To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(77)

The marquess shifted and effectively blocked retreat. “I wished to thank you for allowing Marianne to accompany you and your sister this evening.”

“It was my pleasure.” Another lie. The lady was a viper with nothing more than aspirations for the role of viscountess.

Atbrooke held a hand out and grinned. “I am looking forward to your visit soon.”

Marcus eyed the outstretched hand a long moment. His visit? Marcus choked. Was the man mad? By God, he thought Marcus would offer for his grasping sister? Ignoring those proffered fingers, Marcus said, “Er, if you’ll excuse me?” He strode past a frowning Atbrooke and continued on his earlier path.

Lords and ladies now spilled into the hall and he worked his way through the throng of people. He damned Atbrooke’s blasted interruption and the crush of bodies that slowed his movement. At last, Marcus reached the Duchess of Devonshire’s box and parted the curtains. Marcus narrowed his eyes.

A tall, slender gentleman in pale blue breeches smiled shyly at Eleanor and more…she smiled in return. That same smile Marcus had appreciated a short while ago; the one that belonged to him and only him. Except that wasn’t altogether true. For now, it belonged to the Earl of Primly.

“Primly is a good boy, Eleanor,” the duchess was just saying as the earl collected Eleanor’s gloved fingertips.

“I-it is a p-pleasure to see you again, M-Mrs. Collins. I thought I might…that is…i-if you would be amenable, I would pay you a visit t-tomorrow. O-or it doesn’t have to be t-tomorrow,” the gentleman said on a rush, color flooding his cheeks. “It can be another day.”

Never. It would be never. A growl rumbled from deep within Marcus’ chest, alerting the trio to Marcus standing there, gaping at Primly with his goddamn fingers on Eleanor. “I am afraid that will not do, Primly,” he said, not taking his eyes from Eleanor. From the corner of his eye, he detected the other man’s sharp frown. “You see, if the lady will have me, I intend to marry her.”

Odd how silence could rage even amidst a noisy auditorium.

Eleanor fluttered a hand to her chest and shook her head back and forth. Marcus took a step toward her. “Marry me, Eleanor,” he said gruffly. The lady had deserved effusive words and a bouquet of flowers. Instead, he made his entreaty before the whole of London, the duchess, and goddamn Primly. Belatedly, he dropped to a knee beside her chair and collected her hand. “Marry me, please,” he said softly, those hushed words for her ears. “Trust me to be the one to show you joy and wonder.” His voice grew gruff with emotion. “I love you, Eleanor Elaine, and I have never, ever once stopped. Do not go. Stay.” With me. For me. For us.

His neck grew hot from the weight of his admission, before a sea of observers, no less. And yet, he would humble himself before the whole of the British kingdom for her, because he was nothing without her, but more, he was everything with her.

As the moments ticked by, stretching seconds into what may as well have been hours and days, the lady said…nothing.

Her lips parted and she touched quaking fingers to her mouth. “Oh, Marcus,” Eleanor whispered.

Oh, God. Dread pebbled in his belly. It grew and grew until it weighted his every movement. She was going to say n—

“Yes.” He strained to make out the faint utterance. She nodded once. “Yes,” she repeated, this time with strength in that affirmation. “I will marry you.” And her lips curved up in that wide, unfettered smile that had frozen him at their first meeting.

And scandal be damned, Marcus pulled her into his arms.

“It is about bloody time,” the duchess muttered.





Chapter 19


…The beginning is always today…

Eleanor traced her fingertips over those familiar words. He was going to marry her. And all the terror of the wedding night and all that came with being a wife receded under this giddy lightness in her chest.

“You have a smile to rival the cat that caught the canary,” her aunt called from her high-back upholstered seat. She stroked Devlin who sat atop her lap. “As you should. Marrying Wessex is the best decision you’ve made in eight years.”

Eleanor bit back a smile. Her aunt had been more gracious and generous than Eleanor deserved through the years for her to go about pointing out that the duchess, in fairness, couldn’t truly speak to eight years of decisions her niece had made. She made a clearing noise with her throat. “Shall I resume where we left off?

She fanned through the book to the last pages read from Mary Wollstonecraft’s work.

Her aunt slammed the tip of her cane down on the open book. “Bah, do you think I care about my Mrs. Wollstonecraft today?” she scoffed. “Nor should you be with me. You should be with Wessex, or your daughter telling her the news.”

“I am going to tell her,” she said defensively. She simply wanted to wait for the precise moment.

Whatever retort her aunt would make was quelled by the sudden appearance of the butler. “A visitor for Mrs. Collins. I have taken the liberty of showing the gentleman to the White Parlor.”

Eleanor’s heart sped up and she leapt to her feet.

“Ah, it’s about time the boy arrived.” A happy smile hovered on the usually gruff duchess’ lips. “That will be all, Thomas.”

Eleanor leaned down to place a kiss on her weathered cheek. “Thank you for everything,” she said softly. For if it hadn’t been for the older woman’s timely letter, and salvation to be had in the post of companion, Eleanor would still be the broken, fearful woman she’d been for too long.