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

by Christi Caldwell

  “I was merely thinking,” he substituted.

  “What is that?” She motioned to the official page in his hands and he followed her stare.

  “It is a surprise for your mama.” He tweaked her nose.

  She brightened. “Splendid.” Then her smile dipped and she scuffed the tip of her slipper on the marble floor. “My mama is angry and I worried for a moment that you were both angry.” She paused and probed him with her older-than-her-years eyes. “With one another. You are not angry with each other, then, are you?”

  “Never,” he said so quickly, her little shoulders sagged.

  “Thank goodness.” A beleaguered sigh left the little girl’s lips. “It must be just me that Mama is cross with and she is never cross with me.”

  Marcus shifted and settled onto the marble stair beside Eleanor’s daughter. “I daresay your mama could never be cross with you.”

  “She was today,” she replied automatically. Marcia stole a glance around and then scooted closer to him on the step. “She squeezed my shoulders and then yelled at me.”

  He puzzled his brow. That did not sound at all like the manner of mother he’d come to know Eleanor as. She’d demonstrated patience and love toward this child who’d also ensnared Marcus’ heart. Only concern or some shockingly disobedient act on the little girl’s part could result in a crack in Eleanor’s composure. “Did she?” he asked deliberately.

  “Well, not yelled at me,” Marcia mumbled and dropped her eyes to the marble floor. She swung her gaze swiftly back to his. “But she was angry and she would not allow me to meet her friend.”

  Those last two words gave him pause. Marcus knew everything from the smell of Eleanor’s skin to her unease in polite Society. Not once had she mentioned, however, a friend. “Her friend?” he urged.

  Not taking her chin from her hands, her daughter gave an awkward nod. “He was very nice and he said he was a very good friend of Mama’s.” He. Unease churned in his gut. “But Mama was not at all nice to him,” she went on. “Not the way she is nice to you.”

  “What was his name?” he asked, infusing a calm into those four words when inside the disquiet redoubled in his chest.

  “The Marquess of Atbrooke.” She tapped the tip of her finger against her lip contemplatively. “Though he did not allow me to use his first name the way you do.”

  “Atbrooke,” he repeated, dazed from that unwitting revelation. Surely not. Horror unfurled slowly inside him. It lapped at his consciousness and robbed him of thought. Surely it hadn’t been Lady Marianne’s brother who’d raped Eleanor and gotten a child on her. This child.

  Marcia lifted an excited gaze to his. “And he even had a birthmark on his wrist, like mine.” She turned her hand up for his perusal.

  Oh, God. Marcus’ eyes went to that crescent moon-shaped brown mark at the inset of her wrist. All the while, a dull humming filled his ears.

  “Lord Wessex.”

  The pair on the steps looked up as one. Thomas stood there. “Mrs. Collins will see you.”

  Marriage license in hand, he shoved to his feet, and then held his other hand out to Marcia, who trustingly placed her fingers in his. “You should return to your lessons,” he said softly.

  She sighed. “Yes. Mrs. Plunkett will be looking for me.”

  Marcus watched as the girl made the slow climb abovestairs and then fell into step behind the butler. With each step, Marcus struggled to rein in the volatile rage coursing through him. He wanted to toss his head back and rail like a beast. He wanted to stalk from the townhouse, hunt down Atbrooke and shred him to pieces so that no remnants remained of the bastard who’d pinned Eleanor to the ground and taken the gift of her innocence.

  Thomas stopped outside the White Parlor and announced him. “The Viscount Wessex.”

  Eleanor stood at the empty hearth, staring down into the metal grate. At the introduction, she turned slowly to face him. “Marcus,” she said softly, pulling the brown leather book in her arms close.

  He took in the ashen hue of her skin, the tight lines drawn at the corner of her mouth, and he knew. A heavy weight settled on his chest, like a boulder cutting off his airflow and slowly destroying him. She did not intend to wed him. He saw it in her empty eyes and the trembling fingers now plucking at her skirts. “Eleanor,” he murmured and closed the door behind them.

