To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(94)

Marcia gasped and scrambled over Eleanor’s lap. She yanked the curtains all the way open. “Marcus!” Excitement rang in her tone.

Such unabashed love and happiness lit her daughter’s eyes, that tears blinded Eleanor’s vision, blurring Marcus as he strode the remaining distance to their stopped carriage. Reaching past the driver, Marcus boldly drew the carriage door open. His muscle-hewn frame shrank the space in the carriage as he leaned inside and looked about. His gaze locked with Eleanor’s and the breath stuck in her chest at the heated intensity of his stare. She desperately tried to make out the veiled emotions there. Did he despise her now as much as he had then for leaving? Even as he knew the reasons for her flight? Then he reluctantly moved his attention over to Marcia.

He sketched a bow. “Hullo, Miss—oomph.”

Marcia flung herself into his arms and he lurched back under the unexpectedness of that assault. With the ease of any natural father, he closed his arms about the bundle in his arms, and a fluttering danced in her belly as Eleanor fell in love with him all over again. She fell in love with him not with the innocence of a young girl but rather with the heart of a woman who’d known pain and suffering and the power of love in healing.

“Are you here to save us from the highwaymen, Marcus?” Marcia chirped excitedly.

With his elegant white-gloved finger, he tweaked her nose. “Are there highwaymen about?”

She nodded seriously. “There must be.” Marcia dropped her voice to a less than conspiratorial whisper. “Mama was so scared.”

“There are no highwaymen,” Eleanor said softly.

Emotion lit the blues of his eyes and his throat worked. At his protracted silence, Marcia took his face between her hands and squeezed. “Why are you here, Marcus?”

He is here for me… nay, for us…Her daughter’s mouth formed a small moue. “You aren’t a highwayman, are you?” she breathed, wonder and excitement which would surely one day be the death of Eleanor, sparkled in her expressive eyes.

When at last he spoke, there was a gruffness to his tone. “I am afraid to disappoint you but I am nothing more than a mere, dull viscount.” There was nothing mere or dull about him. From the crooked half-grin to his ability to charm and cheer young girls to dowagers, he was a man who commanded notice. He looked over the top of Marcia’s gold curls and their gazes caught and held. “I am here because your mama has something that belongs to me and I have something to give to her.”

Setting Marcia on her feet outside the carriage, Marcus stared at Eleanor for a long moment. His gaze went to the page in her hands and she swallowed hard, pulling it close. “Wh-what is it?” What game did he play? And to what end?

“Surely you know.” Marcus’ voice was low and soft, thickened with gentle warmth that fanned her heart. “You left and you took my note from the archbishop.”

She blinked several times and then dropped her gaze to the page. Wordlessly, she held it out, and the air left her on a swift exhale as he tugged her out of the carriage and into his arms. Lowering her to the ground so her body slid down his frame, he held her close. “You took my heart, and my happiness, and my very reason for being.” Raw emotion roughened his tone and tears sprung to Eleanor’s eyes. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out an oddly shaped velvet case. Eleanor watched as he withdrew a gold heart pendant with a filigree setting. “This was given to me,” he murmured. “I was told the legend behind this necklace will earn the heart of a duke.”

Did he believe she could ever want the heart of anyone but him?

“Are you giving my mama that pretty necklace so she can find a duke?” Marcia piped in.

He dropped to his knee beside her daughter. “Well, you see, there is more to this necklace. It doesn’t truly win the wearer a duke’s heart, but rather, it brings love to the woman who wears it.” Marcus looked meaningfully up at Eleanor.

“Marcus, p-please,” she whispered, that aching plea catching with the force of her desire for eternity with him.

“I would tell you a story,” he said gruffly, shoving up to his feet. “It is the real reason I’ve come all this way, you know,” he said to Marcia who giggled at the thought. “Once upon a time, there was a king who lost his wife.”

“Orfeo!” Marcia exclaimed behind them.

He nodded, looking at Marcia. “This story is much like that one. You see, an evil man found the queen under a cherry tree and took her far, far away from the king who loved her so much. The king searched years and years for her. He never gave up hope that he would one day find her.”

A tear trickled down her cheek. “But he hated her while she was gone.” For that was the truth he’d not speak on, but that animosity and resentment had been there.

“He hated how empty his life was without her,” he corrected. He dusted a hand over his mouth. “He hated that he’d once been happy and that she was gone. He hated himself for not being worthy enough to hold her at his side.”

Another tear sailed down her cheek. Followed by another. And another. Is that what he’d believed all these years? He’d seen a flaw in himself as the reason for her departure. How many years had she spent protecting Marcus from the horrors of that night in Lady Wedermore’s gardens? Just then, she hated herself for having ever filled a man so wholly honorable and devoted and good, with doubt in himself.