To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(89)

A blinding rage clouded his vision and he blinked it back, attending those words.

Lord Rutland pulled open his desk drawer. He shuffled through pages and then withdrew a single sheet. He slid it across the desk.

Marcus glanced down and then froze.

“You are wondering what I want from you? You’re asking what debt I’d exact for this favor?” The marquess shook his head. “The answer is nothing. I want the Atbrookes and Brewers gone from my life. The vowels are yours to do with as you wish.”

With numb fingers, Marcus picked up the sheet. He promptly choked. Eighteen thousand pounds the man was turning over. He eyed Rutland dubiously over the top of the page. “I don’t understand.”

A ghost of a smile hovered on the other man’s lips. “You are in love with your lady. As such, you understand. I’ve pledged to live a life that is good and I will not prey on others. So Atbrooke is yours to deal with.”

Marcus tightened his fingers reflexively upon the page. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, studying the sum inked on the ivory velum. “I can never repay you.” Not for this kindness. Not for allowing Marcus to claim freedom from fear of this man’s machinations.

“I do not expect you to repay me,” Rutland replied automatically. “But, Wessex?”

He glanced up.

“You believe you will find solace in revenge. You will tell yourself that as long as you ruin him, you will find happiness, but that isn’t true.” The marquess jerked his chin at the sheet. “That thirst for revenge, it will only destroy you. The only thing that will heal you, or the lady that sent you here to me today, is love. Until you accept that, neither of you will be free.” A dull flush mottled Rutland’s cheeks, and as though embarrassed by those words, he picked up his brandy and downed the remaining contents of his glass.

Allowing him his dignity, Marcus returned his focus to the page. Atbrooke’s name glared mockingly back. Another surge of rage ripped through him. “Perhaps you are right,” he said when he trusted himself to speak. “But if anyone hurt your wife the way he hurt…” A spasm gripped his heart and he cleared his throat. Even the hint of a suggestion of the crime committed against Eleanor would bring her undeserved scorn and additional agony. In coming here to obtain information from Rutland, Marcus had sought the far lesser of the two evils. By the marquess’ frank candidness he’d no doubt Marcus’ confidence would be kept. Still, he’d already said too much. “Thank you,” he murmured. “I am in your debt.” In every way, imaginable.

Rutland tossed his hands up. “I do not want you in my debt,” he growled. “Bloody hell, Wessex, I am looking to be free of it all.”

Then, weren’t they all seeking to shake free the demons of their past? How futile their attempts were.

The marquess again drew open the front desk drawer and withdrew a peculiarly shaped velvet box. He hesitated and then pushed it across the table.

Marcus eyed it and then wordlessly accepted the package. He lifted the lid and peered down at the heart-shaped pendant. Puzzling his brow, he glanced up. “What—?”

“It was a gift given my wife by the Marchioness of Waverly. The wearer is fabled to land the heart of a duke.”

Despite the hell of that morning, Marcus’ lips twitched. “I’m rather hoping the lady is content with my mere title of viscount,” he said dryly.

A chuckle rumbled from within the marquess’ chest. “Yes, well, the real truth is that the wearer will earn the heart of their true love.” He motioned to the necklace. “You are better entrusting yourself to that emotion, than the revenge that would destroy you both, Wessex.”

Brought ’round to the very reason for his being here, Marcus closed the lid. “I thank you. But I cannot—”

“Take the necklace. I just ask when you are married and happy, that you see it returned.”

Marcus looked down at the two gifts given, humbled by this stranger’s kindness. This man feared by all had proven himself more human than Marcus could ever hope to be. “I don’t—”

“There is nothing to say,” the marquess murmured.

The door opened. “Edmund, where have you—oh.”

Their gazes swung to the entrance of the room to where a lady with nondescript brown hair and blue eyes stood staring back at them. Marcus and Rutland rushed to their feet.

“Phoebe,” the man murmured with a reverent tenderness. “I was meeting with the Viscount Wessex.”

“Forgive me,” she said softly. With her plainness, there was nothing extraordinary about the lady, and yet there was a kindness and warmth in her eyes, and as Marcus stole a glance at Lord Rutland, the man’s transformation made sense.

“No, my apologies,” Marcus said, tucking the marquess’ offerings in his front pocket. His gaze went to her rounded middle and a wave of potent longing so strong hit him so completely that it robbed him of breath and thought. In the marchioness, he saw Eleanor as she’d been, with her belly full with child, and he ached for the need to be a true father to Marcia, and to have more children with Eleanor. Forcing his eyes back to Rutland, he held his hand out, much the way Eleanor had a short while ago. “I cannot thank you enough.”

For the marquess’ waving off what he’d done this day, he’d turned over a fortune when most men would have exploited Marcus’ weakness.