With his legs hanging over the bricks separating his property from his neighbor’s, Marcus sat there surveying the Duchess of Devonshire’s also immaculate gardens. Yes, time stood still here, as well. The expertly tended rose bushes with their blooms now curled tight from the night chill, the ivy that clung to the brick wall, denser all these years later, and the only indication of that passage of time.
Marcus gave his head a wry shake. If the ton could see him, a notorious rogue who lived for his own pleasures hanging over the edge of his garden wall reminiscing of the only woman he’d truly wanted: a woman who, in the end, had wanted nothing more than a light flirtation.
A faint click thundered in the quiet and he shot his gaze toward the entrance of the duchess’ doorway. Of course she would be here. He remained motionless as Eleanor stepped outside with tentative footsteps. He should go. He should allow her the privacy she craved and carry on with his own life as he had after her deception. He turned to leave, and then looked to her once more. The sight of her froze him so that any and all movement became a feat only the gods were capable of. In her modest, white night wrapper, bathed in moonlight, the lady had the look of a fey creature about to dance in the quiet woodlands. His mouth went dry and he was unsure whom he hated more in that instant—her for the hold she still had over his senses or himself for that weakness. Marcus forced his gaze away from her gently curved, slender frame, up to her face, and he frowned.
He detected the lines drawn at the corner of her mouth, the ashen hue of her skin. Who did she think of in this moment? Her beloved, departed husband? He balled his hands. And why should it matter so much if she did?
Eleanor stiffened, and found Marcus with her gaze. Then, they two had always moved in a synchronistic harmony; aware of the other when no one else was.
He bowed his head. “Eleanor.”
Eleanor wetted her lips and cast a frantic glance about. Where was the bold, smiling creature of her youth who would have had a witty repartee for his younger self? When she looked at him at last, the guarded caution in her eyes glinted in the moonlight. “My lord,” she said quietly, her words carrying in the night silence. Eleanor turned on a jerky flourish and made to leave.
“Never tell me you’re running away from me, sweet.”
She stopped mid-movement and spun back around. Even with the distance between them, he’d have to be blind to fail and note the wariness that bled from her eyes.
…I do not want empty endearments, Marcus.
Then what should I call you?
Love…I only wish to be your love…
The muscles of his stomach clenched at the long-buried memory.
Eleanor smoothed her palms down the front of her modest nightshift. “You shouldn’t be here, my lord.”
No, he shouldn’t. Nonetheless, Marcus lowered himself to the ground. “With the friendship between us, certain liberties are permitted.” The heels of his boots sunk into the moist earth, muting his drop.
“No.” Eleanor shook her head vigorously. “They are not. Nor would I say we are friends.”
The young lady was correct in that regard. But they had been, and at a time when he’d desperately needed a friend; at a time when grief had ravaged him and, in her, he’d found the ability to smile again and laugh. Goddamn you, Eleanor Elaine.
Drawing on years of practice as the unaffected rogue, he strode over. “Very well.” He stopped so only a hairsbreadth separated them. “Then liberties are surely permitted given the friendship between our families.”
She troubled her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his gaze inexorably to the slight, seductive movement. That slightly crooked front tooth, which had once mesmerized. He grimaced. God, what a hopeless romantic he’d been. Thanks to her defection, life had taught him there was but one purpose for a beautiful mouth such as hers.
Eleanor held his stare. “Why are you here?” she asked with a directness uncharacteristic of the ladies of the ton. As such, it was one he appreciated.
Marcus folded his arms. “Why am I here?” His mind stalled. Why was he here? Why, when the last place he should care to be was with the lady who’d wrenched his heart out and left an empty void in its wake? She was a woman who’d ruined him for that emotion, forevermore. And in the absence of any justifiable reason built on logic, he turned her question on her. “Why are you here, Eleanor?”
She continued to worry the fabric of her skirts. “This is my aunt’s garden. I enjoy—”
“Here, in London,” he said gruffly. Why, when she’d disappeared into the country and remained an elusive phantom these years, was she here now? Yes, there was the role of companion she’d come to take on…and yet, he’d wager all his solvent holdings that the duchess would turn over a fortune if her beloved niece so much as asked for it. He ran his eyes over the stoic planes of her face. Then, Eleanor had the grace and dignity to never beg for assistance. “Are you here to capture a new husband?”
He didn’t realize he held his breath until she snorted. “I’ve as much desire for another husband as I do a megrim at midnight.”
