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

by Christi Caldwell

  Odd how silence could rage even amidst a noisy auditorium.

  Eleanor fluttered a hand to her chest and shook her head back and forth. Marcus took a step toward her. “Marry me, Eleanor,” he said gruffly. The lady had deserved effusive words and a bouquet of flowers. Instead, he made his entreaty before the whole of London, the duchess, and goddamn Primly. Belatedly, he dropped to a knee beside her chair and collected her hand. “Marry me, please,” he said softly, those hushed words for her ears. “Trust me to be the one to show you joy and wonder.” His voice grew gruff with emotion. “I love you, Eleanor Elaine, and I have never, ever once stopped. Do not go. Stay.” With me. For me. For us.

  His neck grew hot from the weight of his admission, before a sea of observers, no less. And yet, he would humble himself before the whole of the British kingdom for her, because he was nothing without her, but more, he was everything with her.

  As the moments ticked by, stretching seconds into what may as well have been hours and days, the lady said…nothing.

  Her lips parted and she touched quaking fingers to her mouth. “Oh, Marcus,” Eleanor whispered.

  Oh, God. Dread pebbled in his belly. It grew and grew until it weighted his every movement. She was going to say n—

  “Yes.” He strained to make out the faint utterance. She nodded once. “Yes,” she repeated, this time with strength in that affirmation. “I will marry you.” And her lips curved up in that wide, unfettered smile that had frozen him at their first meeting.

  And scandal be damned, Marcus pulled her into his arms.

  “It is about bloody time,” the duchess muttered.

  Chapter 19

  …The beginning is always today…

  Eleanor traced her fingertips over those familiar words. He was going to marry her. And all the terror of the wedding night and all that came with being a wife receded under this giddy lightness in her chest.

  “You have a smile to rival the cat that caught the canary,” her aunt called from her high-back upholstered seat. She stroked Devlin who sat atop her lap. “As you should. Marrying Wessex is the best decision you’ve made in eight years.”

  Eleanor bit back a smile. Her aunt had been more gracious and generous than Eleanor deserved through the years for her to go about pointing out that the duchess, in fairness, couldn’t truly speak to eight years of decisions her niece had made. She made a clearing noise with her throat. “Shall I resume where we left off?

  She fanned through the book to the last pages read from Mary Wollstonecraft’s work.

  Her aunt slammed the tip of her cane down on the open book. “Bah, do you think I care about my Mrs. Wollstonecraft today?” she scoffed. “Nor should you be with me. You should be with Wessex, or your daughter telling her the news.”

  “I am going to tell her,” she said defensively. She simply wanted to wait for the precise moment.

  Whatever retort her aunt would make was quelled by the sudden appearance of the butler. “A visitor for Mrs. Collins. I have taken the liberty of showing the gentleman to the White Parlor.”

  Eleanor’s heart sped up and she leapt to her feet.

  “Ah, it’s about time the boy arrived.” A happy smile hovered on the usually gruff duchess’ lips. “That will be all, Thomas.”

  Eleanor leaned down to place a kiss on her weathered cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said softly. For if it hadn’t been for the older woman’s timely letter, and salvation to be had in the post of companion, Eleanor would still be the broken, fearful woman she’d been for too long.

  A blush bloomed on the older woman’s face and she made a dismissive sound. “Go.” She waved Eleanor off. “Do not keep that boy waiting any longer than you have.”

  With a laugh, Eleanor all but raced from the room. She moved briskly through the corridors, her skirts fluttering noisily at her ankles, and she stopped outside the parlor. How to account for this giddy sensation dancing around her belly better reserved for a woman many years younger? Then, that was the effect Marcus had on her. Smoothing her palms over her flushed cheeks, she stepped inside the entrance of the room.

  And froze.

  Many years after she’d been raped, she would see her assailant in the unlikeliest of places. She would see his face on that of strangers, in both sleeping and waking thoughts, and would be instantly transported back to the hell of that night. Never, in all those worst hauntings, did she imagine him as he was now, on a knee beside her daughter. For she’d not ever entertained the horrific possibility that he would meet, greet, or know Marcia in any way.

