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

by Christi Caldwell

  Then, employing the skills he’d likely practiced as a careless rogue, he lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “You used to enjoy the time spent in my arms.”

  Hating that other woman before this moment and women after, who would be the recipient of his seductive charm, Eleanor stitched her golden eyebrows into a single line. “I’m not one of your lightskirts, Marcus. Do not employ your charms on me. I would have you as a friend and nothing more.” She glanced to the gentlemen at the edge of the ballroom floor looking for the face of the demon, and unease tightened her belly. He stood on the fringe of the ballroom sipping from his champagne flute, intently studying her. At the chilling amusement in that cold-eyed stare, Eleanor stumbled. She wrenched her eyes to the front of Marcus’ snowy cravat. Panic lapped at the corner of her senses, threatening to pull her under. Think of skating on a frozen pond. Think of Marcia, laughing as you tickle her under her chin.

  As the numbing terror abated, she fixed on the tasks doled out by her uncle. She’d but six acts, really just four remaining, that her uncle demanded of her, and then she could be forever free; free of Marcus’ resentment, free of her own useless wishing, and free from the real and imagined threats posed by that grinning lord in the corner of her aunt’s ballroom.

  Marcus applied a gentle pressure to her waist and snapped her attention back to him.

  “What is it?”

  Had he been coolly distant, she’d have said nothing that mattered to him. Had he been the slightly angry, bitter gentleman who’d splayed her heart open just moments ago, she’d have managed a smile and a noncommittal reply. Except, gruff concern coated his inquiry and he was restored to the man she’d known as a friend.

  Before her courage deserted her, she blurted. “I would speak with you on a matter of privacy.” Intrigue flared in his eyes, and by the interest she detected in the silver flecks of his gaze, she gathered the direct path his thoughts wandered. “Not that.”

  His lips twitched. “Not what, Eleanor?”

  She removed her hand from his sleeve and fanned her flaming cheeks, and then promptly stumbled. With a chuckle, he caught her. “But you did think about it.”

  “I do not know what ‘it’ you refer to.” Eleanor ground the heel of her slipper into his instep, this time with a deliberateness that had him wincing. “Do pay attention.” As Marcus guided her in a smooth circle, she sought another glimpse of her attacker. He stood in the same spot, looking boldly back, still taunting her with his presence. Eleanor swallowed hard. She didn’t have much time before the set concluded and he returned her to the beast prowling on the sidelines. “Will you meet me?” Haven’t you learned the folly in sneaking off before? Dark, wicked deeds transpire when one danced on the edge of respectability.

  She braced for his roguish rejoinder.

  Instead, Marcus passed a searching look over her face and then gave a terse nod. “Where?”

  He capitulated so easily. “My aunt’s library, following the next set.” No doubt, he still believed theirs to be a meeting between two lovers. Her insides twisted. How many women had he coordinated meaningless assignations with in the homes of London’s lords? And how many of those meetings had he failed to honor…? Or was it only me who was abandoned by him that night?

  The music drew to a halt and they stopped. Unease, an eerie sense of familiarity to another night, stirred within, made all the more real by that nameless nobleman who’d cornered her. “You will come, then?” Couples politely clapped for the orchestra’s efforts about them. “You’ll not promise to meet and then never show?”

  Marcus raised her fingertips to his lips and placed his lips along the top of her hand. “In all our stolen exchanges, Eleanor, not once did I ever fail to meet you.”

  As he ushered her from the dance floor, she bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood. She cast a look back for the man who’d fathered her child. How could Marcus be so wrong about the one night that had irrevocably changed them?

  She looked toward the gentlemen who waited, hovering like bothersome gnats, awaiting her company, and drew to an abrupt stop. There was nothing polite or proper in their hot, lascivious stares. They eyed her no differently than they might study a lightskirt; a woman to be plucked, there to bring them pleasure. And for the folly in requesting a meeting with Marcus, away from the safe eyes of the crowded ballroom, Eleanor recognized she’d little choice.

  Marcus cast a glance over his shoulder. “Eleanor?”

