To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(90)

“Remember what I said,” he returned and accepted the offering.

Marcus bowed his head and then with a polite goodbye for the marchioness, he took his leave. The marquess’ words reverberated around his mind; the warning clear. He would turn himself over to love—as soon as he could be sure that Atbrooke would never threaten Eleanor and her daughter again.

Taking his leave of the marquess, Marcus drew his hat on and bounded down the steps to where a boy waited with the reins of his mount. Withdrawing a small purse, he tossed it to the lad. “Thank you,” he murmured and climbed astride.

He had but one more call to make this day…and then there could be, if not a total healing for Eleanor, at the very least some peace and assurance that she need never fear the Marquess of Atbrooke again.





Chapter 22


A short while later, the Marquess of Atbrooke’s butler ushered Marcus from the foyer and down the hall.

As he walked, a vitriolic hatred spun inside him. It filled every crevice of Marcus’ person until he tasted his seething animosity for the man whose company he now sought. He took in the chipped and cracked plaster walls, the threadbare carpets lining the floors, and reveled in even the small material discomfort the man had known. When it should have been far greater suffering.

“Lord Wessex!” The faint breathless cry brought him to an abrupt stop.

He stiffened, and angled around. Lady Marianne smiled that sultry, enticing smile and he fought down apathy for this woman who shared the blood of a beast. How had he ever entertained anything more with this one? “Lady Marianne,” he said brusquely. “If you will excuse me? I have a meeting with your brother.”

“La,” she pouted and flicked his sleeve. “Surely you can spare a moment for me.”

The butler discreetly dropped his gaze and a shudder of revulsion went through Marcus.

“I am here on a matter of importance,” he said curtly.

She flared her cat-like eyes and triumph glittered within their cold depths. “A matter of importance, do you say?” she breathed. With no regard for the servant at their side, the lady layered herself to him, and rubbed her breasts against his chest. “You will not be regretful in your decision, my lord. I promise you that.”

“Indeed, I won’t.” Then disentangling himself from Atbrooke’s sister, Marcus followed along after the butler.

They came to a stop outside the marquess’ office door and Marcus curled his hands, staring at the wood panel, wanting to take the door down with his fingers and choke the life from him.

The servant pulled the door open and announced him.

Atbrooke stood at the center of the room, a wide grin on his small lips. “Wessex, a pleasure,” he boomed, waving him in as his servant took his leave. “I suspect what has brought you here.” The man’s mouth moved as he spoke but Marcus remained frozen, rooted to the floor, staring at that mouth, torturing himself with the hell of imagining those lips on Eleanor’s, silencing her cries. “Would you care to sit?”

The marquess’ words came as though down a long, empty corridor. Marcus strode across the room and, without breaking stride, buried his fist in the other man’s face knocking him on his arse. He relished the crack as he shattered Atbrooke’s nose and the warmth of his blood cascading over his fingers as Atbrooke wailed.

“Wessex, by God—”

Marcus hauled him up by his lapels and, for good measure, planted him another facer that sent his head reeling. He jerked the other man to his feet and dragged him to his face. “If I did not give my word to not kill you, Atbrooke,” he seethed. Then with a violent bloodlust raging inside, he clasped his hands around the man’s throat and strangled off airflow. The man’s face turned a splotched red, and shades of blue and purple. God help him, Marcus wanted to kill the man. His breath came hard and fast. He wanted to end this bastard’s right to live. He released him suddenly and Atbrooke collapsed to the floor gasping for breath. “I would see you gladly at dawn and end your miserable, worthless life for what you did.” He leveled his fist into the man’s stomach and a sharp, guttural groan split Atbrooke’s cracked and swollen lips. “And I promise you, if you threaten my family again,” For that is what Eleanor and Marcia were. “Then I will finish what I started this day.” Chest heaving from his exertions, Marcus stared at the man’s prone form.

Yet, with the bastard’s blood staining his fingers and the piteous moans spilling from his lips, there was no sense of satisfaction. There was no vindication or triumph. For nothing could right the wrongs done eight years earlier.

Atbrooke struggled to push himself onto his arse. “Sh-she wanted it.”

Marcus buried the tip of his boot in the man’s groin, relishing the high-pitched squeal as Atbrooke writhed and twisted on the floor. He waited until the man quieted and then leaned down, shoving his face into the bruised and battered visage of Eleanor’s attacker. “You are not to go near Eleanor Collins or her daughter. If you so much as utter their names, I will make this morning appear a pleasant social call for what I’d do to you.”

Atbrooke continued to shudder and gasp, all the while glaring up at Marcus. “I have a right to the lady.”

By God, the man was relentless. No wonder Eleanor would rush off with her daughter to be rid of the man’s threats. He jammed his heel into Atbrooke’s soft belly and the air left him on a hiss. His breath coming fast, Marcus yanked the ivory sheet given him by Rutland and stuck it in Atbrooke’s face.