To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (18 page)

Marcus cast a glance over his shoulder. “Eleanor?”

Long ago, Eleanor had learned fear and desperation drove a person to do many things. She’d appreciated the extent of it when she’d fled London and shortly thereafter fashioned herself the widow of a soldier. With her father’s assistance, they’d moved away from all Eleanor had ever known in the hope for freedom and a new beginning.

With reluctance, she pulled her gaze away and diverted her attention back to Marcus. She had no right to ask him for anything and yet with her daughter’s innocent suggestion rooting around her mind, and the horror of this night, the words tumbled from her lips. “I’d ask that you stay beside me.” His eyes became dark, impenetrable slips. She drew in a slow breath. “Please.”

“Why?”

As she owed him at least one truth, for all the lies she’d given, she said, “Because I do not care to be prey for rogues who’d only seek a place in my bed.”

“By your admission, I am a rogue.” And one who’d been quite clear in his amorous intentions toward her.

“Yes,” she concurred. “But you’re different than the others.” He always had been and always would be.

She expected him to toss her request for help in her face and march off, relishing her discomfort while he himself sought the comforts of some other widow.

With a brusque nod, Marcus remained at her side. Together they stood, surveying the guests assembled by her aunt. They stood so close their bodies, their arms, brushed, and some of the terror roused by that monster who’d dared enter her aunt’s home receded. A liveried footman approached with a silver tray of fine French champagne. Marcus retrieved two glasses and handed one over to Eleanor.

“I do not drink spirits,” she held her palms up.

“Take the damned glass, Eleanor,” he mumbled.

“I don’t…” At his glower, she sighed and took an experimental sip. The bubbling spirits touched her tongue and slid down her throat, unexpectedly delicious. She took another sip and then another. For her twenty-six years, she’d never imbibed of anything so forbidden. Yet, with each sip, she had to admit on this score, Marcus had proven himself quite correct. “It is delicious.”

His lips twitched as she drained the remainder of her drink. He motioned over a footman and plucked the crystal glass from Eleanor’s fingers. Then he deposited the fragile piece upon the silver tray and rescued her another. “Slower,” he cautioned as he held out the next.

“I really shouldn’t.” She’d learned the dangers of doing the opposite of what she should be doing. Yet she accepted it, anyway. Sipping French liquor beside Marcus, the man who owned her heart, was the height of folly. Alas, it appeared an inherent flaw of her person. This time, when she tasted the champagne, her tongue warmed under the familiarity of the sparkling brew and her throat worked reflexively as she continued to drink.

“I said slower, Eleanor.” Concern glinted in Marcus’ eyes.

He spoke with the same concern he might show his sister, Lizzie. She swallowed. Oh, how she despised his brotherly tone. The French spirit proved potent, continuing to work its hold over her; it warmed her from the inside out and, with that, all her earlier trepidations lifted, replaced with an absolute rightness in being precisely where she was. Beside Marcus. As she’d been once and should always be. It also reinforced the rightness in enlisting his aid. “This is splendid,” she said on a sigh.

From the corner of her eye, his lips again twitched. Marcus angled his body closer to hers, shrinking the space between them. Eleanor braced for the slow-dawning horror; the terror of undying memories—but they didn’t come. She rounded her eyes. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. A giddy sense of excitement invaded every corner of her being and she briefly closed her eyes at the thrill of that discovery. How long had she dreaded being near any man? She’d allowed her attacker that power and control over her and yet, in this moment, she’d reclaimed an elemental piece of her life.

The creases of his brow deepened. “Why should you be afraid?”

There were all number of reasons. None of which had anything to do with him and everything to do with another. She’d not have him believe she feared him. Never him. Eleanor patted him on the hand. “Not you,” she assured him. “You are perfectly safe to be around.”

“Thank you,” he said with a dryness that made her smile. Or was she already smiling?

“You were already smiling.”

“Oh,” she blurted. “Did I say that aloud?”

He widened his grin. “You did.”

A bold gentleman in pale blue satin knee breeches approached. One glower from Marcus sent the dandy scurrying away in the opposite direction. Her heart thumped wildly in her breast.