  Long ago, Eleanor had learned fear and desperation drove a person to do many things. She’d appreciated the extent of it when she’d fled London and shortly thereafter fashioned herself the widow of a soldier. With her father’s assistance, they’d moved away from all Eleanor had ever known in the hope for freedom and a new beginning.

  With reluctance, she pulled her gaze away and diverted her attention back to Marcus. She had no right to ask him for anything and yet with her daughter’s innocent suggestion rooting around her mind, and the horror of this night, the words tumbled from her lips. “I’d ask that you stay beside me.” His eyes became dark, impenetrable slips. She drew in a slow breath. “Please.”

  “Why?”

  As she owed him at least one truth, for all the lies she’d given, she said, “Because I do not care to be prey for rogues who’d only seek a place in my bed.”

  “By your admission, I am a rogue.” And one who’d been quite clear in his amorous intentions toward her.

  “Yes,” she concurred. “But you’re different than the others.” He always had been and always would be.

  She expected him to toss her request for help in her face and march off, relishing her discomfort while he himself sought the comforts of some other widow.

  With a brusque nod, Marcus remained at her side. Together they stood, surveying the guests assembled by her aunt. They stood so close their bodies, their arms, brushed, and some of the terror roused by that monster who’d dared enter her aunt’s home receded. A liveried footman approached with a silver tray of fine French champagne. Marcus retrieved two glasses and handed one over to Eleanor.

  “I do not drink spirits,” she held her palms up.

  “Take the damned glass, Eleanor,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t…” At his glower, she sighed and took an experimental sip. The bubbling spirits touched her tongue and slid down her throat, unexpectedly delicious. She took another sip and then another. For her twenty-six years, she’d never imbibed of anything so forbidden. Yet, with each sip, she had to admit on this score, Marcus had proven himself quite correct. “It is delicious.”

  His lips twitched as she drained the remainder of her drink. He motioned over a footman and plucked the crystal glass from Eleanor’s fingers. Then he deposited the fragile piece upon the silver tray and rescued her another. “Slower,” he cautioned as he held out the next.

  “I really shouldn’t.” She’d learned the dangers of doing the opposite of what she should be doing. Yet she accepted it, anyway. Sipping French liquor beside Marcus, the man who owned her heart, was the height of folly. Alas, it appeared an inherent flaw of her person. This time, when she tasted the champagne, her tongue warmed under the familiarity of the sparkling brew and her throat worked reflexively as she continued to drink.

  “I said slower, Eleanor.” Concern glinted in Marcus’ eyes.

  He spoke with the same concern he might show his sister, Lizzie. She swallowed. Oh, how she despised his brotherly tone. The French spirit proved potent, continuing to work its hold over her; it warmed her from the inside out and, with that, all her earlier trepidations lifted, replaced with an absolute rightness in being precisely where she was. Beside Marcus. As she’d been once and should always be. It also reinforced the rightness in enlisting his aid. “This is splendid,” she said on a sigh.

  From the corner of her eye, his lips again twitched. Marcus angled his body closer to hers, shrinking the space between them. Eleanor braced for the slow-dawning horror; the terror of undying memorie
s—but they didn’t come. She rounded her eyes. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. A giddy sense of excitement invaded every corner of her being and she briefly closed her eyes at the thrill of that discovery. How long had she dreaded being near any man? She’d allowed her attacker that power and control over her and yet, in this moment, she’d reclaimed an elemental piece of her life.

  The creases of his brow deepened. “Why should you be afraid?”

  There were all number of reasons. None of which had anything to do with him and everything to do with another. She’d not have him believe she feared him. Never him. Eleanor patted him on the hand. “Not you,” she assured him. “You are perfectly safe to be around.”

  “Thank you,” he said with a dryness that made her smile. Or was she already smiling?

  “You were already smiling.”

  “Oh,” she blurted. “Did I say that aloud?”

  He widened his grin. “You did.”

  A bold gentleman in pale blue satin knee breeches approached. One glower from Marcus sent the dandy scurrying away in the opposite direction. Her heart thumped wildly in her breast.

