To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(79)

“Tsk, tsk,” he whispered, taking another step closer. He looked meaningfully past her shoulder. “We shared something very special.” Please, no. I beg you… “You have a lovely daughter.”

Her heart ceased beating and then picked up a hard, frantic pounding. What manner of game did he play with her where he’d use Marcia as his human pawn? Eleanor willed herself to calm. A man who’d thrilled in the struggles of a resisting young lady would only relish any hint of her weakness. “I have tired of your veiled threats.” Eleanor tipped her chin up, finding courage and strength in the truth Marcus had awakened her to. Since that long ago night, she’d blamed herself, and yet it was this cad before her now to blame. He had stolen from her a gift he’d no right to. And she would not allow this cad another victory over her. He’d already claimed too many. “I would have you say what has brought you here and then be gone. My aunt, the duchess, will not welcome your being here.” And for the secrets she’d kept from her aunt through the years, Eleanor had no doubt that if she revealed all to the duchess, the woman would singlehandedly see to the marquess’ ruin.

He stalked toward her. “Will she be so forgiving of you if she were to discover you gave yourself to me in Lady Wedermore’s gardens?”

An unholy bloodlust filled her veins. Eleanor flew the remaining distance between them and cracked him across the face with such ferocity his head whipped back. The satisfying echo of flesh meeting flesh bounced from the plastered walls. Her palm stung from the force of the blow she’d dealt him and she welcomed the throbbing that only fueled her fury. The marquess palmed his cheek and then peered at her through thickly veiled eyes. “I gave you nothing,” she seethed.

Undeterred, the marquess peeled his lip back in a snarl. “But then, isn’t that what you do, Eleanor? You meet men in the gardens? Me. Wessex. Tell me, how many others have there been? Hmm?” He waggled his chestnut eyebrows. “Do you not think the viscount will not see the similarities there?”

Uncertainty blossomed inside her chest. All the old insecurities about her self-worth, her ability to love and be loved, floated to the surface. People saw what was easiest to see. A young widow. A respectable mother. A whore who met her lovers. As soon as the fears slipped in, she thrust them back. She’d not doubt Marcus.

And certainly not because of this devil’s attempt at weakening her.

“The viscount is good and honorable. Everything you are not. He will see the truth.” Her voice rang with conviction. She thrust a finger toward the door. “Now, get out,” she commanded.

He shot a hand around her wrist, squeezing the more delicate flesh in a punishing grip that flooded her eyes with tears.

“I warned you away from Wessex.”

Her heart stopped as she recalled his warning at her aunt’s ball. At that time she’d thought his was nothing more than another grasp at controlling her. The determined glint in his eyes spoke of a different tale. One that she’d not indulge with questions. “My relationship with the viscount is no matter to you,” she spat. A healthy fury coursed through her, invigorating and healing. “You would make something torrid of what I share with Lord Wessex, but you are evil.” She wrenched free of his grip. “I will not allow you to interfere in my relationship with the viscount.” Not again. As it was, this monster had wrestled eight years from her and Marcus. “You represent ugliness and filth, and I’d gladly see you in hell.” She again motioned to the door. “As it is, I will have to settle for showing you to the bloody door.”

Her breath came hard and fast with the healthy triumph of standing tall in his presence. All these years, she’d built him up as a larger than life monster, inhuman and invincible for it. The mark of her palm on his cheek still and the fury lighting his eyes showed a very human figure…and weak humans such as he were capable of a great fall.

Before she could move, Lord Atbrooke grabbed her hand and crushed it all the harder. “Let me be clear, Mrs. Collins. I am not asking you to stay away from Wessex. I am telling you.” At his punishing grip, tears popped up behind her lids. “The viscount has intentions toward my sister.”

Eleanor blinked through the pain of his hold. “Toward your sister?” she repeated dumbly. Is that what this man believed? “How could he possibly have any intentions for Lady Marianne?” she drew those words out relishing that truth. “He’s already offered for me.”

Shock etched his face and he loosened his grip. Taking advantage of his fleeting distraction, Eleanor jerked free and danced away from him. One scream would send a servant rushing, and then what a scandal that would be. For her, for Marcia. For the beloved aunt who’d taken them in. She’d not allow this man that triumph, as well. “Offered for you?” he repeated blankly. “But my sister—”

“Is a foul, scheming, fortune hunter that Lord Wessex is too clever to turn his future over to,” she cut in.

A flush mottled his cheeks. “He would have married her…until you arrived, Mrs. Collins. I have seen the way he looks at her.”

The marquess’ charges landed like a well-placed arrow in her heart. For the gossip columns had not lied in their linking Marcus’ name to Lady Marianne, and if Eleanor had not returned, she’d no doubt the young beauty would have ultimately seduced the rogue he’d been in Eleanor’s absence. And yet… “But I did arrive,” she tossed back those jeering words finding some solace in the truth.