms did I speak of?”
She closed her mouth so quickly, her teeth snapped loudly, radiating pain up along her jawline. “You—I, that is…”
In a move she’d wager every coin dangled by her late uncle was deliberate, Marcus shifted his body, shielding her from the other patrons and shrinking the space between them. Her body stirred in an old, unfamiliar way and, for a moment, she closed her eyes and embraced the purity and completeness of her body’s awareness of him as a man; aware of him in a way devoid of the fear and horror to plague her. She never wanted to open her eyes. Instead, she wanted to prolong this moment that allowed her a sliver of the young woman she’d been before everything that mattered had been stolen—her heart, her happiness, her virtue, Marcus…
“Eleanor?” Concern underscored that single word utterance and brought her eyes reluctantly open.
He stood impossibly close, so close the scent of sandalwood and mint fanned her senses, enticing her with the dreams of what would never be. “My l—” her words ended on a breathless squeak, as he fluidly guided her around the white column. Her heart thumped madly as he dropped his hands on the pillar, effectively framing her body within the shelter of his. She braced for the maddening terror and horrors of the past, and yet her blood thickened with a surge of hot awareness. “This is not proper,” she whispered in a last, futile bid for propriety.
“You don’t care about proper or improper any more than I do.” He spoke with an unerring accuracy in that supposition. “What hold do you have over me, Eleanor?”
The same hold he had over her. Even with the threat of scandal steps away, her body thrilled at his nearness…and then his words registered. Her heart thumped a funny little rhythm. “You do not strike me as a man any woman has control over.”
“They do not.” A half-grin quirked his lips up. “You, however, do, Eleanor.”
Despite his recklessly bold actions and suggestive words, she leaned closer to him.
He lowered his brow to hers. “I thought you’d not have a London Season.” There was no recrimination there; his words more curious than anything.
She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I am not.” Eleanor paused. For what would one call the list of tasks charged her by her late uncle? He’d not force her to endure an entire Season, but there were parts of the Season she was to participate in.
“And you detest those events now as much as you did, then.” Marcus passed a searching gaze over her face.
“And you love those events now as much as you did, then,” she said with a sad smile.
Just one other way in which they’d been different. The only pleasure she’d found in the two months of tedious affairs was secreting off with Marcus, dancing with scandal, all to avoid those same events.
He brushed his knuckle down her cheek and she leaned in to his touch, craving that warmth and gentleness. When was the last time she’d been held so tenderly? Not for years. For this touch was different than the one shared between a mother and child, or father and daughter. This was the caress bestowed by a man who hungered for her, even still with all the years of betrayal and hurt between them. And there was something so very heady in being touched and looked at where shame and humiliation didn’t exist.
Their gazes locked. Teeming from the depths of his pale blue eyes was a passion that threatened to burn her. “Why do we continue to deny each other the only true emotion that ever existed between us?”
…Do not deny it, slut. You know you want this…
Eleanor shoved Marcus with such force that his arms fell to his sides. Mouth dry with fear, she rushed by him. In her bid to escape, she knocked against the table at her back, upending the whispery soft contents on display. Satins and silk swatches tumbled to the floor. Heart racing wildly, she skittered a frantic gaze about the shop, searching for escape. Her palms went damp within her gloves and she balled them hard at her sides while her raggedly indrawn breaths flooded her ears, muting all sound.
The absolute silence and still of the shop echoed like gunfire. The ladies of the shop gaped and gawked with rabid curiosity. Satin and Devlin were the first to break the quiet. Their noisy barks restored the shop to motion. Unable to meet the curious looks trained on her, Eleanor glanced away. Her gaze collided with Marcus. He stood frozen, eying her with consternation. Unable to meet his piercing stare, Eleanor blinked madly and dropped to a knee. She proceeded to gather the fabrics.
“I-I have it,” Eleanor whispered to the French shopkeeper who rushed forward. The same woman ignored her and proceeded to gather the bolts until Marcus waved her off. The young woman rose, dipped a curtsy, and left. Then, wasn’t that the way of their world? Gentlemen could command the world with a single look, while women remained at the bend and mercy of those same men.
With her aunt still occupied by Lizzie and her friend, Eleanor remained on the floor, wanting the wooden slats to open up and draw her in their folds. Tears popped behind her lids and she blinked them back. Until the day she drew forth her last breath, the monster who’d stolen that great gift, to be cherished and treasured, would haunt her. He was the demon of her past, who haunted her present, and would hold on to her future.
She jumped as Marcus fell to a knee beside her—silent and assessing. “Th-thank you,” she whispered. Eleanor stole a peek at him and found his gaze on her quaking fingers, which shook with such force she dropped the items she’d already gathered.
His frown deepened. “Here,” he said on a gruff whisper.
“I do not need your help,” she bit out from the side of her mouth. She wanted him gone; from this shop, from her life. Needed him gone so she needn’t have to face daily reminders of all she’d lost and all she would never have.
Marcus settled his hand over hers and she stiffened, braced for the taunting ice underscoring his practiced words of seduction. “Let me,” he comforted. Wordlessly, she sank back on her haunches and allowed him to place the bolts upon the table. Spirited and bold years past, she’d pro
udly glided ungracefully through the steps of quadrilles and country reels, uncaring of Society’s disapproving stare. How low fate had brought her that she should wish to crawl underneath the modiste’s table like a beaten animal. God, how she despised what she’d become.
Marcus stood and held a hand out to assist her to her feet. Eleanor eyed his fingers a long moment and then glanced once more down at the floor. “Take my fingers,” he urged softly.
She hesitated, still hopelessly transfixed by his extended gloved hand and saw equally powerful, white-gloved fingers that belonged to another. Her body broke into a cold sweat. Not here. Not now. Except, the mundane shop sounds dissolved, coming as though down a long, empty corridor and the floodgates opened. His punishing palm covered her mouth, cutting off all airflow, stifling her pleas. She was suffocating, dying—
“What is it, Eleanor?”
The quiet concern in Marcus’ tone sucked her back from memories that would never die.
Except, Marcus’ was different. She blinked slowly. Where another man’s had brought her pain and suffering, Marcus had only shown her gentleness and kindness. Even now, hating her as he did, he still held his palm extended to her. Emotion wadded her throat and she tried to swallow past it. “Eleanor,” he urged with such tenderness, her heart wrenched. Willing her tumultuous thoughts into order, Eleanor placed her fingers in his, allowing him to help her up.
Reluctantly, she drew her fingers back and clasped them before her. She made to return to her aunt, but then froze. Her gaze lingered on Lady Marianne Hamilton; a perfect future viscountess if ever there was one. The young woman took in their exchange with icy fury.
A chill ran along Eleanor’s spine at the barely contained loathing in Lady Marianne’s eyes. Unable to hold that venomous stare, Eleanor returned her attention to Marcus. “I did not lie to you,” she said quietly. “I am not here husband hunting, Marcus. I am here because I have no other choice. I am here even as I hate London with every fiber of my being.” She tugged at the fabric of her skirts and when she caught his attention on that distracted little movement, abruptly stopped.
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 12