“La,” she pouted and flicked his sleeve. “Surely you can spare a moment for me.”
The butler discreetly dropped his gaze and a shudder of revulsion went through Marcus.
“I am here on a matter of importance,” he said curtly.
She flared her cat-like eyes and triumph glittered within their cold depths. “A matter of importance, do you say?” she breathed. With no regard for the servant at their side, the lady layered herself to him, and rubbed her breasts against his chest. “You will not be regretful in your decision, my lord. I promise you that.”
“Indeed, I won’t.” Then disentangling himself from Atbrooke’s sister, Marcus followed along after the butler.
They came to a stop outside the marquess’ office door and Marcus curled his hands, staring at the wood panel, wanting to take the door down with his fingers and choke the life from him.
The servant pulled the door open and announced him.
Atbrooke stood at the center of the room, a wide grin on his small lips. “Wessex, a pleasure,” he boomed, waving him in as his servant took his leave. “I suspect what has brought you here.” The man’s mouth moved as he spoke but Marcus remained frozen, rooted to the floor, staring at that mouth, torturing himself with the hell of imagining those lips on Eleanor’s, silencing her cries. “Would you care to sit?”
The marquess’ words came as though down a long, empty corridor. Marcus strode across the room and, without breaking stride, buried his fist in the other man’s face knocking him on his arse. He relished the crack as he shattered Atbrooke’s nose and the warmth of his blood cascading over his fingers as Atbrooke wailed.
“Wessex, by God—”
Marcus hauled him up by his lapels and, for good measure, planted him another facer that sent his head reeling. He jerked the other man to his feet and dragged him to his face. “If I did not give my word to not kill you, Atbrooke,” he seethed. Then with a violent bloodlust raging inside, he clasped his hands around the man’s throat and strangled off airflow. The man’s face turned a splotched red, and shades of blue and purple. God help him, Marcus wanted to kill the man. His breath came hard and fast. He wanted to end this bastard’s right to live. He released him suddenly and Atbrooke collapsed to the floor gasping for breath. “I would see you gladly at dawn and end your miserable, worthless life for what you did.” He leveled his fist into the man’s stomach and a sharp, guttural groan split Atbrooke’s cracked and swollen lips. “And I promise you, if you threaten my family again,” For that is what Eleanor and Marcia were. “Then I will finish what I started this day.” Chest heaving from his exertions, Marcus stared at the man’s prone form.
Yet, with the bastard’s blood staining his fingers and the piteous moans spilling from his lips, there was no sense of satisfaction. There was no vindication or triumph. For nothing could right the wrongs done eight years earlier.
Atbrooke struggled to push himself onto his arse. “Sh-she wanted it.”
Marcus buried the tip of his boot in the man’s groin, relishing the high-pitched squeal as Atbrooke writhed and twisted on the floor. He waited until the man quieted and then leaned down, shoving his face into the bruised and battered visage of Eleanor’s attacker. “You are not to go near Eleanor Collins or her daughter. If you so much as utter their names, I will make this morning appear a pleasant social call for what I’d do to you.”
Atbrooke continued to shudder and gasp, all the while glaring up at Marcus. “I have a right to the lady.”
By God, the man was relentless. No wonder Eleanor would rush off with her daughter to be rid of the man’s threats. He jammed his heel into Atbrooke’s soft belly and the air left him on a hiss. His breath coming fast, Marcus yanked the ivory sheet given him by Rutland and stuck it in Atbrooke’s face.
The man’s eyes went wide. “What is that?” he rasped.
Pasting a hard, unforgiving smile on his lips, Marcus elucidated. “It is your debt, Atbrooke, transferred from Lord Rutland to myself. I own you and I will see you in Marshalsea.” The color leeched from the marquess’ flushed cheeks and Marcus relished the tangible sight of his terror; the trembling lips, the chattering teeth. “You will end up in a cell with other worthless bastards like yourself, feeding with the rats, and pleading with your gaolers.”
Atbrooke clasped his hands to his throat. “You cannot.”
