To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(91)

The man’s eyes went wide. “What is that?” he rasped.

Pasting a hard, unforgiving smile on his lips, Marcus elucidated. “It is your debt, Atbrooke, transferred from Lord Rutland to myself. I own you and I will see you in Marshalsea.” The color leeched from the marquess’ flushed cheeks and Marcus relished the tangible sight of his terror; the trembling lips, the chattering teeth. “You will end up in a cell with other worthless bastards like yourself, feeding with the rats, and pleading with your gaolers.”

Atbrooke clasped his hands to his throat. “You cannot.”

He widened his smile. “I can and I will. Or….” he paused, allowing that word to linger. “Or you can leave. You can take yourself off and get the hell out of England. If you ever return, I will meet you at dawn and I will gladly end you.” There were, after all, other ways to ruin a man that went beyond the polite pistols at dawn Eleanor worried over. “Are we clear?” he infused a lethal edge to that whisper and earned a juddering nod.

Tears streamed down the cowardly bastard’s cheeks. “But where will I go?”

“I don’t give a goddamn where you go.” Marcus spat on the marquess’ boots and then stuffed the vowels back into his jacket front. “You have until tomorrow morning, and if you are not gone, I will see your debts called in. I will sully your name with the truth of who you are so not a single desperate mama would ever accept you now or ever. Are we clear?”

“A-abundantly,” the marquess slurred, his lower lip trembling.

Without a backward glance, Marcus turned and marched out of the room. He strode down the hall, as rage spiraled through him.

“Lord Wessex.”

He cursed as Lady Marianne stepped into his path, a saucy grin on her crimson lips. She ran her long fingers down the lapel of his jacket. “I take it you’ve spoken to my brother.”

Marcus stiffened. “I did.”

She leaned up on tiptoe and he turned his head so that her kiss grazed his cheek.

A husky laugh bubbled from her lips. “Come, we are permitted certain liberties now that we’re betrothed.”

He choked. “You misunderstand,” he retreated, putting distance between the grasping lady and himself. By two dances more than three weeks ago, she had ascribed more meaning to his intentions…but then, if Eleanor had not reappeared, I would have pursued more with this lady. I would have found myself a member of this nest of vipers. Bile stung his throat as he imagined calling Eleanor’s rapist, brother-in-law. “I am marrying Mrs. Collins.”

That admission wrung a shocked gasp from the young woman. Disbelief flitted across her face and she at last looked to his bloodstained hands. Atbrooke’s sister shook her head in a befuddled manner and then quickly yanked her gaze up to his. “Marrying her?” she squawked. “But I thought…” She veiled her lashes and drifted close. “Why would you marry her, when I can bring you so much pleasure?” Lady Marianne layered her palms against his chest. “More than you ever knew possible,” she promised, wrapping her tone in a sultry, seductive whisper.

He disentangled her hands from his person. “I am sorry you believed there was more there, my lady, but my heart is otherwise engaged.”

All warmth extinguished from her brown eyes. Fury glinted hard in the gold flecks, and the icy glare transformed her into a thing of ugliness. “She is a poor widow with nothing to offer you. Allow me to give you babes of noble birthright, and she can be your bit on the side.”

His lips pulled back in a grimace of loathing for this grasping woman who was too much a fool to see that Eleanor, with her courage and strength, was far nobler and of more honor than all the peerage combined. “She can offer me her heart and that is all I require,” he said quietly. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Her cry echoed off the walls. “I made friends with your pathetic sister,” she hissed. “I was her friend when no one else gave a jot about her because of you.”

He balled his hands. His innocent, friendless sister would know hurt at this woman’s treachery. How many members of the Hamilton family had brought pain to those he loved? At last, however, they would be free of their evil. In time, Lizzie would come to know that.

Marcus continued walking, with the lady spewing vitriolic curses in his wake, away from this house of ugliness and toward his future.





Chapter 23


Knuckles bruised, sore, and swollen from the beating he’d dealt the Marquess of Atbrooke, Marcus carefully lifted his hand and rapped on the front door of the Duchess of Devonshire’s door. His other hand lay at his side, clasping two branches; meager offerings, but ones he’d no doubt she would prefer above all others. He clasped his hands at his back and waited.

That had always been the manner of woman Eleanor had been. She’d never craved pretty compliments and fancy baubles the way the Marianne Hamiltons of Society had. Rather, she’d been content with the simplistic beauty to be found in the world around them.

Marcus pounded again at the door. And waited. He frowned. And continued waiting. What in blazes? With a quiet curse, he lifted his hand and knocked once more, ignoring the pain that radiated from his bruised knuckles.

Just then, the butler pulled the door open, and for the hell that had been that entire day, a smile split his lips. “My lord,” he greeted, dropping his gaze to the ground. He motioned Marcus inside.