To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(56)

She eyed his elbow as though he’d offered her the head of a serpent. “What is that?”

“It is my arm, Eleanor.” He’d have his answers. “Walk with me.” And know why she’d wished for him to court her.

With a guardedness in her gaze, she continued to peer at him; that damned volume close to her chest as though she used it as a shield to protect herself from his attention. She glanced about and then eyed the book.

“Surely such freedoms are permitted among friends.” Nearly lovers and almost his wife. Why had he waited to put an offer to her? Perhaps she’d tired of waiting. He tugged the book free of her fingers and tossed it to the ground, settling the matter for her. “Will you say no?”

“Would you allow me to?” The mischievous glimmer in her eyes momentarily robbed him of thought, as she became that girl and he became that young man.

“No,” he said with a forced smile.

Eleanor placed her fingertips along his sleeve and walked stiffly at his side. Tension fairly seeped from her lithe frame. He took in the tautness of her narrow shoulders and the pinched set to her mouth. He frowned. By God… she was nervous—Of him? Or the request she’d put to him last evening? “I’ll not bite you, Eleanor.” He paused and stole a sideways glance at her. “Unless you want me to.”

Her skin went ashen.

Where had gone his girl who’d laughed and teased? “I was merely jesting,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she said weakly. They stepped onto the graveled dirt path. His sister and Lady Marianne just ahead, glanced at them.

Lizzie inclined her head. “Mrs. Collins, what a surprise to see you.”

He scowled at his usually cheerful sister’s frosty tone.

“Likewise,” Eleanor called back. Her gaze lingered a moment upon the frowning Lady Marianne and then the two younger ladies resumed their stroll about the well-manicured grounds, leaving Marcus and Eleanor alone once more.

“Why are you here?”

He winged an eyebrow upward. “And where should I be?” He’d sought to protect his wounded heart through the years and had erected walls about that broken organ.

“Your clubs, seeing to your gentlemanly pursuits.” As such, he well knew the attempt of another to protect oneself from hurt.

“My gentlemanly pursuits?” Despite himself, a chuckle rumbled up from his chest. “And what precisely does that entail, sweet Eleanor?” The endearment slipped out as effortlessly as it had eight years ago.

“I daresay you know a good deal more, as a gentleman.” Her serene face giving no indication that she’d noted his use of that special endearment.

Regret pulled at him again, only this time for entirely different reasons. “Time has made you somber, Eleanor. I preferred you smiling,” he said turning her own words back on her.

“I’ve told you, Marcus,” Not “my lord” but Marcus. “Time changes us. You are certainly not the same man I remember.”

“You know me not at all,” he pointed out, chafing at the ill-opinion she expressed with her blue eyes that may as well have been a mirror into her soul. He stopped and she withdrew her fingers from his person. “Come, surely we’ll not dance around it.”

Eleanor clutched at her throat, giving her head a shake, pleading with her eyes.

He lowered his voice, speaking in hushed tones for her ears alone. “You’d have me ignore your request.”

She let her hands fall to her sides. “M-my request?” A crimson blush blazed across her cheeks.

“Tsk, tsk. You’d feign forgetting your request?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marcus,” she hissed.

“For me to court you,” he continued over her.

“I’ll not have this discussion,” she whispered, glancing past his shoulder for interlopers to an exchange that should have occurred long ago. She made to leave.

“And you will do what you do best, then, won’t you?” he snapped and she froze mid-step, her foot failing to complete that final step. “Leave.” He closed the distance between them so just a hairsbreadth separated them. “Nothing to say, Eleanor?” He cursed the waxen hue of her cheeks and the hurt, wounded expression in her eyes. What had she to be hurt for? She had left.

She held her palms up. “I do not want to argue with you, Marcus.”

The fight drained out of him. For the truth was, Eleanor was, indeed, correct. This sniping and snapping didn’t serve to make him feel better; it didn’t provide answers. He ran his gaze over her face. “What do you want of me, Eleanor?”



What did she want?

Security. For her and Marcia. Safety; an assurance that she’d never again experience the horror and loss she’d known. She wanted those intangible dreams with such ferocity that she’d humble herself before the only man she’d ever loved for the hope of them. The warning given to her by that dark devil slid around her mind. Unbidden, she skittered her gaze about. Was he here even now? Watching in silent disapproval? Forcibly tamping down the terror he sought to rouse, Eleanor looked down at her and Marcus’ interlocked fingers. “I want—” You. Several lines creased his brow. “To be friends again,” she finished lamely. But for her father, Marcus had been the only honorable, true gentleman she’d known. She needed him to not hate her and she knew it was selfish, as he was deserving of his feelings. But there it was.