  A dull buzzing filled her ears and her body went hot and then cold. She struggled to draw forth breath past the vise squeezing off airflow. Eleanor scrabbled at her skirts, willing her legs to move, willing words to come.

  “Mama!” Marcia exclaimed, her voice coming as though down a long, empty corridor. “You lied. You said you only had one friend, but the marquess says he was a very good friend years and years ago, and the marquess has a birthmark on his wrist.” Her daughter held her fingers up and smiled. “Just like me.”

  Eleanor shook her head, trying to bring her daughter’s words into focus through the thick haze of horror.

  Then he looked at her. This marquess, whose name she still did not know, who’d sired her daughter and shattered Eleanor’s life with one heinous deed. It was the face of her worst nightmares and her greatest shame. He rose and smiled a hard, evil grin. “Mrs. Collins.” The mocking edge there hinted at a man who knew very well she was no widow and reveled in the power of his knowledge.

  “Marcia,” she said tightly as she rushed across the room. “It is time to return to your lessons.” She settled her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and steered her away.

  “Mama.” Marcia dragged her heels, forcing Eleanor to stop. She whipped her head back and stared with accusatory eyes. Brown eyes. His eyes. Oh, God. Bile burned like acid in her throat and she tightened her grip reflexively. “You are hurting me.”

  All the while, he stood a silent, malicious observer. This man, tall and slender with chestnut brown hair and noble features, would be considered handsome by most. And yet, under the façade, there was a blackened soul that would one day burn in hell for his crimes.

  “Return to the nursery for your lessons,” Eleanor said, gentling her tone.

  “Very well.” Marcia sighed. “But I do think it is very exciting the Marquess of Atbrooke has a birthmark like my own and I do not know why I cannot visit as he is your friend. You allowed me to visit with Marcus.”

  Heat slapped her cheeks and her skin pricked with the probing stare trained on her by the marquess. Eleanor willed her daughter to silence. Then, with Marcia gone, her daughter’s words registered.

  The Marquess of Atbrooke.

  Of course, even the devil himself had a name…and that name made this man all the more real which weakened his indomitable hold. Her rapist, the father of her child, was a powerful marquess. Her mind stalled, as a memory flickered to life.

  …He is with that miserable Hamilton girl. I never liked her mother. I liked the father even less. The brother, the Marquess of Atbrooke, is a scoundrel and the girl is mean…

  She gasped.

  Lady Marianne Hamilton’s brother bent a low, mocking bow. “A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Collins.”

  Eleanor pulled the door closed behind her with a firm click to provide a flimsy barrier between the marquess and her daughter. Because that is what mothers ultimately did. They locked themselves away with monsters, all to protect.

  She clasped her hands behind her and layered her back against the door. “What do you want?” Revulsion lent her words an artificial strength.

  “Come, is that what you’ll say to me, love?” He sauntered forward. “After all these years and all we shared?”

  Those words, eerily reminiscent of the ones uttered by Marcus upon her arrival almost a fortnight ago, brought an acrid taste to her mouth. All they shared? Memories trickled in as he’d rammed
himself inside, tearing past the thin wall of her virginity, as he’d swallowed her scream with his punishing mouth. Eleanor held up a staying hand, as he continued coming. “Stop,” she commanded.

  And surprisingly, he did. He continued to eye her in that predatory way that made her body run cold.

  Silent screams echoed around her riotous memories; the taste of his leather glove as she’d bit on the hand he’d placed over her mouth, suffocating from the weight of it, praying for the bliss of unconsciousness and, ultimately, so many prayers failed that night.

  Fear tightened about her heart, as with his taunting words and punishing shame, she was transported back to another time and she stood quaking before him the same scared girl she’d been. The marquess stood with a sly half-grin that snapped her from her private hell. “We shared nothing, my lord.” Nothing like the pure love she’d known with Marcus. “Why don’t we set aside false pleasantries and have you say whatever it is you would say,” she spat.