  She stared at him with sad, guarded eyes, but said nothing.

  He strode toward her, when she spoke without preamble. “I cannot marry you.”

  Marcus staggered to a halt. “Why?” he braced for the same veiled, vague lies she’d fed him in the form of a handwritten note years earlier.

  Her soft, shuddery breath filled the tense quiet. “Because I was foolish to believe my past did not matter. I deluded myself into believing I might never again see him and that Marcia would be safe.” She dropped her gaze to the book in her hands. “Of course it matters. It always will.”

  Like navigating on a pit of quicksand, where one wrong move would mean ruin, he picked carefully about his thoughts. “It matters,” he said at last and that brought Eleanor’s head snapping up.

  Her lower lip trembled. “I—”

  Marcus closed the space between them in four long strides. “It matters, but not in the way you believe, or in the way you even now are thinking I mean, Eleanor Elaine. It matters because of the wrong done you. It matters that you were robbed of choice and right, and that another’s will was imposed on you.” Emotion roughed his voice. Gently disentangling the book from her tight-knuckled grip, he tucked the folded document inside, and set the volume down on a nearby side table forgotten. “Tell me why.” Because he needed the words to come from her, as much as she needed those words spoken.

  When Eleanor had been a girl of ten, her father had taught her an American game of Hide and Go Seek shared with him by a fellow merchant. The first time he’d taught her, she’d raced to the spot of safety with her quick, agile father close at her heels. Her chest had burned with the exertions until it had been nearly impossible to draw breath.

  Eleanor pressed her eyes closed and her chest rose and fell hard and fast. This moment felt remarkably like that long ago day. Since the Marquess of Atbrooke had upended her world for a second, irrevocable time, she’d been the same scared girl trying to muddle through his threats and the inevitable parting it would mean for her and Marcus. Staring at Marcus now, with palpable rage pouring from his tautly held frame, she’d little doubt that he knew the reason. And even knowing as he did, he’d hear the words and truth from her.

  “Eleanor,” he urged with a gentle insistence.

  A broken sigh slipped past her lips and she strode over to the window, putting much needed distance between Marcus and the dream she’d been so very close to attaining. And for that, she could no longer remain. “After I had been…after that night in Lady Wedermore’s gardens,” she substituted, for she was still too much a coward to lend words to that night. “There would be days I awoke in the morning. With the cloud of sleep, I would believe myself back in London and smile, filled with excitement of again seeing you.” She pressed her forehead against the crystal windowpane warmed by the sun’s rays. Marcus’ visage reflected back in the surface and she turned her gaze to the busy streets below. “But then, something would creep in. It would begin with a niggling in my mind, something prodding me, reminding me that my world was no longer the same, and then it all would come rushing back.”

  She turned to face him. “The other night in the theatre, Marcus. That was my moment of waking with forgetfulness.” Eleanor offered him a quivering smile. “Today was the awakening. The reminder that no matter how much we wish it, or how much we will it, the past remains.”

  “What are you saying?” There was a gruffness in his tone.

  Emotion wadded in her throat. “I cannot marry you,” she whispered. If there was no Marcia, then she could face the scandal and gossip. Not now. Not with her daughter being the person who would suffer most. Once again, Atbrooke h
ad stolen the happiness she’d imagined for herself and Marcus.

  Tense silence thrummed between them. His gaze grew shuttered, but not before she saw the flash of rage and hatred.

  Eleanor winced as those sentiments from their reunion in the London street not even a fortnight earlier flared to life, and a sliver of her soul died at the palpable sign of his apathy.

  “Who?” he asked quietly.

  She tipped her head. Of all the vitriolic words spilling from his lips, the last she’d expected was—

  “Tell me, who are you afraid of?”

  His knowing question sucked the breath from her lungs. The need to turn this burden over to him gripped her with a physical intensity and yet to do so would endanger the person whose very life meant more to Eleanor than her own. “I cannot.”