Even as the tension in his chest eased, an odd sensation yanked at his heart. Her handful of casually tossed words were more telling than anything else she uttered about the man she’d wed. Had she, too, been deceived by one who professed love and then ultimately brought nothing more than betrayal and heartache? Only, there was no glee at that possibility. Regardless of her betrayal, she’d once been a friend to him when he’d very much needed one.
As though she’d followed the path his thoughts had traveled, Eleanor glanced down at her slippered feet. He brushed his knuckles along her jaw, bringing her gaze back to his. Eleanor wetted her lips and, as she’d always done, filled the voids of silence. “Y-you may be rest assured of my intentions here. For your suspicions of me, I am not here to torment you.” How could the lady not know she’d haunted and tormented him for years now? First, in her absence and now, with her reemergence. “I’m merely here to serve as my aunt’s companion. We will move in entirely different social circles and there will be little need for us to see one another.”
Marcus stared hard at her. Did he imagine the regret tingeing that pledge? He thrust aside those foolish musings. “It is quarter past the midnight hour,” he murmured.
Crimson bathed her cheeks in a telling blush.
At the revealing silence, he winged an eyebrow up.
“I-is it?” she squeaked. “I-I did not realize the hour.”
Liar.
Marcus grazed the pad of his thumb over her lip and her full mouth trembled. A surge of desire gripped him; a need to draw her close and explore the taste of her.
Eleanor’s long, golden lashes fluttered wildly and she jerked her face away, dislodging his touch. “Remember yourself, my lord.” She retreated a step.
“How very proper you’ve become.” He infused a silken thread to his words. “I liked you bold and secretly scandalous.” As she’d been. The young woman who’d pulled herself up and peered over this same garden wall in search of him.
Crimson color splotched her cheeks and as he advanced, Eleanor layered her back against the doorway. “I was always proper, Marcus,” she said tightly.
Another wave of desire assaulted him. Her husky contralto, that seductive timbre had once haunted the better part of his waking and sleeping moments. Even after all these years, he wanted her still. He wanted to know her in the one way he’d not; in his bed, in his arms, with her reaching for him, pleading. He propped his hand on the door at her back, skillfully preventing her escape. “Where is the fun in proper?” he whispered. They were both mature adults. Why should they not renew their acquaintance in the way his body still longed to?
Eleanor snapped her eyebrows together. “I would expect a gentleman who is in the market for a wife would not be out here speaking such words aloud.”
His lips twitched. “And what words have I spoken, love? What words do you deem too scandalous too utter?” It did not escape his notice th
at this was now the second time she’d mentioned his marital state. “Do you know what I believe, Eleanor?” Not allowing her to reply, he lowered his head close to hers. “I believe, in your mind, you’ve conjured all imaginings of how it was between us and how it could be again.”
The muscles of her long, graceful neck worked and male satisfaction slammed into him at the hint of her desiring.
Marcus lowered his mouth to hers and claimed her lips, just as he’d longed to for years after she’d left. Her body went stiff in his arms and she pressed her palms against his chest, as though to push him away, but then she clenched and unclenched her fingers in the fabric of his coat, pulling him close.
What had begun as a kiss meant to taunt and torture became something more, something that sucked away his self-control and logic. With a groan, he deepened the kiss. Her lips quivered under his and she kissed him with the hesitancy of youth before parting her lips and allowing him entry.
Their tongues met in an explosion of long-suppressed passion. She tasted of sweetness and innocence and everything he’d thought to never again know. He dragged his mouth down the corner of her lips and then he gently explored the place where her pulse pounded hard at her throat. He sucked and nipped at the flesh.
She whimpered and twisted her fingers in his hair, anchoring him close.
“I have wanted you in this way since I first met you, Eleanor Elaine,” he rasped against the satiny softness of her skin.
“Oh, Marcus.” His name emerged as a breathless entreaty and sent lust spiraling. He continued his quest, passing his lips lower. With sure movements, he parted the fabric of her nightshift and her entire body jerked. On a small cry, she stumbled sideways, dislodging her spectacles.
Her skin flush from desire, Eleanor stood there, her chest moving in time to his. She readjusted the wire rims on her face and, with shaking fingers, she pulled the fabric of her nightshift closed. “I do not want you, Marcus.” In the absence of conviction, those words rang hollow.
He turned his lips upward in a slow, unsteady grin. “Oh?”
By the deepening blush on her cheeks, the lady knew as much. She set her mouth with a brittleness better reserved for a cynical spinster. “I-I am not looking to be another one of your conquests.”