A black scowl marred Marcus’ cheeks. Had he been anyone else, she’d have backed up in fear. But this was Marcus and she knew implicitly he never could, nor ever would, harm her. “Has Brantley given you a difficult time?”

“Brantley?” She followed his gaze to the rapidly retreating lord. “I don’t even know Lord Brantley.” Some of the tautness about Marcus’ shoulders, lessened. Nor did Eleanor care to know Lord Brantley. Or anyone. It could only be Marcus. “Will you meet me in my aunt’s library?” Urgency threaded that request. Without awaiting his reply, Eleanor pulled her fingers free of his arm. “Do not be late.” And with that, she lost herself in the crush of guests.

A short while later, Marcus strode down the duchess’ corridors. The tread of his footsteps silent as Eleanor’s breathless entreaty danced around his mind. The lady spoke of friendship and requested a private meeting, rousing old memories and painful hurts. For an infinitesimal moment, he’d entertained the idea of leaving her in that damned library as she’d once left him. But no sooner had the thought fully taken shape, he’d killed it dead. With her furrowed brow and troubled eyes, she’d boldly questioned whether he’d honor that meeting. Her fears were likely a product of her own faithlessness years earlier. Marcus slowed his steps. The lit sconces cast ominous shadows about the wall and he stared at the dancing orange flame as he confronted his weakness for Eleanor.

In the midst of a ballroom, with strangers as their witness, she’d whispered her request for help and, for all that had come to pass between them, he could not deny her entreaty. Perhaps hers was an apology, an apology he now knew she needn’t make. Perhaps it was the goodbye she’d owed him, years too late. He’d never again trust her, but neither could he cut her from his life.
I am a damned fool…
With a silent curse, he strode the remaining distance, counting doors, and then coming to a stop. He glanced down the corridor and then quietly pressed the handle and slipped inside the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the thick cloak of darkness that hung over the room and he blinked several times. His gaze locked on the flash of pale pink in the inky blackness.

Eleanor muttered to herself, wringing her skirts hopelessly. There was something so achingly sweet and innocent in that gesture; this new, unfamiliar habit she’d adopted in their time apart. He slowly closed the door, using the lady’s distraction as an opportunity to study her.

“Madness.”

Yes, they were of like opinion on that particular point.

What are you doing, Eleanor? Have you not learned your lesson?
She paused and squinted at the ormolu clock atop the fireplace mantle. “Where are you?” she muttered under her breath.

“I am here. Or is there another who—”

A startled shriek rent the quiet and Eleanor spun so quickly she lost her footing.

His amusement died and he took the room in five long strides. “Eleanor.” He dropped to a knee beside her. “Are you hurt?”

She sat sprawled with her skirts rucked and wrinkled, looking like the shepherdess who’d misbehaved. “Marcus. You startled me.” She glowered at him. “And you are late.”

“Am I?” He took in the sight of her, his gaze lingering on her trim legs, the muscles of her calves spoke of a woman who didn’t rebuff physical exertions. Friendship be damned. He wanted her with an even greater intensity than he did eight years ago. Then, he’d been a boy and she an innocent young lady. “Are you hurt?” he repeated, his tone gruff. Now, she was a woman, and he was just as powerless to her enigmatic pull.

Eleanor followed his stare downward to where it rested on her exposed legs and a gasp escaped her. She tossed her skirts down. “I am not.”

He mourned the delicious glimmer of her naked legs, those shapely limbs he’d never before seen—until this very moment. With a sigh of regret, he shoved to a stand and, in one movement, guided Eleanor to her feet.

Eleanor clasped her hands in front of her and drew in an audible breath. “The reason I’ve asked you here—” Her words trailed off as he touched a finger to her lips.

How very methodical she’d become. “Shh,” he whispered. She put requests to him, coordinated meetings, reprimanded him for being tardy, and then wasted little time with whatever had brought them together.

“But—”

“A drink first, Eleanor,” he murmured and strode over to the eccentric duchess’ sideboard. Marcus eyed the older woman’s collection of crystal decanters and selected a bottle of brandy. He held it aloft.

Her lips tightened, with what he’d wager his entire estate’s holdings, was disapproval. “Must you do that?” she snapped.

