To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(62)

“Eleanor,” he murmured.

Wetting her lips, she glanced about. How very comfortable she’d once been around him. Now she was a mere shell of the innocent woman she’d been. “Would you care for refreshments?” But one more thing taken from her by a stranger under the star-filled sky.

“No.” Other than that husky, one word utterance, Marcus said nothing.

To give her fingers something to do, Eleanor fidgeted with her skirts, crushing the fabric in her grip. “I-I wanted to thank you, Marcus.”

“Thank me?” He took a step forward and she retreated.

“For agreeing to help with a pre—”

In three long strides he closed the space between them and touched a finger to her lips, silencing the remainder of those words. “Shh.” He leaned down, shrinking the space between them.

Fear clamored in her breast and she battled through the fast growing panic. This was Marcus. He’d never hurt her and she’d wager her very life that he’d never harm her or another. Not a man who could speak so gently as he did to a child; the child of a woman he hated, no less. Marcus whispered against her ear. “Be careful, Eleanor. A wrong word uttered and a lurking servant, and your efforts will be for naught.”

Yes, he was, indeed, correct. She should bury all hint of discourse on the favor she’d put to him and yet could not quell the questions she’d had since in the gardens of Kensington. He’d so very willingly offered his assistance. “Why?” she blurted.

He brushed his knuckles along her jaw in the way he’d once done, forcing her gaze up to his. “Why what, Eleanor?” Fear battled with a soft wave of desire and she desperately clung to her body’s awareness of his tall, well-muscled frame, hungering for the uncomplicated joy she’d known in his arms. “Why have I agreed to help you?” The corded muscles of his arms tightened the sleeves of his jacket, a reminder of his power—and the danger he could pose. Arms that could overpower, subdue, silence.

A shuddery sigh escaped her and she managed a jerky nod. “You hate me.”

“Yes. I’ve hated you for a long time.”

His casually spoken words were a lash upon her heart.

“I hated you for leaving.” She’d left because she had no choice but escape. “I hated you for writing me a damned note, after all we’d shared.” After the attack, she’d been bruised and sore and battered. How could she have ever faced Marcus after she’d been so used by another? How, when she’d not even been able to stomach her own visage in a mirror? “And I hate you for having chosen another.”

She slid her gaze away from his. With her flight, she’d chosen only him. Chosen to save him from humiliation and shame. “It was for the best,” she whispered. For in the end, she’d allowed him the freedom to find a woman deserving of him.

He stilled that soft, gentle caress of her jawline. “Is that what you believe?”

“That is what I know.” Pieces of her story that would never be his to learn.

She braced for the stinging bite of mocking words she’d come to expect from him; words she’d also come to recognize as an attempt at self-preservation. Instead, his lips turned up in a sad smile. The roguish grin would have been easier, preferable to this achingly empty expression of mirth. “Do you want to know the truth?”

She told herself not to ask, and yet she could no sooner quell the words than she could slice off her own right hand. “What is the truth?”

“I do not hate you.” Her heart lifted and took flight. That admission was more poignant than any declaration of love he could give. “For everything that has come to pass, I care about you.” Not love. Her wildly beating heart sank. Still, caring for her was a good deal better than the dark feelings of hate. “I want to see you happy.” Marcus cupped her cheek and he lowered his lips close to hers, so close they nearly brushed. Close enough to remind her of how beautiful it had once been between them. “And God help me, I still want you.”

God help her, she wanted him, as well.

He claimed her mouth with his. For an infinitesimal moment, a spark of desire lit from the brush of his lips on hers and she turned herself over to the wonder of his embrace. Marcus groaned, and parting her lips, he slipped his tongue inside.

He tasted of brandy.

Eleanor gagged. She shoved away from him with a startled cry and punched him hard. Her fist connected solidly with his nose. The sickening sound of flesh meeting flesh flooded her buzzing ears.





Chapter 15


Marcus had received all manner of interesting responses to his kisses through the years. Breathy pleas for more, desperate moans of approval. Not once, however, had he been punched for his efforts.

He touched his nose and winced. By God, too many counts in a ring against Gentleman Jackson himself and he’d never had a bloodied nose, but then with one dangerously wicked right jab, the lady had managed it. The warm trickle of blood penetrated his glove and Marcus yanked his kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to his nose, staring at Eleanor over the rapidly staining fabric. The lady continued retreating, her pallor white. “Bloody hell.” He flinched as pain radiated along his nose.

For all he did know about Eleanor Carlyle, now Collins, he’d never known she could plant a facer like Gentleman Jackson himself.

She backed into a rose-inlaid side table. The fragile piece of furniture shifted under the sudden movement and a porcelain shepherdess tumbled to the floor. It exploded in a spray of white and pink splintered glass.