  “Tsk, tsk,” he whispered, taking another step closer. He looked meaningfully past her shoulder. “We shared something very special.” Please, no. I beg you… “You have a lovely daughter.”

  Her heart ceased beating and then picked up a hard, frantic pounding. What manner of game did he play with her where he’d use Marcia as his human pawn? Eleanor willed herself to calm. A man who’d thrilled in the struggles of a resisting young lady would only relish any hint of her weakness. “I have tired of your veiled threats.” Eleanor tipped her chin up, finding courage and strength in the truth Marcus had awakened her to. Since that long ago night, she’d blamed herself, and yet it was this cad before her now to blame. He had stolen from her a gift he’d no right to. And she would not allow this cad another victory over her. He’d already claimed too many. “I would have you say what has brought you here and then be gone. My aunt, the duchess, will not welcome your being here.” And for the secrets she’d kept from her aunt through the years, Eleanor had no doubt that if she revealed all to the duchess, the woman would singlehandedly see to the marquess’ ruin.

  He stalked toward her. “Will she be so forgiving of you if she were to discover you gave yourself to me in Lady Wedermore’s gardens?”

  An unholy bloodlust filled her veins. Eleanor flew the remaining distance between them and cracked him across the face with such ferocity his head whipped back. The satisfying echo of flesh meeting flesh bounced from the plastered walls. Her palm stung from the force of the blow she’d dealt him and she welcomed the throbbing that only fueled her fury. The marquess palmed his cheek and then peered at her through thickly veiled eyes. “I gave you nothing,” she seethed.

  Undeterred, the marquess peeled his lip back in a snarl. “But then, isn’t that what you do, Eleanor? You meet men in the gardens? Me. Wessex. Tell me, how many others have there been? Hmm?” He waggled his chestnut eyebrows. “Do you not think the viscount will not see the similarities there?”

  Uncertainty blossomed inside her chest. All the old insecurities about her self-worth, her ability to love and be loved, floated to the surface. People saw what was easiest to see. A young widow. A respectable mother. A whore who met her lovers. As soon as the fears slipped in, she thrust them back. She’d not doubt Marcus.

  And certainly not because of this devil’s attempt at weakening her.

  “The viscount is good and honorable. Everything you are not. He will see the truth.” Her voice rang with conviction. She thrust a finger toward the door. “Now, get out,” she commanded.

  He shot a hand around her wrist, squeezing the more delicate flesh in a punishing grip that flooded her eyes with tears.

  “I warned you away from Wessex.”

  Her heart stopped as she recalled his warning at her aunt’s ball. At that time she’d thought his was nothing more than another grasp at controlling her. The determined glint in his eyes spoke of a different tale. One that she’d not indulge with questions. “My relationship with the viscount is no matter to you,” she spat. A healthy fury coursed through her, invigorating and healing. “You would make something torrid of what I share with Lord Wessex, but you are evil.” She wrenched free of his grip. “I will not allow you to interfere in my relationship with the viscount.” Not again. As it was, this monster had wrestled eight years from her and Marcus. “You represent ugliness and filth, and I’d gladly see you in hell.” She again motioned to the door. “As it is, I will have to settle for showing you to the bloody door.”

  Her breath came hard and fast with the healthy triumph of standing tall in his presence. All these years, she’d built him up as a larger than life monster, inhuman and invincible for it. The mark of her palm on his cheek still and the fury lighting his eyes showed a very human figure…and weak humans such as he were capable of a great fall.

  Before she could move, Lord Atbrooke grabbed her hand and crushed it all the harder. “Let me be clear, Mrs. Collins. I am not asking you to stay away from Wessex. I am telling you.” At his punishing grip, tears popped up behind her lids. “The viscount has intentions toward my sister.”

  Eleanor blinked through the pain of his hold. “Toward your sister?” she repeated dumbly. Is that what this man believed? “How could he possibly have any intentions for Lady Marianne?” she drew those words out relishing that truth. “He’s already offered for me.”