Yes, disapproval, indeed. By the fire flashing in her eyes, the lady did not approve of his drinking spirits. With a crooked grin, he pulled out the stopper. “I must.” He swiped a tumbler and turned it over. “We both must.”

Eleanor gritted her teeth so hard that the snapping of those porcelain-white, perfect rows filled the room. “I do not care to indulge in any more spirits this evening. I’ve already had two glasses of champagne.” Which
had
left her with a soothing warmth.

“You are not indulging,” he agreed. “You are having a glass. It is one of the freedoms afforded you as a widow.” Marcus resisted the urge to point out that there were any other number of wicked freedoms permitted now but the flash of fire in her eyes indicated that even one misstep on his part and she’d swiftly kill this meeting she’d called for. For some inexplicable reason—he needed to know. He tilted the bottle.

Eleanor sprinted across the room and knocked the glass from his hands, where it tumbled to the floor with a loud thunk. Fury emanated from within her eyes. “No brandy.”

With a sigh, he set down the bottle. “Very well.” Some of the tension seeped from her shoulders. “Sherry, then.” Before she could formulate a protest, he swiped a bottle and set to work pouring two glasses of the amber spirit.

She hesitated and, with a narrow-eyed gaze, stared at the contents of her glass, and then took a slow, almost experimental, drink. Her lips pulled in a grimace. “It is horrid.” But she took another sip anyway, and another, her attention trained wholly upon the glass clutched in her white-knuckled grip.

Studying her through hooded lashes, Marcus took a sip and looked at Eleanor over the rim of his glass. “You asked for a meeting? And now you have it.” Glass in hand, Marcus held it aloft in mock salute. “So tell me, what is it that has called you away from your throng of suitors?”

E
leanor stared at the pale droplets on the edge of her glass, transfixed by the lone, oblong shape as it slid down the side of the crystal, a teardrop falling to the bottom. The amber tear called forth all the fears of reentering Society and the need for a friend. Perhaps it was liquid fortitude, but she drew on Marcia’s suggestion from several days past. She drew in a slow breath. “My daughter said I require a friend.” Silence met her pronouncement and she glanced up to see if Marcus had heard her. “I said—”

“I heard you.”

“Oh.” She glanced into the contents of her glass once more. “You didn’t respond and so I believed you didn’t—”

“I heard you.” The hard edge to those words made her wince. This man was the same angry, bitter figure she’d crashed in to on the street days earlier. She could not put a favor to Marcus as he was now. She bit the inside of her lower lip remembering the stranger in the ballroom. Her palms grew moist and the glass trembled in her hand. Droplets of sherry splashed over the rim and she quickly finished the contents of her glass. Coupled with the previous champagne she’d drunk, it filled her with a warm, reassuring coziness—and fortitude. What choice did she have but to enlist Marcus’ support? With him at her side, she could face anyone. Including the monster of her past.

Noting her stare, Marcus sighed. “Forgive me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The correct response is, in fact,
why
do you require a friend?” And once more, he was the gentle, patient gentleman who’d won her heart.

“Well, everyone needs a friend, Marcus.” Apparently, by his silence, he was not of a like opinion. Did she expect him to declare his loyalty to her, affirming the bond they’d shared, greater than any she’d known since? The stilted quiet should be deterrent enough and yet, somehow, found the courage to press ahead. “I didn’t want to come here, you know.”

He stiffened.

“Not here, per se,” she motioned to the library. “To London, that is.”

“You enjoyed London at one time,” he pointed out.

Only because you were here.
How had he not known that? She would have danced happily within the fires of hell if it had been in his arms. She looked off to the cool, empty grate of the hearth. “Yes,” she murmured. But that had been a time before monsters and broken dreams. Eleanor gave her head a clearing shake. “That is not the case any longer.” Which was just one more reason nothing more could ever transpire between her and Marcus. A great chasm had formed between two people who, by birth alone, had already been cast into two very different worlds. Encouraged by his silence, Eleanor pressed ahead. “My uncle insisted I come.”

Marcus furrowed his brow. “Your uncle passed a year ago.”

With her rambling, she was making a muddle of this. “In his will,” she clarified. “He stipulated I…” She searched her mind. “Experience certain
things
.”

