To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(52)

She’d asked him to court her. In the light of a new day, with the sherry and champagne fog gone, she likely wouldn’t recall her ramblings or her request. But he would still recall the sneer on her usually innocent lips which spoke volumes on her thoughts of noblemen. Or was it marriage in general? He studied the silent lady before him and gripped his hands into tight fists, his knuckles drained of blood. With her defenses down, she’d revealed more than had she spoken to him in lucid, clear terms. The sincerity of that response brought forth insidious thoughts about the lady’s marriage; horrifying possibilities that she’d wed a bounder who’d made their marriage a miserable one. And yet none of it made sense. Not when she’d spoken of love.

“Will you do it?” Eleanor asked, pulling him back to the moment.

Marcus dragged a hand through his hair. “Come along.” He held out his hand and she looked at his fingers as though he’d dangled a snake before her eyes.

“You aren’t going to help me?” At her wide, stricken eyes, his heart tugged.

This was the lady’s power. Her hold was as strong now as it had been then. “I will think on it.” For the course of a moment before ultimately rejecting her request. “But you, Mrs. Collins, need to retire for the evening.”

She dug her heels into the carpet and remained rooted to the floor. “But you will think on it?”

“I will.” When she was sober and logical enough to realize precisely what she’d asked of him. And with that same sober morning logic, she would realize why he could not help her.

“Come along.” Marcus took her by the shoulders and gently guided her to the door. “We shall talk on the morrow, Mrs. Collins.”

Eleanor dug her heels in once more, slowing their path. She shot a perplexed look back over her shoulder. “Marcus, I do not care to be called by some other woman’s name. It isn’t what one does with a f-ffriend,” she slurred. “Ahh’ve decided that y-you aren’t to call me by that name, anymore.”

“And I’ve decided you are no longer allowed to imbibe in any form of spirits,” he muttered under his breath. He pulled the door open and looked out into the hall. Silence rang in the corridor with a distant clamor from the ballroom activity. Marcus stepped out and drew Eleanor out with him.

She glanced up and down the carpeted hall and then speaking on a loud whisper said, “Is there anyone here?” The lady sidled closer and her hip brushed his. His body leapt with awareness and he gritted his teeth.

“There is no one here,” he said tersely. “Here,” he urged, leading her to the back servants’ corridors. He pointed up the stairs. “I will make your excuses to the duchess.” He needed a mistress. Or an inventive actress. Someone who could distract him from Eleanor Collins’ allure. As soon as the thought slipped in, he kicked ash over it. No one would ever dull this hungering for her, except if he, at last, knew the pleasures of her body. “You turned your ankle.”

“I did?” A frown hovered on her full, bow-shaped lips. “That is dreadful.”

Despite the madness of this entire exchange, Marcus chuckled. “I am making your excuses.” A curl escaped her loose chignon and he tucked it behind her ear, lingering his touch on the satiny soft shell.

“Ahh, yes, of course.” She smiled. “How could I forget my foot? Myyyy ankle,” she weakly amended. Aren’t they really rather the same?” Eleanor tapped a contemplative finger against her lips and then quickly yanked up her skirts, drawing his gaze downward and God help him…a dull humming filled his ears at the enticing place where her trim ankle met her foot. “I suppose not,” she said answering her own question and he gave his head a disgusted shake. Lusting after a goddamn ankle. What manner of rogue was he? “A person can’t very well go walking with an ankle in place of a foot.” She lifted her arms up and her skirts settled noisily about her.

He briefly mourned the enticing display of flesh. “What are you doing?”

“If ah’ve fallen, shouldn’t you carry me?”

And with her arms held out and the invitation on her lips, Eleanor’s husky contralto conjured all the most wicked, wanton dreams he’d carried for her. Marcus slid his eyes closed and prayed for patience.

The soft tread of slippered steps brought his eyes flying open just as Eleanor wound her arms about his neck, clinging to him like tenacious ivy winding its way up a garden wall.

Take her. Take her in your arms and rid yourself of the lady’s captivating pull…

Why couldn’t he be one of those truly roguish sorts? He sighed. Alas, he wasn’t a total bastard that he’d accept the offering of an inebriated Eleanor. Marcus quickly disentangled her hands from his person. “Tired,” he gruffly amended. “I shall tell your aunt you were fatigued.” He reeled backward, seeking an escape from her hold.

Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Am I injured or tired?”

“Tired,” he managed the hoarse utterance. “You are tired.”

She sighed. “Very well.” Without a parting greeting, Eleanor swept through the doorway to the servants’ stairs.

He embraced the much-needed distance between them, when her voice slashed through the quiet. “Do you know, Marcus? For all the rogue business and sneers and snarls since I’ve returned, you really are a gentleman—a true gentleman with honor and integrity. Not like all the other bounders.”