He closed the distance between them and captured a loose golden curl between his thumb and forefinger and raised the strand to his nose. The scent of honeysuckle whispered about his senses blending with the natural garden scents, intoxicating as any potent aphrodisiac. “A pity,” he whispered against her ear and her eyelids fluttered. “Your body tells a different tale.” He lowered his head so their lips nearly brushed. Eleanor’s breath caught on an audible intake and another rush of desire coursed through him. “Tell me, what do you know of my conquests?” He should be thrilled with the evidence of her passion for him, and yet it was her words that held him enthralled. Why should she care who he’d carried on with over the years? Why, when she’d chosen another?
Eleanor blinked wildly and then hooded her eyes. “I know enough.”
Marcus folded his arms at his chest. “Have you been reading about me, love?”
She danced out of his reach. “No!” The denial burst from her with such ferocity it hinted at the lie there. “And cease calling me ‘love’.”
He stalked toward her. She boldly held her ground. “Ah, then how do you know about my…how did you phrase it? Conquests?” Marcus tweaked her nose. He’d always delighted in eliciting a reaction from the lady.
Eleanor glanced frantically about and then shocked him with the directness of the stare she trained on him. “Do you wish to know the truth, Marcus?”
He inclined his head.
“I may have lived in the country all these years, but even an unsophisticated widow from the country reads The Times. It did not take any searching to see the man you’ve become.”
The man I’ve become.
Fury lanced through him, blotting out all desire and warmth for the woman who’d betrayed him. “The man I’ve become,” he gritted out. “The man I’ve become was a product of your betrayal, madam. I gave my heart to you, confided,” the hell of Lionel’s murder when he’d let no one into the tortured hell of discovering his friend’s body gutted by his murderer’s hand, “everything and you simply vanished without a word.”
“I wrote a letter.” She tipped her chin up at a mutinous angle. “Did you not receive it?”
Her words fanned fury within him. He’d received her goddamn note; a missive he’d clung to for years, bringing it out when he wished to remind himself that he hated Eleanor Carlyle more than he’d ever loved her.
He narrowed his eyes and refused to allow her the satisfaction of knowing she still had the power to wound. “I received your blasted letter,” he bit out through clenched teeth. The words he’d longed to hurl at her for the past eight years tumbled to the tip of his tongue and only the years of deportment and propriety drilled into him from the nursery, onward, quelled the words. He tempered his tone. “You owed me an explanation.” After all, he’d given her the whole of his heart and she’d given him a vague, empty note about a faceless, nameless stranger who’d won her.
“Explanation?” her voice came out woodenly.
He fisted his hands. “Yes, an explanation. As in, answers as to,” How you could simply leave after all we’d shared and the manner in which I let you into my world. “What happened,” he finished lamely.
“You think you’re deserving of answers?” Eleanor looked at him as though he’d sprouted a second head. “More than I’ve already given you,” she said when he opened his mouth to speak.
“Yours was not an answer.” It was a goodbye. Those were vastly different things.
Tension filled the air. At last, it was between them. The unspoken past that hovered and danced, finally breathed to existence.
He braced for her stinging, tart rebuttal. Instead, she passed her wide eyes over him, sadness emanating from within their endless depths. “I gave you all the words you needed.” Then, with stiff movements, she turned and started toward the doorway.
He suppressed the hungering to call out to her. For staring at her retreating frame, he finally realized it would not matter what words she gave him. It would not matter whether she spoke with love and longing for the man who’d claimed her hand and heart. It would not matter if she’d missed Marcus, even just a little in her absence. The dream of them was as dead and gone as the charred ashes in a dirtied hearth. And with that truth, he could embrace the freedom in that and hold on to the only safe sentiment where Eleanor was concerned.
Desire.
“I want you,” he called out, staying her movements.
Eleanor froze. The delicate span of her back went taut as she turned slowly around.
“I stopped loving you long ago,” he said, those words born of truth. In the years following her betrayal, he’d come to see that sentiment as an empty one, built on a child’s fanciful dreams and imaginings. Desire was safe. It was the only honest emotion. Eleanor stood stoic, unmoving, and just then he hated her as much now as he had years ago when he’d received that goddamn note. He hated her for being coldly unemotional and unfeeling. He gave his head a sad, little shake. How little he’d known her. “But I want you, anyway.”
She widened her eyes.
He took a step toward her. “I want to know you in my arms and in my bed. I want to know your cries as you find release and you want me, too.” He hooded his eyes. “And I promise you, Eleanor Elaine, before you run off and leave London,” again, “I will know those pleasures and more…you will know those pleasures.” Then, Eleanor would remember Marcus forever, no matter who came after Marcus and he could, at last, purge himself of this insatiable need for her.
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.”
To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) Page 9