  A black scowl marred Marcus’ cheeks. Had he been anyone else, she’d have backed up in fear. But this was Marcus and she knew implicitly he never could, nor ever would, harm her. “Has Brantley given you a difficult time?”

  “Brantley?” She followed his gaze to the rapidly retreating lord. “I don’t even know Lord Brantley.” Some of the tautness about Marcus’ shoulders, lessened. Nor did Eleanor care to know Lord Brantley. Or anyone. It could only be Marcus. “Will you meet me in my aunt’s library?” Urgency threaded that request. Without awaiting his reply, Eleanor pulled her fingers free of his arm. “Do not be late.” And with that, she lost herself in the crush of guests.

  A short while later, Marcus strode down the duchess’ corridors. The tread of his footsteps silent as Eleanor’s breathless entreaty danced around his mind. The lady spoke of friendship and requested a private meeting, rousing old memories and painful hurts. For an infinitesimal moment, he’d entertained the idea of leaving her in that damned library as she’d once left him. But no sooner had the thought fully taken shape, he’d killed it dead. With her furrowed brow and troubled eyes, she’d boldly questioned whether he’d honor that meeting. Her fears were likely a product of her own faithlessness years earlier. Marcus slowed his steps. The lit sconces cast ominous shadows about the wall and he stared at the dancing orange flame as he confronted his weakness for Eleanor.

  In the midst of a ballroom, with strangers as their witness, she’d whispered her request for help and, for all that had come to pass between them, he could not deny her entreaty. Perhaps hers was an apology, an apology he now knew she needn’t make. Perhaps it was the goodbye she’d owed him, years too late. He’d never again trust her, but neither could he cut her from his life. I am a damned fool… With a silent curse, he strode the remaining distance, counting doors, and then coming to a stop. He glanced down the corridor and then quietly pressed the handle and slipped inside the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the thick cloak of darkness that hung over the room and he blinked several times. His gaze locked on the flash of pale pink in the inky blackness.

  Eleanor muttered to herself, wringing her skirts hopelessly. There was something so achingly sweet and innocent in that gesture; this new, unfamiliar habit she’d adopted in their time apart. He slowly closed the door, using the lady’s distraction as an opportunity to study her.

  “Madness.”

  Yes, they were of like opinion on that particular point.

  What are you doing, Eleanor? Have you not learned your lesson? She paused and squinted at the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle. “Where are you?” she muttered under her breath.

  “I am here. Or is there another who—”

  A startled shriek rent the quiet and Eleanor spun so quickly she lost her footing.

  His amusement died and he took the room in five long strides. “Eleanor.” He dropped to a knee beside her. “Are you hurt?”

  She sat sprawled with her skirts rucked and wrinkled, looking like the shepherdess who’d misbehaved. “Marcus. You startled me.” She glowered at him. “And you are late.”

  “Am I?” He took in the sight of her, his gaze lingering on her trim legs, the muscles of her calves spoke of a woman who didn’t rebuff physical exertions. Friendship be damned. He wanted her with an even greater intensity than he did eight years ago. Then, he’d been a boy and she an innocent young lady. “Are you hurt?” he repeated, his tone gruff. Now, she was a woman, and he was just as powerless to her enigmatic pull.

  Eleanor followed his stare downward to where it rested on her exposed legs and a gasp escaped her. She tossed her skirts down. “I am not.”

  He mourned the delicious glimmer of her naked legs, those shapely limbs he’d never before seen—until this very moment. With a sigh of regret, he shoved to a stand and, in one movement, guided Eleanor to her feet.

  Eleanor clasped her hands in front of her and drew in an audible breath. “The reason I’ve asked you here—” Her words trailed off as he touched a finger to her lips.

  How very methodical she’d become. “Shh,” he whispered. She put requests to him, coordinated meetings, reprimanded him for being tardy, and then wasted little time with whatever had brought them together.

  “But—”

  “A drink first, Eleanor,” he murmured and strode over to the eccentric duchess’ sideboard. Marcus eyed the older woman’s collection of crystal decanters and selected a bottle of brandy. He held it aloft.

  Her lips tightened, with what he’d wager his entire estate’s holdings, was disapproval. “Must you do that?” she snapped.