He propped his hip on the back of the leather button sofa. “Things?” he repeated.

“Yes.” She gave a wave of her hand. “He provided a list. There are six items on it, but I do not need your assistance with all of them,” she said hurriedly as his frown deepened. The more she spoke, the more lucrative her daughter’s plan sounded, and the less daunting her uncle’s list seemed. She spoke quickly. “My uncle left me ten thousand pounds.” Marcus choked on a strangled cough. “However, he requires I accomplish the tasks set out for me, and if I do—”

“The funds will be yours,” he said more to himself.

Eleanor nodded. “The funds will be mine.” And Marcia’s. They would never have to worry again or live in fear of the day when Eleanor was no longer able to serve as companion to Aunt Dorothea. Where would they go? Who would take a widow with a small child on to her household staff? She thrust aside the fears. There was no longer a worry as to that…as long as she saw to the list.

He eyed her warily. “And you do not wish to marry?”

“Oh, no. Not at all.” She’d rather pluck out her eyelashes than turn both her and Marcia over to some man’s control.

Marcus continued to study her in that perplexed, silent manner. Eleanor shifted back and forth. She really could use another glass of sherry.

“You most certainly do not require any additional spirits, Mrs. Collins.”

“Who?” Who was this Mrs. Collins woman he spoke of? A wave of jealousy slapped at her for this faceless creature.

“And by your tone, I take it you did not want any part of your uncle’s list.”

She’d rather dance with the Devil on Sunday. “I don’t,” she said with a matter-of-factness that produced a frown to his lips. “I thought you might help me…accomplish them, some of them, that is,” she amended. “As it requires the assistance of a gentleman.”

He ran his fingers in circles over his temple. “And that idea is so repugnant to you?”

Eleanor gave an emphatic nod. “Oh, yes.” She took another sip and then frowned at her empty tumbler. “Not you,” she said on a rush. “It is not repugnant if you are the one to help me.” She held out her glass and he hesitated a moment, then reached for the bottle and poured her another. “I’d rather not be bothered with gentlemen who have dishonorable intentions.” Which only roused unwanted reminders of those dishonorable sorts and she quickly swallowed down the sherry. Setting her glass aside, she reached for the unfinished tumbler in Marcus’ hands and took several long swallows.

He continued to study her with that inscrutable expression that gave no indication as to his thoughts. That expression really merited another sip of sherry. Eleanor tilted the glass back. “Eleanor,” he warned.

She closed her eyes a moment as the last of her fears slipped away, replacing it with the most delicious warmth. How had she not known how very wonderful a glass of sherry could be? What other pleasures in life did she still not know of? “I waaant you to be the gentleman to help me.” Eleanor blinked. Or was it Marcus who blinked?

Perhaps they were both blinking? No one had ever mentioned that sherry made one blink. A lot.

“You want me to what?” His words emerged strangled and Eleanor slogged through the thick haze upon her thoughts.

“I waaant what?”

His lips moved silently as though in prayer. When he spoke, his voice came out strangled. “You asked me to—”

“Help me complete myyy list,” she nodded several times in rapid succession. With two, she peered into her half-empty glass, correction, with two, nearly
three,
glasses of sherry her plan appeared more and more salient. She wrinkled her brow. “Court me,” she blurted. “Not court you. Ladies do not court gentlemen.” Though the Mrs. Mary Wollstonecraft her aunt had introduced her to would applaud such boldness. “Though you needn’t court me,” she said quickly when he plucked his now empty glass from her fingers and deposited it on the table beside him.

She frowned up at him. “That really wasn’t well-done of you, taking away my glass.”

His lips pulled in a smile and this was the grin of his youth; unjaded and sincere and she sighed. So wholly captivating. “It was mine.”

She sighed. “Was it?” Why, a smile such as his could drive back the very darkest nightmare.

He nodded once.

He’d always been a gentleman. Even one to let a lady steal his drink. “Charming. So charming.”

He widened his smile. “You find me charming?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely.” She grabbed for the bottle of sherry but he easily moved it beyond her reach.
Humph
. “Raaather, tedious. I find you tedious.”

