To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(50)

Her lips tightened, with what he’d wager his entire estate’s holdings, was disapproval. “Must you do that?” she snapped.

Yes, disapproval, indeed. By the fire flashing in her eyes, the lady did not approve of his drinking spirits. With a crooked grin, he pulled out the stopper. “I must.” He swiped a tumbler and turned it over. “We both must.”

Eleanor gritted her teeth so hard that the snapping of those porcelain-white, perfect rows filled the room. “I do not care to indulge in any more spirits this evening. I’ve already had two glasses of champagne.” Which had left her with a soothing warmth.

“You are not indulging,” he agreed. “You are having a glass. It is one of the freedoms afforded you as a widow.” Marcus resisted the urge to point out that there were any other number of wicked freedoms permitted now but the flash of fire in her eyes indicated that even one misstep on his part and she’d swiftly kill this meeting she’d called for. For some inexplicable reason—he needed to know. He tilted the bottle.

Eleanor sprinted across the room and knocked the glass from his hands, where it tumbled to the floor with a loud thunk. Fury emanated from within her eyes. “No brandy.”

With a sigh, he set down the bottle. “Very well.” Some of the tension seeped from her shoulders. “Sherry, then.” Before she could formulate a protest, he swiped a bottle and set to work pouring two glasses of the amber spirit.

She hesitated and, with a narrow-eyed gaze, stared at the contents of her glass, and then took a slow, almost experimental, drink. Her lips pulled in a grimace. “It is horrid.” But she took another sip anyway, and another, her attention trained wholly upon the glass clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

Studying her through hooded lashes, Marcus took a sip and looked at Eleanor over the rim of his glass. “You asked for a meeting? And now you have it.” Glass in hand, Marcus held it aloft in mock salute. “So tell me, what is it that has called you away from your throng of suitors?”





Chapter 12


Eleanor stared at the pale droplets on the edge of her glass, transfixed by the lone, oblong shape as it slid down the side of the crystal, a teardrop falling to the bottom. The amber tear called forth all the fears of reentering Society and the need for a friend. Perhaps it was liquid fortitude, but she drew on Marcia’s suggestion from several days past. She drew in a slow breath. “My daughter said I require a friend.” Silence met her pronouncement and she glanced up to see if Marcus had heard her. “I said—”

“I heard you.”

“Oh.” She glanced into the contents of her glass once more. “You didn’t respond and so I believed you didn’t—”

“I heard you.” The hard edge to those words made her wince. This man was the same angry, bitter figure she’d crashed in to on the street days earlier. She could not put a favor to Marcus as he was now. She bit the inside of her lower lip remembering the stranger in the ballroom. Her palms grew moist and the glass trembled in her hand. Droplets of sherry splashed over the rim and she quickly finished the contents of her glass. Coupled with the previous champagne she’d drunk, it filled her with a warm, reassuring coziness—and fortitude. What choice did she have but to enlist Marcus’ support? With him at her side, she could face anyone. Including the monster of her past.

Noting her stare, Marcus sighed. “Forgive me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The correct response is, in fact, why do you require a friend?” And once more, he was the gentle, patient gentleman who’d won her heart.

“Well, everyone needs a friend, Marcus.” Apparently, by his silence, he was not of a like opinion. Did she expect him to declare his loyalty to her, affirming the bond they’d shared, greater than any she’d known since? The stilted quiet should be deterrent enough and yet, somehow, found the courage to press ahead. “I didn’t want to come here, you know.”

He stiffened.

“Not here, per se,” she motioned to the library. “To London, that is.”

“You enjoyed London at one time,” he pointed out.

Only because you were here. How had he not known that? She would have danced happily within the fires of hell if it had been in his arms. She looked off to the cool, empty grate of the hearth. “Yes,” she murmured. But that had been a time before monsters and broken dreams. Eleanor gave her head a clearing shake. “That is not the case any longer.” Which was just one more reason nothing more could ever transpire between her and Marcus. A great chasm had formed between two people who, by birth alone, had already been cast into two very different worlds. Encouraged by his silence, Eleanor pressed ahead. “My uncle insisted I come.”

Marcus furrowed his brow. “Your uncle passed a year ago.”

With her rambling, she was making a muddle of this. “In his will,” she clarified. “He stipulated I…” She searched her mind. “Experience certain things.”

He propped his hip on the back of the leather button sofa. “Things?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She gave a wave of her hand. “He provided a list. There are six items on it, but I do not need your assistance with all of them,” she said hurriedly as his frown deepened. The more she spoke, the more lucrative her daughter’s plan sounded, and the less daunting her uncle’s list seemed. She spoke quickly. “My uncle left me ten thousand pounds.” Marcus choked on a strangled cough. “However, he requires I accomplish the tasks set out for me, and if I do—”