  He firmed his jaw. “You will not, Eleanor. Those are two entirely different things.”

  “What would you have me say?” she cried softly.

  “The truth.” How very easy Marcus made it sound. She dropped her eyes to his cravat. How very simple and enticing and right, in giving him the answers to the questions he both craved and deserved. One faulty misstep, however, could threaten Marcia’s security and happiness. She chewed at her lower lip.

  “Was it Atbrooke?” His quietly spoken question brought her head shooting up.

  How very surreal to have this man she loved utter the name of her attacker. It let Marcus into her world in ways she’d fought so hard to keep him out.

  “He called on me.” Did that faint whisper belong to her?

  Marcus’ body jerked erect.

  Of course, he’d not know how to make sense of that admission. Unable to meet his gaze, she glanced at the tips of her slippers. “The gentleman who…” Her throat worked spasmodically. “The…”

  Her words trailed off as Marcus closed the space between them. With a tenderness that threatened to shatter her already fractured heart, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Had he been demanding or inquiring, she’d not have found the courage to continue. There was, however, strength to be had in his patience. When so much had been forced upon her, Marcus once more offered her choice, and there was something heady and beautiful in that power he turned over to her care. “I will have your word. I will have your word when I tell you, you’ll not call him out, because I would share this with you.” She spoke on a rush. “But I’ll not share it if you intend to face him at dawn.”

  For a long moment, Marcus remained silent. The grating ormolu clock ticked on so long she thought he’d ignore her request, but then a black curse burst from his lips. “You have my promise,” he gritted out.

  “It was the Marquess of Atbrooke.” Her voice caught, under the weight of the mysteries she’d not herself known all these years until just a few short moments ago; about the man who’d raped her, and fathered her child. She buried her face in her hands and sucked in great big breaths at the freedom in sharing this with Marcus.

  Marcus drew her against his chest and she buried her face in the fabric of his coat. The sandalwood scent clinging to him wafted about her senses and drove back the stench of brandy and evil. She turned her cheek against the white lawn of his shirt and absorbed his strength. “He has promised to allow me my,” daughter “secret, if I leave.”

  Incredulity spilled from his tone. “And you trust him?”

  For how could a dastard like the marquess ever be trusted to honor any pledges or promises he’d made? Eleanor curled her hands into tight balls. Ultimately, it was not her own future or security she wagered with, but rather Marcia’s. And for that, the decision had been made for her. “No.” She shook her head. “But it is no longer just my happiness I have to worry after.”

  He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “You are not alone. I will stand by you.”

  “And what of your sister?” she countered, taking a hasty step away. At his silence, she continued, relentless. “What match will she make when my past is revealed and Society learns there was never a Mr. Collins and Marcia is no more of legitimate parentage than I am a lady born and bred?”

  Marcus captured her hands in his and turned them over. He raised them to his lips, one at a time. “So you will run, again, to protect my sister and Marcia? But who will protect you?”

  Her heart skittered a beat. “We are not—”

  He growled. “If you say you are not my responsibility—”

  “He wants me gone.” She hesitated, recalling the marquess’ intentions for Marcus. “Lord Atbrooke would have you marry his sister.” She brushed an errant strand of hair from his forehead. “I have to leave, Marcus.”

  “I’ll have no one as my wife, except you, Eleanor Elaine.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his right eye. He worked his powerful gaze over her face, as though he sought to imprint all of her upon his memory. “And I know you feel you must leave,” he said quietly, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “Oh, Eleanor, I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you eight years ago. I will want you until the day I draw my last breath.”

  His words spoke to their parting and should fill her with a warm solace. He understood her need to leave and loved her still. Yet…agony shredded the already broken and bruised organ that was her heart. For the greedy, selfish part of her wanted him to want her to remain, regardless. She wanted him snapping and snarling at the prospect of her parting. What a horrible, contrary creature she was. Shamed by her own selfishness, Eleanor willed her lips up into a smile, and then held her hand out.