He widened his smile. “I can and I will. Or….” he paused, allowing that word to linger. “Or you can leave. You can take yourself off and get the hell out of England. If you ever return, I will meet you at dawn and I will gladly end you.” There were, after all, other ways to ruin a man that went beyond the polite pistols at dawn Eleanor worried over. “Are we clear?” he infused a lethal edge to that whisper and earned a juddering nod.
Tears streamed down the cowardly bastard’s cheeks. “But where will I go?”
“I don’t give a goddamn where you go.” Marcus spat on the marquess’ boots and then stuffed the vowels back into his jacket front. “You have until tomorrow morning, and if you are not gone, I will see your debts called in. I will sully your name with the truth of who you are so not a single desperate mama would ever accept you now or ever. Are we clear?”
“A-abundantly,” the marquess slurred, his lower lip trembling.
Without a backward glance, Marcus turned and marched out of the room. He strode down the hall, as rage spiraled through him.
“Lord Wessex.”
He cursed as Lady Marianne stepped into his path, a saucy grin on her crimson lips. She ran her long fingers down the lapel of his jacket. “I take it you’ve spoken to my brother.”
Marcus stiffened. “I did.”
She leaned up on tiptoe and he turned his head so that her kiss grazed his cheek.
A husky laugh bubbled from her lips. “Come, we are permitted certain liberties now that we’re betrothed.”
He choked. “You misunderstand,” he retreated, putting distance between the grasping lady and himself. By two dances more than three weeks ago, she had ascribed more meaning to his intentions…but then, if Eleanor had not reappeared, I would have pursued more with this lady. I would have found myself a member of this nest of vipers. Bile stung his throat as he imagined calling Eleanor’s rapist, brother-in-law. “I am marrying Mrs. Collins.”
That admission wrung a shocked gasp from the young woman. Disbelief flitted across her face and she at last looked to his bloodstained hands. Atbrooke’s sister shook her head in a befuddled manner and then quickly yanked her gaze up to his. “Marrying her?” she squawked. “But I thought…” She veiled her lashes and drifted close. “Why would you marry her, when I can bring you so much pleasure?” Lady Marianne layered her palms against his chest. “More than you ever knew possible,” she promised, wrapping her tone in a sultry, seductive whisper.
He disentangled her hands from his person. “I am sorry you believed there was more there, my lady, but my heart is otherwise engaged.”
All warmth extinguished from her brown eyes. Fury glinted hard in the gold flecks, and the icy glare transformed her into a thing of ugliness. “She is a poor widow with nothing to offer you. Allow me to give you babes of noble birthright, and she can be your bit on the side.”
His lips pulled back in a grimace of loathing for this grasping woman who was too much a fool to see that Eleanor, with her courage and strength, was far nobler and of more honor than all the peerage combined. “She can offer me her heart and that is all I require,” he said quietly. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Her cry echoed off the walls. “I made friends with your pathetic sister,” she hissed. “I was her friend when no one else gave a jot about her because of you.”
He balled his hands. His innocent, friendless sister would know hurt at this woman’s treachery. How many members of the Hamilton family had brought pain to those he loved? At last, however, they would be free of their evil. In time, Lizzie would come to know that.
Marcus continued walking, with the lady sp
ewing vitriolic curses in his wake, away from this house of ugliness and toward his future.
Chapter 23
Knuckles bruised, sore, and swollen from the beating he’d dealt the Marquess of Atbrooke, Marcus carefully lifted his hand and rapped on the front door of the Duchess of Devonshire’s door. His other hand lay at his side, clasping two branches; meager offerings, but ones he’d no doubt she would prefer above all others. He clasped his hands at his back and waited.
That had always been the manner of woman Eleanor had been. She’d never craved pretty compliments and fancy baubles the way the Marianne Hamiltons of Society had. Rather, she’d been content with the simplistic beauty to be found in the world around them.
Marcus pounded again at the door. And waited. He frowned. And continued waiting. What in blazes? With a quiet curse, he lifted his hand and knocked once more, ignoring the pain that radiated from his bruised knuckles.
Just then, the butler pulled the door open, and for the hell that had been that entire day, a smile split his lips. “My lord,” he greeted, dropping his gaze to the ground. He motioned Marcus inside.
