To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(48)

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 memories—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.