  He eyed her outstretched fingers. “What the hell is that?”

  She looked about and then followed his gaze to her trembling hand. “As it is goodbye,” again. Oh, God, how can I leave him? How, when he is the other half of my heart? “I am shaking your hand.”

  Marcus captured her fingers and drew them close to his mouth. He placed a lingering kiss upon her hand. “Is that what you believe?” His breath caressed her skin and shivers of warmth radiated from the point of contact and spiraled rapidly through her being. “That this is goodbye?”

  “Isn’t it?” she managed on a faint whisper.

  He trailed his thumb over her palm. “You misunderstand me. I am saying goodbye to you for now. But I am coming for you. I will deal with Atbrooke and we will be free of him, and then you, Marcia, and I can be together.” He pierced her with his gaze. “And not even God Himself with an army of angels at his side could separate us.”

  She gasped and Marcus kissed her hand once more. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlor and out of her life.

  Chapter 21

  Panicky rage lent jerkiness to Marcus’ movements. If he’d not left Eleanor when he did, the fury pounding away at his chest would have exploded from him. She’d entrusted him with the truth, the least he could give her was a calming response. So he pounded away at the unfamiliar front door.

  Except, with the much-needed space between them, a torrent of emotions whirred inside him so that madness and sanity waged a war within. For now, he had the name from Eleanor’s lips, which had confirmed the truth he’d already suspected. He growled and pounded all the harder. He had a goddamn name and she’d expect him to not kill the black-hearted cad at dawn for the crimes he was guilty of?

  He renewed his knocking, uncaring of the sea of passersby taking in his frenetic movements, uncaring that with his unkempt hair, the world now saw a man hanging off a cliff with nothing more than his nails and if he let go he would be forever destroyed. Marcus let fly a black curse and pounded once more. “Goddamn bloody—”

  The door opened. An old, wizened butler stood peering at him through rheumy eyes. “May I help you?”

  Marcus fished around the front of his jacket and withdrew a card. “Lord Wessex to see the Marquess of Rutland.”

  The old servant eyed the card a moment and then accepted it in his gnarled, white-gloved fingers. He peered down at the name and seal emblazoned upon that card. “His Lordship is not—”

  Marcus stuck his foot in
the doorway and willed the other man to see with the ferocity of his stare that he was not leaving. “I would see Lord Rutland immediately.”

  The servant hesitated a long while, and with a sigh, he moved aside and motioned him forward.

  Lest the man change his mind, Marcus strode into the soaring foyer, dimly registering a lavish opulence to the home of one of the darkest, most feared, reviled, and scandalous lords in the realm. He’d not known what he’d expected; crimson fabrics and shocking murals, perhaps. But certainly not the innocent cherubs dancing in clouds of pastel overhead.

  “I cannot promise His Lordship will receive you.” The older man’s reluctant tones spoke volumes.

  Marcus gave a tight nod and waited as the servant shuffled off. By the devil and all his spawn, Rutland would see him. He’d take apart each goddamn room until the evil bastard granted him an audience and gave Marcus the only gift he needed.

  As the moments ticked by, he yanked out his watchfob and consulted the timepiece. With a growl of annoyance, he stuffed it back into his pocket.

  “His Lordship will see you.”

  Marcus spun about and found the servant studying him. With a gruff murmur of thanks, he fell into step behind the ancient servant. The man moved with slow, shuffling footsteps. With the marquess’ notoriously ruthless reputation, Marcus puzzled that he would keep a man who was anything but quick in his employ still. The inanity of that musing kept him from focusing on the thirst for Atbrooke’s blood.

  “Here we are,” the servant said with a slight wheeze. He pulled out a crisp white kerchief and dusted his brow. The man opened the door. “The Viscount Wessex to see you, my lord.”

  Marcus did a sweep of the room and his gaze landed on the marquess. Seated behind a broad, immaculate, mahogany desk, the man with his head bent over a ledger evinced power. “You may go,” he said, not taking his gaze from his task.