To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(78)

A blush bloomed on the older woman’s face and she made a dismissive sound. “Go.” She waved Eleanor off. “Do not keep that boy waiting any longer than you have.”

With a laugh, Eleanor all but raced from the room. She moved briskly through the corridors, her skirts fluttering noisily at her ankles, and she stopped outside the parlor. How to account for this giddy sensation dancing around her belly better reserved for a woman many years younger? Then, that was the effect Marcus had on her. Smoothing her palms over her flushed cheeks, she stepped inside the entrance of the room.

And froze.

Many years after she’d been raped, she would see her assailant in the unlikeliest of places. She would see his face on that of strangers, in both sleeping and waking thoughts, and would be instantly transported back to the hell of that night. Never, in all those worst hauntings, did she imagine him as he was now, on a knee beside her daughter. For she’d not ever entertained the horrific possibility that he would meet, greet, or know Marcia in any way.

A dull buzzing filled her ears and her body went hot and then cold. She struggled to draw forth breath past the vise squeezing off airflow. Eleanor scrabbled at her skirts, willing her legs to move, willing words to come.

“Mama!” Marcia exclaimed, her voice coming as though down a long, empty corridor. “You lied. You said you only had one friend, but the marquess says he was a very good friend years and years ago, and the marquess has a birthmark on his wrist.” Her daughter held her fingers up and smiled. “Just like me.”

Eleanor shook her head, trying to bring her daughter’s words into focus through the thick haze of horror.

Then he looked at her. This marquess, whose name she still did not know, who’d sired her daughter and shattered Eleanor’s life with one heinous deed. It was the face of her worst nightmares and her greatest shame. He rose and smiled a hard, evil grin. “Mrs. Collins.” The mocking edge there hinted at a man who knew very well she was no widow and reveled in the power of his knowledge.

“Marcia,” she said tightly as she rushed across the room. “It is time to return to your lessons.” She settled her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and steered her away.

“Mama.” Marcia dragged her heels, forcing Eleanor to stop. She whipped her head back and stared with accusatory eyes. Brown eyes. His eyes. Oh, God. Bile burned like acid in her throat and she tightened her grip reflexively. “You are hurting me.”

All the while, he stood a silent, malicious observer. This man, tall and slender with chestnut brown hair and noble features, would be considered handsome by most. And yet, under the fa?ade, there was a blackened soul that would one day burn in hell for his crimes.

“Return to the nursery for your lessons,” Eleanor said, gentling her tone.

“Very well.” Marcia sighed. “But I do think it is very exciting the Marquess of Atbrooke has a birthmark like my own and I do not know why I cannot visit as he is your friend. You allowed me to visit with Marcus.”

Heat slapped her cheeks and her skin pricked with the probing stare trained on her by the marquess. Eleanor willed her daughter to silence. Then, with Marcia gone, her daughter’s words registered.

The Marquess of Atbrooke.

Of course, even the devil himself had a name…and that name made this man all the more real which weakened his indomitable hold. Her rapist, the father of her child, was a powerful marquess. Her mind stalled, as a memory flickered to life.

…He is with that miserable Hamilton girl. I never liked her mother. I liked the father even less. The brother, the Marquess of Atbrooke, is a scoundrel and the girl is mean…

She gasped.

Lady Marianne Hamilton’s brother bent a low, mocking bow. “A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Collins.”

Eleanor pulled the door closed behind her with a firm click to provide a flimsy barrier between the marquess and her daughter. Because that is what mothers ultimately did. They locked themselves away with monsters, all to protect.

She clasped her hands behind her and layered her back against the door. “What do you want?” Revulsion lent her words an artificial strength.

“Come, is that what you’ll say to me, love?” He sauntered forward. “After all these years and all we shared?”

Those words, eerily reminiscent of the ones uttered by Marcus upon her arrival almost a fortnight ago, brought an acrid taste to her mouth. All they shared? Memories trickled in as he’d rammed himself inside, tearing past the thin wall of her virginity, as he’d swallowed her scream with his punishing mouth. Eleanor held up a staying hand, as he continued coming. “Stop,” she commanded.

And surprisingly, he did. He continued to eye her in that predatory way that made her body run cold.

Silent screams echoed around her riotous memories; the taste of his leather glove as she’d bit on the hand he’d placed over her mouth, suffocating from the weight of it, praying for the bliss of unconsciousness and, ultimately, so many prayers failed that night.

Fear tightened about her heart, as with his taunting words and punishing shame, she was transported back to another time and she stood quaking before him the same scared girl she’d been. The marquess stood with a sly half-grin that snapped her from her private hell. “We shared nothing, my lord.” Nothing like the pure love she’d known with Marcus. “Why don’t we set aside false pleasantries and have you say whatever it is you would say,” she spat.