To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(85)

Her lower lip trembled. “I—”

Marcus closed the space between them in four long strides. “It matters, but not in the way you believe, or in the way you even now are thinking I mean, Eleanor Elaine. It matters because of the wrong done you. It matters that you were robbed of choice and right, and that another’s will was imposed on you.” Emotion roughed his voice. Gently disentangling the book from her tight-knuckled grip, he tucked the folded document inside, and set the volume down on a nearby side table forgotten. “Tell me why.” Because he needed the words to come from her, as much as she needed those words spoken.



When Eleanor had been a girl of ten, her father had taught her an American game of Hide and Go Seek shared with him by a fellow merchant. The first time he’d taught her, she’d raced to the spot of safety with her quick, agile father close at her heels. Her chest had burned with the exertions until it had been nearly impossible to draw breath.

Eleanor pressed her eyes closed and her chest rose and fell hard and fast. This moment felt remarkably like that long ago day. Since the Marquess of Atbrooke had upended her world for a second, irrevocable time, she’d been the same scared girl trying to muddle through his threats and the inevitable parting it would mean for her and Marcus. Staring at Marcus now, with palpable rage pouring from his tautly held frame, she’d little doubt that he knew the reason. And even knowing as he did, he’d hear the words and truth from her.

“Eleanor,” he urged with a gentle insistence.

A broken sigh slipped past her lips and she strode over to the window, putting much needed distance between Marcus and the dream she’d been so very close to attaining. And for that, she could no longer remain. “After I had been…after that night in Lady Wedermore’s gardens,” she substituted, for she was still too much a coward to lend words to that night. “There would be days I awoke in the morning. With the cloud of sleep, I would believe myself back in London and smile, filled with excitement of again seeing you.” She pressed her forehead against the crystal windowpane warmed by the sun’s rays. Marcus’ visage reflected back in the surface and she turned her gaze to the busy streets below. “But then, something would creep in. It would begin with a niggling in my mind, something prodding me, reminding me that my world was no longer the same, and then it all would come rushing back.”

She turned to face him. “The other night in the theatre, Marcus. That was my moment of waking with forgetfulness.” Eleanor offered him a quivering smile. “Today was the awakening. The reminder that no matter how much we wish it, or how much we will it, the past remains.”

“What are you saying?” There was a gruffness in his tone.

Emotion wadded in her throat. “I cannot marry you,” she whispered. If there was no Marcia, then she could face the scandal and gossip. Not now. Not with her daughter being the person who would suffer most. Once again, Atbrooke had stolen the happiness she’d imagined for herself and Marcus.

Tense silence thrummed between them. His gaze grew shuttered, but not before she saw the flash of rage and hatred.

Eleanor winced as those sentiments from their reunion in the London street not even a fortnight earlier flared to life, and a sliver of her soul died at the palpable sign of his apathy.

“Who?” he asked quietly.

She tipped her head. Of all the vitriolic words spilling from his lips, the last she’d expected was—

“Tell me, who are you afraid of?”

His knowing question sucked the breath from her lungs. The need to turn this burden over to him gripped her with a physical intensity and yet to do so would endanger the person whose very life meant more to Eleanor than her own. “I cannot.”

He firmed his jaw. “You will not, Eleanor. Those are two entirely different things.”

“What would you have me say?” she cried softly.

“The truth.” How very easy Marcus made it sound. She dropped her eyes to his cravat. How very simple and enticing and right, in giving him the answers to the questions he both craved and deserved. One faulty misstep, however, could threaten Marcia’s security and happiness. She chewed at her lower lip.

“Was it Atbrooke?” His quietly spoken question brought her head shooting up.

How very surreal to have this man she loved utter the name of her attacker. It let Marcus into her world in ways she’d fought so hard to keep him out.

“He called on me.” Did that faint whisper belong to her?

Marcus’ body jerked erect.

Of course, he’d not know how to make sense of that admission. Unable to meet his gaze, she glanced at the tips of her slippers. “The gentleman who…” Her throat worked spasmodically. “The…”

Her words trailed off as Marcus closed the space between them. With a tenderness that threatened to shatter her already fractured heart, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Had he been demanding or inquiring, she’d not have found the courage to continue. There was, however, strength to be had in his patience. When so much had been forced upon her, Marcus once more offered her choice, and there was something heady and beautiful in that power he turned over to her care. “I will have your word. I will have your word when I tell you, you’ll not call him out, because I would share this with you.” She spoke on a rush. “But I’ll not share it if you intend to face him at dawn.”