To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8)

by Christi Caldwell

  To Trust a Rogue

  By

  Christi Caldwell

  Copyright © 2016 by Christi Caldwell

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or borrow it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

  For more information about the author:

  christicaldwellauthor@gmail.com

  www.christicaldwellauthor.com

  Dedication

  I did not always write stories with imperfect heroes and heroines. After my son’s birth, after I learned of his diagnosis of Down syndrome, it shaped the way I looked at everything: who I was as a person, what the word ‘perfect’ truly means, and the strength that comes from the trials and tribulations presented by life.

  This story is dedicated to every individual who has braved what life has thrown at you, and came out on the other side to find happiness and greater strength. And if you are still clawing for that ‘other side’…believe you’ll get there.

  Eleanor and Marcus’ story, is for you.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Christi Caldwell

  Biography

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Spring, 1818

  Marcus Gray, the Viscount Wessex, had been betrayed by his mother.

  Oh, it was not the first time he’d been so horribly deceived by a woman. It was just the first time that the woman who’d given him life had been guilty of that crime.

  Marcus skimmed the front page of The Times, where it appeared the most pressing, important news and gossip members of the ton now woke to this day, pertained to two nonconsecutive dances he’d danced with Lady Marianne Hamilton and what that indicated for his marital state. He glanced up from the page and found his mother at the opposite end of the breakfast table, smiling as she buttered a piece of bread.

  “You did state your intentions,” she said, not taking her gaze from that well-buttered piece.

  Marcus narrowed his eyes. “To you. I suspected, as such, that information was, at the very least, safe from gossips.”

  He caught the eye of his sister Lizzie. She gave him a do-you-really-not-know-our-mother-look?

  “Come, Marcus, you are thirty. It is hardly a shock to Society that you are in the market for a wife,” his mother chided.

  “I told you,” his sister’s whispered words reached his ears. She popped a bite of sausage into her mouth.

  Their mother eyed her flaky bread in a studious manner, gave a pleased nod, and dismissively returned to eating her breakfast. As though she’d not chattered his plans to at last fulfill his obligations to Lady Jersey and, through that indiscretion, to all of Society.

  Marcus tossed down the paper and it hit the table with a soft thump. “I assured you I would see to my marital responsibilities in the near future.” Never had he indicated an immediacy to those intentions. “Did you fear I’d change my mind?”

  Reaching for her cup of tea, his mother paused mid-movement and then gracefully picked up the delicate porcelain cup. “Yes, yes I did.”

  With a growl of annoyance, Marcus grabbed his cup of coffee. His empty cup. A servant rushed over and filled it to the brim with the steaming, black brew.

  Interrupting his murmured thanks, his sister leaned over and spoke in hushed tones. “Am I a horribly disloyal sister for being grateful that Mother’s intentions have been securely settled on your marital aspirations?”

  “Yes, the worst.” To temper that lie, he leaned over and ruffled the top of her head. He didn’t bother to point out that he didn’t truly have marital aspirations that existed beyond a coldly emotionless bride who’d be content with the title viscountess and a rogue for a husband. Such a woman would fail to rouse grand passions and drive him to a maddening inability to think of any other.

  On the heel of that flitted in a face from his past; the first woman to betray him. He tightened his mouth. That particular lady had been anything but dull and polite. Mayhap the title of viscountess had never been enough for that one. Marcus stared within the contents of his cup. Then, all these years later, there was still no knowing. The lady hadn’t felt leaving after those fleeting, but meaningful to him months, merited much of an explanation.

  Lizzie smiled. “I am ever so happy that you’ve selected Marianne as your future viscountess.”

  Selected Marianne? His mind muddied from thoughts of the past, it took a moment for Lizzie’s words to register. In an unlikely pairing, Lady Marianne Hamilton had attached herself to his marriage-avoidant, wallflower by choice, sister.

  Lady Marianne, The Incomparable of the Season, was lush, with sultry smiles, and rumored to be in the market for a wealthy husband. A marriage to that one would be about lust, power, and not the dangerous emotion called love that had nearly destroyed Marcus eight years earlier. Yes, Lady Marianne fit the proverbial bill in terms of his future viscountess. Nonetheless, his palms grew moist at the prospect of forever binding himself to one woman. Even if that fate was inevitable. His mother and sister proceeded to casually indulge in their morning meals while they flippantly discussed his future. He gave a tug at his suddenly too-tight cravat. Lest his sister believe his intentions for her friend were already decided, he pointed out, “I’ve hardly selected Lady Marianne for my future bride.” He’d indicated an interest in the lady, but he’d not selected her. Not yet.

  Lizzie froze with the fork midway to her mouth. “You danced with her, Marcus.” She set the silver utensil down and gave him a meaningful look. “Twice.”

  “They were nonconsecutive,” he felt inclined to point out.