  Shock etched his face and he loosened his grip. Taking advantage of his fleeting distraction, Eleanor jerked free and danced away from him. One scream would send a servant rushing, and then what a scandal that would be. For her, for Marcia. For the beloved aunt who’d taken them in. She’d not allow this man that triumph, as well. “Offered for you?” he repeated blankly. “But my sister—”

  “Is a foul, scheming, fortune hunter that Lord Wessex is too clever to turn his future over to,” she cut in.

  A flush mottled his cheeks. “He would have married her…until you arrived, Mrs. Collins. I have seen the way he looks at her.”

  The marquess’ charges landed like a well-placed arrow in her heart. For the gossip columns had not lied in their linking Marcus’ name to Lady Marianne, and if Eleanor had not returned, she’d no doubt the young beauty would have ultimately seduced the rogue he’d been in Eleanor’s absence. And yet… “But I did arrive,” she tossed back those jeering words finding some solace in the truth.

  Lord Atbrooke growled and she retreated another step, placing the ivory upholstered sofa between them.

  “And he knows the truth of what you did.”

  He snapped his eyebrows into a single, menacing line.

  “If you think he’ll toss me over for the crimes only you are guilty of, then you are wrong.”

  The marquess looked at her for a long moment and then chuckled. “Why, I am not so very foolish to believe Wessex wouldn’t have you at any cost.” His chest shook with the force of his laughter. “That gent has been itching to get between your legs since he was a boy.”

  Her body burned hot with words that would turn Marcus’ love and attentions into something vile and ugly. Then, should she expect anything more from a man who’d violate an innocent woman?

  In a fluidly elegant move, he folded his arms before him, once more at ease. She gritted her teeth at that remarkable composure. “But you have already proven yourself able to leave him once and I’ve no doubt you will do it again.” Will. Not would.

  Eleanor gripped the edges of her skirt, wrinkling the fabric. “I will not.” Not again. She could no sooner leave Marcus again than she could cut out her own heart.

  “Not even for your daughter’s sake?”

  She stilled.

  “Ah, I see I have your attention now.”

  And he did. God help her, just like that, with the mere mention of her daughter he’d reclaimed ownership of this meeting.

  “Tell me, how will Society feel about a fickle young woman who seduced me, stole my heart, and then made off with my child, only to foist that bastard off on a war soldier?” He tossed his head back and laughed. “Then,
isn’t that what makes this all so delicious? Why, when searching turns up that there never was a Mr. Collins and you lied…” It would only cast aspersions upon her character.

  His threat sucked the air from the room. Eleanor remained unmoving and he may as well have run her through with a dull rapier. Her entire body jerked from the shock and pain of his dangled threat. She shook her head furiously. “You would not…”

  “I would,” he said, flicking an imagined piece of lint from his sapphire coat sleeve. “Quite happily. The ton would find tales of a merchant’s daughter who gave herself to me years ago and left with my heart when she found I had no wealth to my name quite scintillating, no? More so when that schemer returned and seduced the plump in the pockets viscount.” He grinned that evil, empty smile. “Of course, you could not have simply married the viscount all those years ago when you were carrying my bastard, but now you returned to work your wiles.” She recoiled. “Why, imagine the scandal.” He tapped a finger against the side of his mouth. “Well, I expect Society will applaud me for taking my daughter back from such a woman.”

  Eleanor bit the inside of her cheek so hard she drew blood and the metallic taste of it nearly gagged her. “She is not your d-daughter,” she said, weakly.

  The marquess’ renewed laughter indicated he’d detected that pregnant pause. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. But the Hamilton birthmark is a quite interesting piece to the girl’s paternal puzzle.” He quirked a dark brown eyebrow.

  The same man who’d stolen her innocence would so easily shatter the carefully constructed world she’d built for her…for Marcia—for the two of them together. All the dreams breathed into possibility two evenings prior, flickered like the spark of a candle and then went out. Eleanor would sacrifice everything and anything to be with Marcus—everything, except her daughter. “What do you want?” she whispered.