To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(27)

With a glass of whiskey in hand, Marcus made his way through the empty corridors of his townhouse. The gold sconces lining the wall were lit intermittently, casting a shadowy glow off the satin wallpaper.

He came to a stop at the back of the townhouse and stared at the thick oak door between him and the outside gardens. He’d not entered this portion of the house in years. Absently, he finished his drink and set the glass down on a nearby mahogany side table.

Which in the scheme of life, it was an altogether long time to not move freely about your own home, and yet he hadn’t. So why, at fifteen minutes past midnight, did he now stand at the door of the very garden he’d avoided? Unbidden, his gaze went to the brick wall dividing the gardens next door. Because of her. For like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Eleanor Elaine Carlyle had reentered his life. And more, she’d stolen into his thoughts—whether he wished it or not.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and stepped outside into the cleverly walled-in space. Specifically crafted by his mother and the older duchess who lived next door more than thirty years earlier, when the two women easily convinced their husbands to purchase the adjoining homes.

The half-moon hung in the night sky casting a pale white glow upon the earth. With the green grass and the flowers interspersed with flawless boxwoods, he might as well have been in the English countryside. Except the thick London air bespoke the truth. He closed the door behind him and, hands clasped behind his back, wandered deeper into the grounds; his boot steps silent upon the thick grass.

This had been their place. This had been their tucked away sanctuary, where they always knew precisely when they would find one another. A quarter past twelve was their hour; shared by only them.

… At fifteen past the hour, I will always be there. And we shall always know where we two are…

Until Eleanor had gone and shattered that pledge. She’d not shown up.

A second night had come and gone and, once more, their spot remained empty…and it had been empty ever since, but for the gardener who tended this area.

A night bird called out. The sad, lonely cry filled the night sky.

Marcus stopped beside the high-backed, wrought iron bench. The white piece situated against the wall hadn’t always been positioned here. Rather, it had been dragged over, many years earlier, and from there on it had remained. He rocked back on the heels of his feet and in one fluid moment, built on insanity, he leapt up onto the seat as he’d done so many times. Extending his arms, he pulled up onto the edge and hefted himself atop the dividing wall.

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.