To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(86)

For a long moment, Marcus remained silent. The grating ormolu clock ticked on so long she thought he’d ignore her request, but then a black curse burst from his lips. “You have my promise,” he gritted out.

“It was the Marquess of Atbrooke.” Her voice caught, under the weight of the mysteries she’d not herself known all these years until just a few short moments ago; about the man who’d raped her, and fathered her child. She buried her face in her hands and sucked in great big breaths at the freedom in sharing this with Marcus.

Marcus drew her against his chest and she buried her face in the fabric of his coat. The sandalwood scent clinging to him wafted about her senses and drove back the stench of brandy and evil. She turned her cheek against the white lawn of his shirt and absorbed his strength. “He has promised to allow me my,” daughter “secret, if I leave.”

Incredulity spilled from his tone. “And you trust him?”

For how could a dastard like the marquess ever be trusted to honor any pledges or promises he’d made? Eleanor curled her hands into tight balls. Ultimately, it was not her own future or security she wagered with, but rather Marcia’s. And for that, the decision had been made for her. “No.” She shook her head. “But it is no longer just my happiness I have to worry after.”

He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “You are not alone. I will stand by you.”

“And what of your sister?” she countered, taking a hasty step away. At his silence, she continued, relentless. “What match will she make when my past is revealed and Society learns there was never a Mr. Collins and Marcia is no more of legitimate parentage than I am a lady born and bred?”

Marcus captured her hands in his and turned them over. He raised them to his lips, one at a time. “So you will run, again, to protect my sister and Marcia? But who will protect you?”

Her heart skittered a beat. “We are not—”

He growled. “If you say you are not my responsibility—”

“He wants me gone.” She hesitated, recalling the marquess’ intentions for Marcus. “Lord Atbrooke would have you marry his sister.” She brushed an errant strand of hair from his forehead. “I have to leave, Marcus.”

“I’ll have no one as my wife, except you, Eleanor Elaine.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his right eye. He worked his powerful gaze over her face, as though he sought to imprint all of her upon his memory. “And I know you feel you must leave,” he said quietly, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “Oh, Eleanor, I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you eight years ago. I will want you until the day I draw my last breath.”

His words spoke to their parting and should fill her with a warm solace. He understood her need to leave and loved her still. Yet…agony shredded the already broken and bruised organ that was her heart. For the greedy, selfish part of her wanted him to want her to remain, regardless. She wanted him snapping and snarling at the prospect of her parting. What a horrible, contrary creature she was. Shamed by her own selfishness, Eleanor willed her lips up into a smile, and then held her hand out.

He eyed her outstretched fingers. “What the hell is that?”

She looked about and then followed his gaze to her trembling hand. “As it is goodbye,” again. Oh, God, how can I leave him? How, when he is the other half of my heart? “I am shaking your hand.”

Marcus captured her fingers and drew them close to his mouth. He placed a lingering kiss upon her hand. “Is that what you believe?” His breath caressed her skin and shivers of warmth radiated from the point of contact and spiraled rapidly through her being. “That this is goodbye?”

“Isn’t it?” she managed on a faint whisper.

He trailed his thumb over her palm. “You misunderstand me. I am saying goodbye to you for now. But I am coming for you. I will deal with Atbrooke and we will be free of him, and then you, Marcia, and I can be together.” He pierced her with his gaze. “And not even God Himself with an army of angels at his side could separate us.”

She gasped and Marcus kissed her hand once more. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlor and out of her life.





Chapter 21


Panicky rage lent jerkiness to Marcus’ movements. If he’d not left Eleanor when he did, the fury pounding away at his chest would have exploded from him. She’d entrusted him with the truth, the least he could give her was a calming response. So he pounded away at the unfamiliar front door.

Except, with the much-needed space between them, a torrent of emotions whirred inside him so that madness and sanity waged a war within. For now, he had the name from Eleanor’s lips, which had confirmed the truth he’d already suspected. He growled and pounded all the harder. He had a goddamn name and she’d expect him to not kill the black-hearted cad at dawn for the crimes he was guilty of?

He renewed his knocking, uncaring of the sea of passersby taking in his frenetic movements, uncaring that with his unkempt hair, the world now saw a man hanging off a cliff with nothing more than his nails and if he let go he would be forever destroyed. Marcus let fly a black curse and pounded once more. “Goddamn bloody—”

The door opened. An old, wizened butler stood peering at him through rheumy eyes. “May I help you?”

Marcus fished around the front of his jacket and withdrew a card. “Lord Wessex to see the Marquess of Rutland.”