To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(70)

“Who needs a miserable son? I would have a daughter who looks like you…”

“…And would you name her Marcia…?”

Good God. He choked. That night of terror had brought her a child. All of Eleanor’s life remained a fabricated truth built by a young, unmarried woman. He tried to imagine the fear she would have known as a girl of just eighteen years; bruised and suffering, and compounding the horror with a babe from the monster who’d raped her. Yet…Marcus’ throat worked spasmodically…that babe was now the child, Marcia; a little girl who worried over her mother being afraid and who’d waltzed on the tops of his boots.

Eleanor drew a quavering breath. “My father was a miserable merchant, Marcus. But he was a wonderful father. He moved us to the corner of Cornwall and allowed us to carve a new life, for me, for Marcia.” She ran her palms down the front of her skirts. “So now you know.”

Now he knew.

How very calmly matter-of-fact those words were when she’d ripped his world asunder with the truth.

And he would be irrevocably altered, forevermore.

Eleanor lifted tear-filled eyes to his. “I never stopped loving you, Marcus. The memory of you sustained me when I prayed for death.” Then, leaning up on tiptoe, she touched her lips to his in a fleeting kiss that tasted of sadness, regret, and eventual parting.

Marcus remained frozen. “Eleanor, I…” Love you. Want to make you my wife and Marcia my daughter. He killed the request he so desperately ached to put to her. She deserved his profession of love and a plea for marriage, but both had to come later. To give them to her now would seem obligatory; prompted by her revelation, and not for what they were—driven by the love he’d always carried for her.

“It is fine, Marcus,” she said softly.

It could never be fine. No right could undo these wrongs.

Then, ducking her head with the same shyness of her youth, she turned and left him standing there staring after her.

With Eleanor gone, he sank to his haunches and buried his face in his hands. He let fly the ugly curses that burned his tongue; hating himself for having failed her, hating the stranger who’d stolen her innocence in the cruelest, most heinous, way and hating time for having marched on. How much they’d lost.

Filled with a restlessness, he surged to his feet.

A breeze stirred the branches overhead and pink-white petals rained about him, settling on his coat sleeve. Absently, he captured a fragile petal and ran the pad of his thumb over the delicate piece.

When Eleanor had left, he’d thought of nothing but his own hurts. He’d allowed the agony of her betrayal to shape him into the man he’d become…and with the stars twinkling mockingly overhead as silent witnesses, he was forced to confront the truth—he didn’t much like himself. He didn’t like the man he’d become, and more, he didn’t like who he’d let himself become…all in the name of bitter cynicism. He’d taken countless widows and courtesans to his bed, seeking a physical surcease and protecting his heart.

Why should Eleanor want such a man?

… This is who you would have become. You are such a part of this world, I never truly belonged to. Perhaps you would have married me…But you would have become the rogue, the world knows…

The memory of Eleanor’s accusation burned more than any switch he’d taken to his back at his cruel tutor’s hands years and years ago. For Eleanor had read about him in the gossip columns and returned to London knowing precisely what he was—a rogue.

And yet, he was a rogue who wanted to be a husband. Her husband. He balled his hands and ignoring the pain of his previous wound, crushed the satiny soft petal in his palm.

He wanted to marry Eleanor. Not because she’d been raped by some nameless stranger. Not to provide her security and a future for Marcia. Even though he did want all of those things. No, he wanted to marry her because she had always owned his heart and, until he drew his last breath, the unworthy organ would beat for her.

Marcus continued to stand in the duchess’ gardens long after Eleanor had left, until the fingers of dawn pulled back the night sky. He’d lost Eleanor once and he’d little intention of losing her now.

The only question remained: how to earn her love and trust…again?





Chapter 17


The next morning, seated at the breakfast table, Satin and Devlin vied for Eleanor’s attention…and not for the first time since her arrival, she welcomed the pugs’ distraction. It prevented her from focusing on all she’d shared with Marcus.

She curled her toes into the soles of her slippers. Nay, that wasn’t true. One couldn’t very well forget the ugly, humiliating parts she’d shared with him…the only person, other than her father, whom she’d let into the lie that was her life.

Satin yapped at Eleanor’s feet and she looked down at the panting pug. “Oh, you are not content to let anyone else have attention, are you?” she murmured, favoring the dog with a gentle pat. She offered him a strip of bacon, which he grabbed between his crooked teeth.

Devlin growled.

“Do hush,” she chided. “There is certainly enough for the both of you.”

He shoved the top of his head against her chair, as though in canine agreement, and then bounded across the room to his mistress’ side.