The fortnight that followed passed in a blur of preparations and obligations. Marcus called upon his mother at Aurelia House, where he was greeted with tears and embraces from all his siblings. The Dowager Duchess, her face softened by age but her spirit as strong as ever, held him close for long moments before pulling back to study him with keen eyes.
"You have changed, my son," she said, running a hand over his cheek. "The war has left its mark upon you. But I am glad you have come home."
He spent hours catching up with his brothers and sisters Julian, with his passion for engineering and mining; Alexander, still quiet and brooding after the death of his wife three years prior; Charlotte, with her gentle ways and her dedication to the city's poor; Benjamin, forever carrying a sketchbook and seeing beauty in everything around him; and Victoria, the youngest, full of life and dreams of adventure beyond London's borders.
They spoke of everything except Eloise. But Marcus could feel her presence in their silences, in the way his mother would pause when arranging the flowers for the drawing room, in the way Charlotte would glance at him before changing the subject. Everyone in his family knew of the promise he had made, knew of the pain his departure had caused.
As the day of the Whitmore ball approached, London began to buzz with anticipation. The Earl of Blackwater was known for hosting the most lavish events of the season, and this year's ball was said to be particularly grand a celebration not just of the season's start, but of Lady Eloise's formal presentation to society.
The London Chronicle had already printed a full column on the event, with Mr. Finch speculating openly about the Duke of Dawnfield's attendance and what it might mean for his relationship with Lady Eloise.
"Every eligible lady in London will be vying for your attention, Your Grace," Hawkins said as he helped Marcus into his formal coat deep blue velvet with gold embroidery, the Aurelia crest gleaming on the lapel. "But I suspect only one will truly have your eye."
Marcus said nothing, but he could not deny the truth of his valet's words. He had thought of nothing but Eloise since their encounter at Vauxhall Gardens her face when she had recognized him, the hurt in her eyes when she had accused him of forgetting his promises, the way she had walked away with her head held high despite her tears.
The Whitmore townhouse stood on Berkeley Square, its facade illuminated by hundreds of candles that made it glow like a palace in the night. Carriages lined the street for blocks, and the sound of music and laughter could be heard from within as Marcus's carriage pulled to a stop at the door.
Lord Blackwater greeted him personally in the hallway, his expression serious but not unfriendly. "She is upstairs, making her final preparations," he said, leading Marcus into the grand ballroom. "She knows you are here."
The ballroom was even more magnificent than Marcus had remembered – crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls, mirrors lined the walls making the room seem twice as large, and hundreds of flowers roses, lilies, and peonies filled every available space with their scent and color. The orchestra was already playing, and couples were beginning to take their places on the dance floor.
As Marcus made his way through the crowd, he felt eyes upon him from every direction. Ladies smiled and curtsied, their mothers watching him with calculating gazes. Gentlemen bowed and offered their hands in friendship, though he could see the envy in their eyes. He was the Duke of Dawnfield rich, powerful, and newly returned to London. He was exactly what every family in the ton wanted for their daughter.
But he had eyes only for one woman.
Then he saw her, descending the grand staircase at the far end of the ballroom, and the breath caught in his throat.
Eloise was wearing a gown of deep red silk that flowed like liquid fire around her figure, with delicate lace sleeves and a neckline adorned with pearls. Her dark hair was piled high on her head, with small red roses woven into the intricate style, and diamonds sparkled at her ears and throat. She was more beautiful than he had remembered more beautiful than any woman he had seen in all his years abroad.
As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the music paused for a moment, then swelled into a waltz. Every eye in the room was on her, but she was looking only at him.
Marcus crossed the ballroom in long strides, his heart pounding in his chest. He had rehearsed what he would say to her a hundred times, but now that she was standing before him, looking more beautiful and more distant than ever, all his words fled from his mind.
"Lady Eloise," he said, bowing low. "You look… you look magnificent."
"Thank you, Your Grace." Her voice was cool and composed, though her hands trembled slightly as she placed them in his. "You are most kind to attend our ball."
"Your father invited me. I would not have missed it." He paused, searching her eyes for some sign of the girl he had once known. "May I have the honor of this dance?"
She hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Of course."
He led her onto the dance floor, and as they began to move together to the music, Marcus felt as though he were in a dream. Her hand was small and warm in his, her body light against his as they waltzed. They moved together with the same ease they had shared as young lovers, as though no time had passed at all.
For several moments, neither of them spoke. The noise of the ballroom faded into the background, leaving only the music and the sound of their breathing.
"I have been meaning to call upon you," Marcus said finally, breaking the silence. "To explain –"
"Explain what, Your Grace?" she interrupted, her voice still cool but with an undercurrent of emotion. "Why you left without a word? Why you did not write? Why you have only just now returned after eight years?"
"I wanted to write," he said honestly. "Every day I wanted to write. But I did not know what to say. The war… it changed everything. I saw men die, Eloise. I held friends in my arms as they breathed their last. I did things I am not proud of, things I cannot tell you about. I did not think you would want to marry a man who had seen such darkness."
