To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(83)

Marcus dragged a hand over his face. Had he inadvertently allowed Lady Marianne to believe his intentions were something more?

“She is just disappointed, Marcus,” his mother said to calm him, slashing into his contemplation. “She will come around when she knows Eleanor the way you and I do.”

He nodded absently and carried his drink over to the window. The rub of it was if he could rid the world of hurts and bring Eleanor nothing but joy, he would. And yet, he could not. There would invariably be whispers and unkind words and cruelties that he would be just as helpless to protect her from. Even from his own sister.

From within the windowpane, he detected his mother as she walked over. She paused just at his shoulder. “You have loved her for a very long time.”

His gaze fell to the streets below. Since the moment she’d stepped out of her aunt’s townhouse and he’ been standing there, he had loved her. “I have,” he said quietly. First, with the simplicity of youth. When his world had been darkened by the death of Lionel, she had represented light and happiness and purity. The young woman that she’d been had dragged him from the pit of despair and shown him that there were, indeed, reasons to again laugh and smile. The woman who’d reentered his life almost eight years later came with maturity and strength and courage that made him fall in love with her all over again. His heart would forever belong to her.

His mother settled a hand on his arm and he started. “Lizzie is young. In time, she will come to love Eleanor.”

Marcus opened his mouth but the words froze on his lips. He squinted, trying to make sense of the visitor exiting the Duchess of Devonshire’s townhouse.

“What is it?” his mother prodded.

He gave his head a shake, instead focusing on the Marquess of Atbrooke. What business did the man have there?

His mother peered around Marcus’ shoulder. “What would Atbrooke be visiting Mrs. Collins for?”

Her befuddlement echoed his own. “I do not know,” he muttered. For there was no doubt the man was paying a visit to Eleanor. No one paid the duchess a call unless they were summoned, or a lifelong friend, of which the older woman had one—Marcus’ mother.

Lady Marianne’s notoriously caddish brother was deep in dun territory. Did he think to find his fortune at the Duchess of Devonshire’s doorstep?

“You do not suppose he is hunting Eleanor’s fortune?” she asked, those words spoken more to herself, a mirror of his own thoughts.

“I do not know,” he repeated. Then her words registered, momentarily pulling his gaze away from the gentleman below.

“Oh, come, Marcus,” his mother scoffed. “Do you truly believe with the friendship I have with Dorothea that I’d not be aware of the funds laid out for her niece?”

“I do not want Lizzie visiting Lady Marianne,” he said, never taking his gaze from Atbrooke, who adjusted his hat, and then with a singular focus on the midnight black mount across the street, bounded for that creature. He stared after Atbrooke until he rode off. Turning on his heel, Marcus stepped adroitly around his mother.

“Do I even have to inquire as to where you are going?” she called, amusement coating her query.

Marcus did not break his stride. “You do not.”

He’d appreciated the proximity of Eleanor’s residence from the moment she’d stolen his heart. This moment, he welcomed it for entirely different reasons. Atbrooke’s visit was, no doubt, a detail Marcus would have invariably missed if his townhouse had not shared the walls of her aunt’s townhouse.

Marcus reached the foyer and his loyal butler rushed to meet him. “My lord.”

“Williston.” Not bothering with his cloak, Marcus marched to the door. The older man rushed to pull it open and Marcus stepped out. He made his way to the duchess’ door, taking the handful of steps two at a time. He turned his gaze out to the street once more. Had the bastard been attempting to court her? Notorious scoundrel that he was, the man could not have honorable intentions. He started back around as the butler pulled the door open. Marcus stepped inside. “I am here to see Mrs. Collins.”

The butler’s expression grew shuttered. “Of course, my lord. I will see if she is receiving visitors,” the man responded, as he closed the door behind him.

He frowned. If she was receiving visitors? Why in blazes would she be receiving the likes of Atbrooke and then turn him away? Schooling his features, Marcus murmured his thanks.

The servant rushed off, leaving Marcus in the foyer to wait. Impatient, Marcus yanked the special license from inside his coat pocket and skimmed the document. Granted, the butler could not know that Marcus carried a special license from his visit that morning with the archbishop. No, the man was, no doubt, simply seeing to his responsibilities as the duchess’ head servant and yet…he cast a glance down the corridor the man had disappeared a short while ago. And yet it rankled that he’d be kept waiting in the foyer.

“Are you angry?”

Marcus spun about.

Marcia sat at the bottom of the stairs with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin resting in her hands.

“Marcia,” he said, approaching the girl. He dropped to a knee. “I did not hear your arrival.”

An impish grin played on her lips. “I am quite good at sneaking.”

He frowned, imagining Marcia in ten years with that very deft skill. He clenched his jaw. Marcus would have to take apart any man who thought to go sneaking with her.