Marcus did a sweep of the foyer, seeking out the mischievous little girl so often hiding from her nursemaid. Disappointment filled him at finding Marcia absent. “I am here to see Mrs. Collins,” he said while reaching for the fastening of his cloak.
His fingers froze involuntarily at the red color that filled the servant’s cheeks. A niggling of unease pitted in Marcus’ belly as this moment, merged with a long ago day.
“That will be all, Thomas.”
Marcus whipped his gaze up and found the duchess at the top of the stairs. With the aid of her cane, she started slowly down. Her dogs raced ahead and danced excitedly about Marcus’ feet. “Your Grace,” he offered belatedly, dropping a bow.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waved off the pleasantries. “You are too late, my boy. She is gone.”
The ground shifted under his feet and his stomach lurched. “Gone?” The inquiry ripped from him.
Too late.
“Left but an hour ago.” The duchess reached into the pocket sewn along the front of her silver satin dress and extracted a note. “She asked I give you this.”
Another note.
He stared dazed at that folded sheet; the unerring similarities sucking all logical thought and filling him with a cold emptiness. The branches slipped from his fingers and sailed to the floor. Wordlessly, Marcus took the page. He unfolded it, knowing even as he did what would meet his eyes.
Years ago, upon discovering Eleanor’s betrayal, those words hastily written on a page, Marcus had believed that more words from the lady would have wounded less. Staring at them now, with her delicate, slashing strokes filling the page, he now realized—nothing would have ever dulled that pain. In her leaving, the same vicious agony of loss slashed through him.
Marcus crushed the page in his hands. This time, she’d given him a goodbye, but he’d foolishly convinced himself he had more than a handful of hours. Once again, she’d left.
But by God, she didn’t get to leave this time without him having a say in their future.
The Duchess of Devonshire’s black barouche hit another hole in the old Roman Road and tossed Eleanor against the side of the carriage. The book given her by Aunt Dorothea tumbled to the carriage floor and lay forgotten. Eleanor steadied herself and then flung her arm around Marcia’s shoulders. They’d been traveling for more than an hour now and, with each mile passed, put London further and further away. The agony of again leaving him did not go away.
Instead, she sat huddled in the corner of her aunt’s barouche hating herself now, just as much as she’d hated herself eight years ago. She hated herself for running, again. She hated that she’d allowed herself to be a victim of the Marquess of Atbrooke’s scheming machinations. If it was only herself who’d be affected by Atbrooke’s threats, then she’d gladly face the devil at dawn. She’d been shamed in the most horrific ways a woman could be denigrated. And yet, there was, this time, others to consider; beyond even just Marcus. Now there was Marcia.
“I do not understand why we had to leave so quickly,” Marcia groused, favoring Eleanor with an accusatory glare.
No, she would not. Not for many long years would she gather the details that had sent them fleeing. And in the absence of any suitable words that would mollify her daughter, she asked, “Don’t you miss Cornwall?”
Marcia wiggled out from under her arm and scooted to the opposite bench. “No, I did not miss Cornwall.” Her saucer-wide eyes glimmered with anger. The show of anything other than Marcia’s usual cheer and joy gutted her. “I loved London and I loved Aunt Dorothea and I loved M-Marcus.”
Another piece of her heart broke off. “Oh, love,” she soothed, reaching across the carriage, but her daughter slapped her hand away.
“Weren’t you happy?” Marcia cried and the tears that welled in her expressive eyes cleaved Eleanor’s heart.
“Of course I was happy,” she said softly. And she had been. But it had never been about London or the bustling activity of the city or the grand opulence of her aunt’s lavish townhouse. It had always been about him. Her throat worked painfully. She’d been happy in ways she’d believed herself incapable. Marcus had once said, after Lionel’s murder she had taught him to smile and laugh again. Yet the truth was, he had taught her to smile. He’d reminded her of her own self-worth and, through that, she’d laid some of the demons of her past to rest. “We have to go home, Marcia. It is time.”
“Why?” Marcia cried and that desperate entreaty bounced off the carriage walls.
