To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke #8)(95)

Marcia’s perplexed voice slashed across Marcus’ telling. “Why is there so much talk about hatred in the story? Isn’t it a fairytale about love?”

Yes, because with a child’s eyes, mind, and soul, the world was a fairytale where there was no hatred or darkness or sadness. There was only love and eternal happily-ever-afters.

Eleanor tried to force out a reply suitable for a child’s ears.

“It is,” Marcus supplied for Eleanor. “For you see, this king loved his queen so desperately, he battled all for her. Even the darkest demon who stole her away all those years ago.”

A little sob caught in her throat. She shook her head. For it wasn’t possible.

“It is possible,” he spoke with a quiet insistence and his breath fanned her lips. How harmonious their thoughts had always been. “He slayed the demon of her past.”

“How?” she whispered. How when Atbrooke would always be present, in the shadows, lurking in wait to shatter Marcia’s existence and, with that, Eleanor’s every happiness.

“Yes, how?” Marcia urged, giving another impatient yank of his fabric.

“The man who took the queen was very selfish and greedy. He lost all his money and wealth to the king. The king promised he could live, if he allowed the queen and king to live in happiness.”

Her heart tripped a beat and Marcus gave a meaningful nod.

“So he sent him far away?” Marcia’s excited question fed those on Eleanor’s lips.

Marcus nodded. “He sent him away. But the queen still was sad and scared.” Tears misted her vision and blurred his beloved visage at his thinly veiled words spoken of a fictional queen. “She’d been taken away once and feared her happiness would be stolen, again. Do you know what she did, Marcia?” With the backs of his knuckles, Marcus wiped the tears from her cheeks. The task proved futile as those warm, soft drops continued to fall.

“What did she do?” Marcia pleaded.

Marcus stilled that gentle stroke and she mourned the sudden loss of his soothing caress. “I don’t know,” he said sadly.

No! The silent cry ricocheted around her mind. She needed the end of that story, needed to know how the fate of those two once tragic figures ended, how their lives turned out.

Marcia stamped her foot. “You don’t? Surely you muust.” Disappointment stretched out that last word.

He shook his head regretfully. “I am afraid not. I am afraid only your mama knows the end of this story.”

Warmth suffused her heart and the air left her on a slow exhalation. With her daughter staring on, and the driver as their witness shifting awkwardly on his feet, Marcus had put their future into Eleanor’s hands. So long, she’d perceived herself as powerless; at the mercy of a cruel man in a cold world. Marcus, however, stood asking her to love, to trust. “What if he returns?” The ragged whisper danced about them.

“Then we will face him together,” Marcus pledged softly, drawing first one hand and then the next to his lips.

With the gift and promise he dangled before her, she closed her eyes wanting to grasp it, wanting to hold it close, and face forever with him at her side. “I ordered the carriage stopped,” she said at last, opening her eyes and bringing the fairytale back to the now. “I could not leave.” If she had, she’d have spent the remainder of her days hating herself for her weakness, hating herself for not believing in Marcus. In believing in them, together.

“I know you did.” Marcus palmed her cheek. “Just as I knew you would not leave me again.”

“How does the story end, Mama?” her daughter asked with a girlish exasperation.

Forcing her eyes open, Eleanor held Marcus’ endless blue gaze teeming with love. “Why, how all fairytales end, love,” Eleanor said with a watery smile. “With a happily-ever-after.”

Marcus grinned. Lowering his head, he claimed her mouth in a gentle meeting that promised forever.





Epilogue


Two nights later

Spring 1818

The problem with weddings is that they ended, as did wedding breakfasts, and when they were all concluded and the house empty of the handful of guests celebrating said wedding, all that remained—was the wedding night.

Eleanor made a show of reading the pages of Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s work on her lap. With the fire crackling and snapping in the hearth and Marcus at her side, his head bent over the copy given him of King Orfeo by Marcia earlier that morning before she’d gone off with Aunt Dorothea, they presented quite a bucolic picture.

The words of the page blurred together. Perhaps this was how they’d spend their wedding night. Perhaps there would be no climbing abovestairs and seeking out their chambers, and undressing and—

“Would you care to go abovestairs?”

Eleanor shrieked and the book tumbled to the floor where it landed indignantly upon its spine. “N-now,” she croaked. “H-have you finished reading for the night? S-surely you have more pages left about King Orfeo? Or are you not enjoying it?” she asked on a rush when he opened his mouth to speak. “Or perhaps you’d care for another book.” She searched about the expansive library, which certainly offered many selections. Filled with a building panic, Eleanor jumped to her feet just as Marcus spoke.

“I would go abovestairs with my wife.”