To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(92)

Marcus did a sweep of the foyer, seeking out the mischievous little girl so often hiding from her nursemaid. Disappointment filled him at finding Marcia absent. “I am here to see Mrs. Collins,” he said while reaching for the fastening of his cloak.

His fingers froze involuntarily at the red color that filled the servant’s cheeks. A niggling of unease pitted in Marcus’ belly as this moment, merged with a long ago day.

“That will be all, Thomas.”

Marcus whipped his gaze up and found the duchess at the top of the stairs. With the aid of her cane, she started slowly down. Her dogs raced ahead and danced excitedly about Marcus’ feet. “Your Grace,” he offered belatedly, dropping a bow.

She stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waved off the pleasantries. “You are too late, my boy. She is gone.”

The ground shifted under his feet and his stomach lurched. “Gone?” The inquiry ripped from him.

Too late.

“Left but an hour ago.” The duchess reached into the pocket sewn along the front of her silver satin dress and extracted a note. “She asked I give you this.”

Another note.

He stared dazed at that folded sheet; the unerring similarities sucking all logical thought and filling him with a cold emptiness. The branches slipped from his fingers and sailed to the floor. Wordlessly, Marcus took the page. He unfolded it, knowing even as he did what would meet his eyes.

Years ago, upon discovering Eleanor’s betrayal, those words hastily written on a page, Marcus had believed that more words from the lady would have wounded less. Staring at them now, with her delicate, slashing strokes filling the page, he now realized—nothing would have ever dulled that pain. In her leaving, the same vicious agony of loss slashed through him.

Marcus crushed the page in his hands. This time, she’d given him a goodbye, but he’d foolishly convinced himself he had more than a handful of hours. Once again, she’d left.

But by God, she didn’t get to leave this time without him having a say in their future.



The Duchess of Devonshire’s black barouche hit another hole in the old Roman Road and tossed Eleanor against the side of the carriage. The book given her by Aunt Dorothea tumbled to the carriage floor and lay forgotten. Eleanor steadied herself and then flung her arm around Marcia’s shoulders. They’d been traveling for more than an hour now and, with each mile passed, put London further and further away. The agony of again leaving him did not go away.

Instead, she sat huddled in the corner of her aunt’s barouche hating herself now, just as much as she’d hated herself eight years ago. She hated herself for running, again. She hated that she’d allowed herself to be a victim of the Marquess of Atbrooke’s scheming machinations. If it was only herself who’d be affected by Atbrooke’s threats, then she’d gladly face the devil at dawn. She’d been shamed in the most horrific ways a woman could be denigrated. And yet, there was, this time, others to consider; beyond even just Marcus. Now there was Marcia.

“I do not understand why we had to leave so quickly,” Marcia groused, favoring Eleanor with an accusatory glare.

No, she would not. Not for many long years would she gather the details that had sent them fleeing. And in the absence of any suitable words that would mollify her daughter, she asked, “Don’t you miss Cornwall?”

Marcia wiggled out from under her arm and scooted to the opposite bench. “No, I did not miss Cornwall.” Her saucer-wide eyes glimmered with anger. The show of anything other than Marcia’s usual cheer and joy gutted her. “I loved London and I loved Aunt Dorothea and I loved M-Marcus.”

Another piece of her heart broke off. “Oh, love,” she soothed, reaching across the carriage, but her daughter slapped her hand away.

“Weren’t you happy?” Marcia cried and the tears that welled in her expressive eyes cleaved Eleanor’s heart.

“Of course I was happy,” she said softly. And she had been. But it had never been about London or the bustling activity of the city or the grand opulence of her aunt’s lavish townhouse. It had always been about him. Her throat worked painfully. She’d been happy in ways she’d believed herself incapable. Marcus had once said, after Lionel’s murder she had taught him to smile and laugh again. Yet the truth was, he had taught her to smile. He’d reminded her of her own self-worth and, through that, she’d laid some of the demons of her past to rest. “We have to go home, Marcia. It is time.”

“Why?” Marcia cried and that desperate entreaty bounced off the carriage walls.

Eleanor claimed her daughter’s hands and gripped them tighter when she fought to tug them back. “I love Aunt Dorothea and I love Marcus,” she said, giving Marcia the truth that she deserved.

The anger went out of her little frame. “You do?” she whispered reverently, but then an angry scowl marred her features. “If you love him, then why did we leave? Why can he not be my papa?” Her lower lip quivered. “Did he not want to be my papa?”

Oh, God. Her heart breaking all over again, Eleanor plucked her daughter from the bench and pulled the girl onto her lap. She brushed a flyaway blonde curl behind her ear and struggled to speak past the pain of regret. “Marcus would have liked that very much, poppet.” Eleanor hugged her close, selfishly taking the warmth in her daughter’s small frame. “And someday, when you are older, I will explain it all in a way that makes sense.” Even as it would never be solace or comfort.