"And you decided that for me?" Her eyes flashed with anger now, and she pulled back slightly as they danced. "You assumed that I was too weak, too foolish, too young to understand what war does to a person? That I would not want you if you were not the same carefree boy I fell in love with?"
"No – that is not what I meant –"
"Is it not? You left me, Marcus. You left me with nothing but promises and memories. For eight years I have waited, hoping that you would return, that you would explain, that you would tell me that what we had meant something to you. And all this time, you were making decisions for me, deciding what I could and could not handle."
"I was trying to protect you," he said quietly.
"Protect me?" She laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. "You protected me from the truth. You protected me from you. But you did not protect me from the pain of your absence. You did not protect me from the whispers of society, from the men who thought I was waiting for a ghost. You did not protect me from the loneliness of loving someone who was not there."
Marcus had no answer for her. She was right – he had been selfish, thinking only of his own guilt and pain, not of what his absence had done to her. He had assumed he knew what was best for her, without ever asking her what she wanted.
As the waltz came to an end, he led her to the edge of the dance floor, where they could speak more privately. The ballroom was as crowded as ever, but he felt as though they were the only two people in the room.
"What do you want from me, Eloise?" he asked, his voice raw with emotion. "Tell me what I can do to make this right."
"I want the truth," she said, looking up at him with tears in her eyes. "All of it. I want to know who you are now, not who you were. I want to know if there is any place for me in your life, or if I have been waiting for nothing all these years."
Before he could respond, a young man with fair hair and an easy smile approached them, bowing to Eloise.
"Lady Eloise, may I have the next dance?" he asked, his eyes flicking to Marcus with a look of challenge.
"This is Mr. Edmund Fairchild," Eloise said, introducing them. "He is… a friend."
"Duke of Dawnfield," Mr. Fairchild said, bowing slightly. "I have heard much about you. Lady Eloise speaks highly of your… past accomplishments."
Marcus could hear the emphasis on the word "past," and he felt a surge of jealousy that surprised him. He had no right to feel jealous – he had left her, after all, had given up any claim to her affections. And yet, the thought of her with another man made his chest tighten with anger and regret.
"Of course," Marcus said, stepping back. "I believe your mother is looking for you, Eloise. She was near the refreshment table last I saw her."
He did not wait for her response but turned and walked away, weaving through the crowd until he reached the terrace doors. He stepped out into the cool night air, grateful for the chance to breathe without the scent of perfume and candle wax clogging his lungs.
The terrace overlooked Berkeley Square, and he could see the moon shining down on the quiet gardens below. He leaned against the stone railing, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He had come to the ball determined to be honest with Eloise, to explain why he had left and ask for her forgiveness. Instead, he had only managed to hurt her more, and now he had to watch as other men vied for her attention.
"Your Grace?"
He turned to find Lord Blackwater standing behind him, a glass of brandy in his hand. He offered it to Marcus, who accepted gratefully.
"I saw what happened in there," the earl said, leaning against the railing beside him. "Edmund Fairchild is a good man comes from a fine family, has a respectable fortune. He has been courting Eloise for nearly a year now."
Marcus felt the brandy burn its way down his throat. "And she cares for him?"
"I believe she could. She is a kind woman, Marcus. She does not want to hurt anyone. But her heart… her heart still belongs to you. Even after all these years, even after all the pain you have caused her, she cannot bring herself to give up on you."
"Why?" Marcus asked quietly. "Why would she wait for a man who abandoned her?"
"Because she knows who you really are, beneath all the guilt and the pain. She knows that the boy who planted roses for his mother, who taught his younger siblings to ride, who danced with her in Vauxhall Gardens that boy is still inside you. He may be hidden by everything you have been through, but he is still there."
The earl paused, looking out at the square. "She deserves happiness, Marcus. Whether that happiness comes from you or from someone else, that is for her to decide. But you owe it to her – and to yourself – to be honest with her. Tell her everything. Let her make her choice with her eyes open."
Inside the ballroom, the music changed to a lively quadrille, and Marcus could hear the sound of laughter and conversation drifting out onto the terrace. He thought of Eloise, dancing with Mr. Fairchild, of the way she had looked at him with hurt and anger in her eyes. He thought of all the years he had spent running from his past, from his feelings, from the woman he loved.
He had run long enough.
"Thank you, Lord Blackwater," he said, setting down his empty glass. "You have given me much to think about."
He turned and walked back into the ballroom, his mind made up. The whispers of society could wait. His duties as duke could wait. All that mattered now was finding Eloise, telling her the truth, and doing whatever it took to win back her trust and her heart.
The ball was in full swing, but Marcus saw only one person as he made his way through the crowd. Eloise was dancing with Mr. Fairchild, but her eyes were searching the room, and when they met his, he saw a flicker of hope that had not been there before.
He would not let her down this time.