  Yes, disapproval, indeed. By the fire flashing in her eyes, the lady did not approve of his drinking spirits. With a crooked grin, he pulled out the stopper. “I must.” He swiped a tumbler and turned it over. “We both must.”

  Eleanor gritted her teeth so hard that the snapping of those porcelain-white, perfect rows filled the room. “I do not care to indulge in any more spirits this evening. I’ve already had two glasses of champagne.” Which had left her with a soothing warmth.

  “You are not indulging,” he agreed. “You are having a glass. It is one of the freedoms afforded you as a widow.” Marcus resisted the urge to point out that there were any other number of wicked freedoms permitted now but the flash of fire in her eyes indicated that even one misstep on his part and she’d swiftly kill this meeting she’d called for. For some inexplicable reason—he needed to know. He tilted the bottle.

  Eleanor sprinted across the room and knocked the glass from his hands, where it tumbled to the floor with a loud thunk. Fury emanated from within her eyes. “No brandy.”

  With a sigh, he set down the bottle. “Very well.” Some of the tension seeped from her shoulders. “Sherry, then.” Before she could formulate a protest, he swiped a bottle and set to work pouring two glasses of the amber spirit.

  She hesitated and, with a narrow-eyed gaze, stared at the contents of her glass, and then took a slow, almost experimental, drink. Her lips pulled in a grimace. “It is horrid.” But she took another sip anyway, and another, her attention trained wholly upon the glass clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

  Studying her through hooded lashes, Marcus took a sip and looked at Eleanor over the rim of his glass. “You asked for a meeting? And now you have it.” Glass in hand, Marcus held it aloft in mock salute. “So tell me, what is it that has called you away from your throng of suitors?”

  Chapter 12

  Eleanor stared at the pale droplets on the edge of her glass, transfixed by the lone, oblong shape as it slid down the side of the crystal, a teardrop falling to the bottom. The amber tear called forth all the fears of reentering Society and the need for a friend. Perhaps it was liquid fortitude, but she drew on Marcia’s suggestion from several days past. She drew in a slow breath. “My daughter said I require a friend.” Silence met her p
ronouncement and she glanced up to see if Marcus had heard her. “I said—”

  “I heard you.”

  “Oh.” She glanced into the contents of her glass once more. “You didn’t respond and so I believed you didn’t—”

  “I heard you.” The hard edge to those words made her wince. This man was the same angry, bitter figure she’d crashed in to on the street days earlier. She could not put a favor to Marcus as he was now. She bit the inside of her lower lip remembering the stranger in the ballroom. Her palms grew moist and the glass trembled in her hand. Droplets of sherry splashed over the rim and she quickly finished the contents of her glass. Coupled with the previous champagne she’d drunk, it filled her with a warm, reassuring coziness—and fortitude. What choice did she have but to enlist Marcus’ support? With him at her side, she could face anyone. Including the monster of her past.

  Noting her stare, Marcus sighed. “Forgive me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The correct response is, in fact, why do you require a friend?” And once more, he was the gentle, patient gentleman who’d won her heart.

  “Well, everyone needs a friend, Marcus.” Apparently, by his silence, he was not of a like opinion. Did she expect him to declare his loyalty to her, affirming the bond they’d shared, greater than any she’d known since? The stilted quiet should be deterrent enough and yet, somehow, found the courage to press ahead. “I didn’t want to come here, you know.”

  He stiffened.

  “Not here, per se,” she motioned to the library. “To London, that is.”

  “You enjoyed London at one time,” he pointed out.

  Only because you were here. How had he not known that? She would have danced happily within the fires of hell if it had been in his arms. She looked off to the cool, empty grate of the hearth. “Yes,” she murmured. But that had been a time before monsters and broken dreams. Eleanor gave her head a clearing shake. “That is not the case any longer.” Which was just one more reason nothing more could ever transpire between her and Marcus. A great chasm had formed between two people who, by birth alone, had already been cast into two very different worlds. Encouraged by his silence, Eleanor pressed ahead. “My uncle insisted I come.”