  Then like the veriest determined matchmaker, Lizzie proceeded to tick off on her fingers. “She comes from a respectable family.” It wouldn’t do to point out to his innocent sister that Lady Marianne’s brother was a letch in dun territory that no respectable mama would see their daughter wed—even with his marquisate as a prize. The man was now reliant upon his sister to make a match and save his finances. A flash of pity filled him at the lady’s unfortunate connections. “She is kind and clever and exceedingly lovely.” With midnight black hair and a generously curved figure, Lady Marianne was unlike most of the porcelain, golden-haired ladies of Society. The perfect counterpart to those blonde English misses.

 
Say, a Miss Eleanor Carlyle, that temptress from long ago with sun-kissed hair and too-full lips. The woman who’d won his heart, and broken it, in short order.

  Yes, midnight hair would be preferable—

  His sister clapped her hands once. “Do attend me.”

  Marcus thrust memories of Eleanor to the furthest recesses of his mind. “Forgive me.” He inclined his head. “You were saying?”

  Lizzie let out a beleaguered sigh, and continued. “You are in want of a wife. She is in need of a husband.” Ah, so his sister did know of the dismal financial circumstances her friend’s family faced. Lizzie beamed. “Isn’t that how most wonderful, romantic tales begin?”

  “I would not know,” he said, droll humor creeping into his tone. “I’m not in the habit of reading your gothic tales of forbidden love.” He’d tried love in real life once and that foray had proven a remarkable disaster.

  Lizzie gave a roll of her eyes. “It is not always forbidden love.” She brightened. “Why, more often, it is a wealthy duke and an impoverished young lady coming together and finding love. Why, what is a more romantic match than that?”

  “Indeed,” he drawled.

  Lizzie swatted his arm.

  Pointedly ignoring her daughter, Mother turned her attention to Marcus. She folded her hands primly before her and spoke like all the tutors she’d personally hired for him through the years. “I do not merely want my children to make a suitable match, though I do. I care for you to make a love match.”

  His sister was nothing if not tenacious. “Oh, he could very easily love Marianne.”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. He’d not disabuse his romantic sister of her naïve notions. After Eleanor’s betrayal, he’d learned the perils of trusting his heart to a woman. No, when he ultimately married, it would not be because any emotion was involved—which was why Lady Marianne represented the ideal match. Emotionally aloof, she seduced with her eyes, and revealed a jadedness that matched his own. He could easily imagine that temptress in his bed, but there was little risk of his heart being involved.

  “Oh, do stop scowling, Marcus,” his mother said patting her mouth with a crisp white napkin, bringing him back to the present. “You’ll hardly catch any young lady with that terrible glower.”

  He sat back in his chair and propped his elbows on the arms. “Oh, and are there young ladies expected or hiding even now in this house who I need worry about at this given moment?” he drawled.

  His mother promptly choked.

  He narrowed his eyes. “Mother?”

  “Do not be silly,” she squawked and in an entirely un-viscountess like move, she shoveled a heaping pile of eggs into her mouth.

  “She is lying,” his sister said under her breath.

  Marcus cast a glance over at his sister.

  “But as long as she is parading ladies before you, I needn’t worry of her parading prospective bridegrooms before me.”

  Temporarily distracted from his own impending dire situation, he gave Lizzie a wry grin. For the almost twelve years between them, they’d always been remarkably of like thought where their mother was concerned. It appeared those likenesses extended to the realm of marriage. “Never tell me you are the only lady in the kingdom to not want a husband,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

  “Very well, then I shan’t tell you.” Lizzie grinned.

  “What are you two whispering about?”

  Brother and sister spoke in unison. “Nothing.”

  His mother muttered something under her breath about the woes of being a poor mama to troublesome children. Fighting a grin, Marcus took another swallow of the contents of his glass. As annoyed as he was with her for sharing his marital plans with the whole of the ton, she was a good mother determined to see him happy. As such, it was hard to—

  “All children require a bit of guidance on the path to marital bliss,” the viscountess persisted.

  Marcus promptly spit out his brew. At his side, Lizzie’s slender frame shook with mirth and servants rushed forward with cloths to clean the mess. “M-marital bliss?” he sputtered. Good god, is that what she would call it?

  “Marcus,” his mother scolded. “Oh, do not look at me like that, Marcus. I daresay I prefer you charming to bitter.”

  Scolding, she was always scolding. Since he’d been a boy of three pilfering pastries from the kitchen to a man of thirty. “You know it is my expectation that you’ll find a young woman who makes your heart happy.”

  He sighed. Even when he’d stated his intentions to wed. No, one could never please a mother. “I will tell you clearly what would make my heart happy,” he mumbled.

  His sister snorted and then at their mother’s pointed stare, promptly buried the sound into her palm. Perhaps she would be suitably distracted by mention of Lizzie’s unwed state.