Eleanor claimed her daughter’s hands and gripped them tighter when she fought to tug them back. “I love Aunt Dorothea and I love Marcus,” she said, giving Marcia the truth that she deserved.
The anger went out of her little frame. “You do?” she whispered reverently, but then an angry scowl marred her features. “If you love him, then why did we leave? Why can he not be my papa?” Her lower lip quivered. “Did he not want to be my papa?”
Oh, God. Her heart breaking all over again, Eleanor plucked her daughter from the bench and pulled the girl onto her lap. She brushed a flyaway blonde curl behind her ear and struggled to speak past the pain of regret. “Marcus would have liked that very much, poppet.” Eleanor hugged her close, selfishly taking the warmth in her daughter’s small frame. “And someday, when you are older, I will explain it all in a way that makes sense.” Even as it would never be solace or comfort.
Marcia wiggled away and took Eleanor’s face between her hands. “Will we return?”
How insistent Marcus had been in thinking they would again meet, but just as Eleanor hadn’t deluded herself then, neither would she hold a foolish optimism now. It was as her aunt said; Marcus would wed another and they would each live their lives with a regret for what might have been.
“Mama?” her daughter prodded, tugging at her hand.
“Someday.” Never. How many fabricated truths was her daughter’s existence based on?
Marcia leaned close and peered into Eleanor’s eyes, as though sensing a lie and seeking the truth. The carriage hit another jarring bump in the road and Eleanor tightened her grip on Marcia, hugging her close. “Mama,” her daughter grumbled against her chest. “You are squishing me.”
Tears welled in Eleanor’s eyes at the eerie similarity to her arrival in London almost three weeks ago. “Well,” she said, her voice hoarsened with emotion. “It is because you are ever so squishable.”
Only this time, there was no giggle. Her daughter jutted her chin at a mutinous angle and glowered all the more. “All we do is hide. We have no friends. We have no f-family. You just keep us locked away from the world. And I like the world, Mama,” her daughter spoke with a strident plea. “But you are afraid. Afraid of everything.” With each word uttered, she slammed her hand against her opposite palm. “Going to the park, and talking to kind strangers, and having fun, and I hate it.” Then, in a sho
w of defiance, she shoved off Eleanor’s lap and scooted over to her seat. “I am tired of hiding from the world.” Turning her face away, Marcia directed her gaze out at the passing countryside.
Those stinging condemnations buffeted around the carriage and sucked the air from Eleanor’s lungs. With her intuitive words, Marcia saw more than Eleanor had in eight long years—perhaps in the whole of her life. She gripped the edge of the bench.
Forced to look at her pitiable existence through a child’s eyes, Eleanor saw a woman who was running. She stared blankly at the opposite wall. She’d been running for so long that she’d forgotten what it meant to stay or how to find the courage to even do so. With Atbrooke’s threat against Marcia, Eleanor had thought of nothing but escape.
Except, with her mind still ringing from her daughter’s accusations and her aunt’s disappointed charges, Eleanor truly looked at herself. The person she was and the manner she lived her life served as an example for Marcia.
What meaningful lesson had she really given her daughter in hiding from the world? And worse, what lesson would she teach Marcia if she ran from Atbrooke’s threats?
I cannot leave.
The marquess might make good on his threats or he might not. But Eleanor was not alone. There was Marcus, and her aunt, and Marcia. With them at her side, Eleanor could face the threats and hold her head with pride. That was the lesson she would give her daughter.
Scrambling onto the edge of her seat, Eleanor shot a hand up and knocked hard on the ceiling.
“Ma—?”
“Woah.” The driver’s thunderous shout ripped through Marcia’s inquiry and Eleanor pitched wildly against the carriage. Her daughter’s cry peeled off the walls as the barouche lurched, swayed, and then settled into an abrupt halt.
The forgotten book on the floor slid atop Eleanor’s feet. Silence thundered, punctuated by the rapid beat of her heart.
Marcia broke the quiet, giving a tug at Eleanor’s hand. “What happened?”
A Heart of a Duke Regency Collection : Volume 2--A Regency Bundle Page 28
