Free To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) by Christi Caldwell Page A

smiling politely, all the while feeling as though he’d had his heart wrenched from his chest. By the third year, he’d given up on the hope of her and succeeded in becoming a rogue who no longer cared—about Eleanor Carlyle, what they’d shared, and her betrayal.
    Eleanor might now grace that same table, but she may as well have been any other woman. His love for her had died somewhere between the parting note handed him by the duchess’ servant and the eventual realization that Eleanor Carlyle was never coming back. After that, he’d pasted on a smile and worn a proverbial grin ever since.
    His sister matched her stride to his. “It could be a good deal worse,” she said from the corner of her mouth. “We could be attending a horrid soiree or ball.” She tapped his arm. “And I do like the duchess.”
    He took a noncommittal approach. But for the occasional appearance at those dinner parties hosted by the duchess through the years, he’d taken care to avoid Eleanor’s aunt. Oh, the pain of Eleanor’s betrayal had receded, but neither was he a glutton for forcing himself to think of what he’d once dreamed of.
    Lizzie stalked over, a frown on her lips. “You are not your usual affable, charming self.”
    Marcus mustered a grin. “Aren’t young ladies supposed to enjoy balls and soirees?”
    “I despise them.” A twinkle lit her eyes. “And I’m clever enough to know that you’re attempting to change the topic, big brother.”
    “Perhaps a bit,” he conceded as they reached the foyer.
    They were helped into their cloaks and then Williston pulled the door open. A few moments later, they were ushered inside the Duchess of Devonshire’s townhouse. Marcus shrugged out of his cloak and turned it over to a waiting servant. As they were shown their way to the receiving room, he contemplated Mrs. Eleanor Collins; so coolly unaffected by him in the street.
    He’d suffer through this dinner and then he could be free of her, at last.
    He flattened his mouth into a hard line.
    Then, would he ever truly be free of Eleanor Collins?

Chapter 6
    F rom her spot over the by the windows in her aunt’s parlor, Eleanor fiddled with her spectacles. According to Aunt Dorothea, Marcus hadn’t come to her small dinner gathering in five years. Pain twisted in Eleanor’s belly. By that small detail and the fury in his eyes just yesterday afternoon, she gathered he’d not forgiven her flight. In his mind, she was likely the traitorous, capricious creature who’d engaged in a mere flirtation and then tired of him. Then, isn’t that what she’d hoped he’d believed of her? For neither of the alternatives she’d run through in her terrorized mind would have ever been good. Had Marcus discovered the truth of that night, the young gentleman she’d fallen in love with would have either risked his life on a field of honor, or worse, shunned her for the shame that had befallen her. Both prospects had shattered her inside.
    It was best he did not come tonight. Or any night. Seeing him earlier today had only roused the dreams she’d once carried in her heart—of him, them. Happiness. Love—
    “You’re fidgeting, gel.”
    Startled to the moment, Eleanor quickly donned her glasses and followed her aunt’s pointed gaze downward searching for Marcus. Unwittingly, she fisted and un-fisted the fabric of her skirts, hopelessly wrinkling the drab, brown muslin. With alacrity, she let them go. “I’m sorry,” she responded. Following that horrific night almost eight years ago, she’d taken to the odd habit of scrabbling at her skirts.
    “Don’t apologize to me, girl,” her aunt said with a snort. “Apologize to your dress.”
    “Mama always wrinkles her gowns,” Marcia piped in from her spot at the windowseat.
    “Humph. Well, you certainly can’t do any more damage to those skirts.” That was saying a good deal with her aunt in her out-of-mode wide satin gown, taking exception with Eleanor’s attire.
    “I like these