  “Must you be so cynical?” the viscountess scolded. Again.

  Marcus swallowed back the bitter rejoinder on his lips. He’d not discuss the reasons for his cynicism before his mother, his sister, or anyone. No. No one knew the foolish mistakes of his past and the reasons he’d no intentions of trusting his heart to a headstrong, passionate lady—not again. “I am a rogue,” he said instead, managing his patented half-grin. Yes, he’d been the rogue for so many years. So many that he no longer knew any other way, nor did he care to.

  “You are hopeless,” his mother sighed. “Surely you’ve a desire to know even a dash of the love your father and I knew.”

  He’d not so shatter her with the truth. The last thing he desired was love. “I’ve a desire to visit my clubs,” he said with a wink.

  Lizzie’s lips twitched. “I do wish I had clubs to visit.” She let out a beleaguered sigh. “Alas, there is no escape for an unwed, eighteen-year-old lady.” From behind her wire-rimmed spectacles, a flash of regret lit her eyes.

  A twinge of guilt needled him. He didn’t need to read the gossip columns or attend all the ton functions to know his sister’s Come Out had been a rather dismal showing. For her earlier protestations on marriage, he’d wager all his holdings as viscount that his painfully shy in public sister’s viewpoint was a mere façade; a means to protect.

  Then, weren’t they all protecting themselves, one way or another?

  “They’re all a bunch of foolish arses,” he said quietly. “You’re better off without most of them.”

  Lizzie laughed. “Just most of them?”

  “All of them,” he replied with an automaticity born of truth.

  Swatting his arm, Lizzie gave another roll of her eyes. “Oh, do not look at me. I would far rather be attending your marital prospects.”

  “Yes, Marcus,” their mother called out, tapping the table. “Let us do attend your marital prospects.”

  He winced. Bloody infernal perfect hearing. She would have impressed a bat with that heightened sense.

  “Sorry,” his sister mouthed once more.

  He waved off the apology, finished his drink and then set his cup down with a hard thunk. “I am attending my marital duties,” he said matter-of-factly. “I have stated my intentions to wed and do right by the Wessex line. You will have your nursery of little future heirs and spares running about.”

  His sister gave him a pointed frown.

  “And troublesome sisters to those heirs and spares,” he added with a half-grin.

  Lizzie laughed and shook her head. “No wonder you are the charmer throughout.” Then with an implacable look in her eyes, she settled her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “As for Marianne…”

  Oh, bloody hell. The last thing he cared for or required was Lizzie’s interference. “I do not need—”

  Their mother banged her fist on the table. “Lizzie, that will be all. Marcus,” she turned to him. “I see you require my further help.”

  “Your further help?” Marcus winged an eyebrow up.

  Lizzie scooped up the forgotten copy of The Times and waved it about. “I believe she references her sharing of your marital int
entions.”

  Their mother nodded. “Indeed, Lizzie,” she said with the same pride she might reserve a child who’d solved a complicated riddle. “For which you still haven’t thanked me, Marcus.”

  Ah, yes. Of course. “Yes, well, there is no surer way to assure a love match than to bandy about my fifty thousand pound worth,” he said dryly. He inclined his head. “Thank you.” For making every last lady in the realm know I’m in the market for a wife. For single-handedly shifting all the desperate matchmaking mamas’ consideration to me.

  She fluffed her hair. “You are quite welcome.”

  He consulted his timepiece and gave silent thanks for his previously scheduled meeting with his longtime friend, the Duke of Crawford. Marcus shoved back his chair. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, hopping to his feet.

  The viscountess let out a startled shriek. “Wherever are you going?”

  He stifled a shudder. Goodness, it was moments such as these that made him long for the bachelor suites at his clubs. “I am going to my clubs,” he reminded her. As though following his unspoken thoughts, Lizzie gave him a don’t-you-dare-abandon-me-with-her look. “I am meeting Crawford at White’s.” Any other moment, a meeting with the illustrious, powerful, and entirely proper Duke of Crawford would have appeased his mother.

  “Today?”

  Not on this day.

  “But…”

  Which could only indicate… “Surely not…”

  She had prospective future brides assembled and ready for a morning visit.

  “Surely,” he said quickly. “Business to discuss. The estates. Investments.” Anything. Everything. As long as it wasn’t Marcus’ impending marriage, to an as of yet unselected young lady.

  “Do promise you’ll attend The Duchess’ dinner party next week.”

  Those words froze him mid-movement. Blast, damn, and bloody hell. He’d quite forgotten the Duchess of Devonshire’s annual, intimate, dinner party. His mother’s lifelong friend who also happened to be Eleanor Carlyle’s aunt. “Er…”

  His mother’s mouth fell agape. “You forgot.” She slapped an indignant hand to her chest.