He folded his arms at his broad chest. That slight movement stretching the fabric tight over his impressive biceps. “And yet you require the help of this tedious gentleman?”

And intelligent. He was clever to remember as much. “Indeed.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on his lips.

She looked sheepishly up at him. “Did I say that part aloud, as well?”

Marcus lowered his head close to hers and spoke in a none-too-subtle whisper. “You did.”

“Oh.” Eleanor worried her lower lip. “Well, you are clever.”

He touched a hand to his heart. “I am honored.”

She peered at him. No, it did not seem as though he was making light of her. She gave a pleased nod. “Will you help me then?

Would he help her?

Marcus cast a dubious glance up and down Eleanor’s charmingly flushed frame. Her cheeks were a tempting red from the heat of the room and the spirits she’d consumed. It was hard to deny her anything.

Or it would have been at one time.

Years later, her betrayal still fresh, he wanted to toss that request in her face. So why did he not? Why did he consider her plea?

She’d asked him to court her. In the light of a new day, with the sherry and champagne fog gone, she likely wouldn’t recall her ramblings or her request. But he would still recall the sneer on her usually innocent lips which spoke volumes on her thoughts of noblemen. Or was it marriage in general? He studied the silent lady before him and gripped his hands into tight fists, his knuckles drained of blood. With her defenses down, she’d revealed more than had she spoken to him in lucid, clear terms. The sincerity of that response brought forth insidious thoughts about the lady’s marriage; horrifying possibilities that she’d wed a bounder who’d made their marriage a miserable one. And yet none of it made sense. Not when she’d spoken of love.

“Will you do it?” Eleanor asked, pulling him back to the moment.

Marcus dragged a hand through his hair. “Come along.” He held out his hand and she looked at his fingers as though he’d dangled a snake before her eyes.

“You aren’t going to help me?” At her wide, stricken eyes, his heart tugged.

This was the lady’s power. Her hold was as strong now as it had been then. “I will think on it.” For the course of a moment before ultimately rejecting her request. “But you, Mrs. Collins, need to retire for the evening.”

She dug her heels into the carpet and remained rooted to the floor. “But you will think on it?”

“I will.” When she was sober and logical enough to realize precisely what she’d asked of him. And with that same sober morning logic, she would realize why he could not help her.

“Come along.” Marcus took her by the shoulders and gently guided her to the door. “We shall talk on the morrow, Mrs. Collins.”

Eleanor dug her heels in once more, slowing their path. She shot a perplexed look back over her shoulder. “Marcus, I do not care to be called by some other woman’s name. It isn’t what one does with a f-ffriend,” she slurred. “Ahh’ve decided that y-you aren’t to call me by that name, anymore.”

“And I’ve decided you are no longer allowed to imbibe in any form of spirits,” he muttered under his breath. He pulled the door open and looked out into the hall. Silence rang in the corridor with a distant clamor from the ballroom activity. Marcus stepped out and drew Eleanor out with him.

She glanced up and down the carpeted hall and then speaking on a loud whisper said, “Is there anyone here?” The lady sidled closer and her hip brushed his. His body leapt with awareness and he gritted his teeth.

“There is no one here,” he said tersely. “Here,” he urged, leading her to the back servants’ corridors. He pointed up the stairs. “I will make your excuses to the duchess.” He needed a mistress. Or an inventive actress. Someone who could distract him from Eleanor Collins’ allure. As soon as the thought slipped in, he kicked ash over it. No one would ever dull this hungering for her, except if he, at last, knew the pleasures of her body. “You turned your ankle.”

“I did?” A frown hovered on her full, bow-shaped lips. “That is dreadful.”

Despite the madness of this entire exchange, Marcus chuckled. “I am making your excuses.” A curl escaped her loose chignon and he tucked it behind her ear, lingering his touch on the satiny soft shell.

“Ahh, yes, of course.” She smiled. “How could I forget my foot? Myyyy ankle,” she weakly amended. Aren’t they really rather the same?” Eleanor tapped a contemplative finger against her lips and then quickly yanked up her skirts, drawing his gaze downward and God help him…a dull humming filled his ears at the enticing place where her trim ankle met her foot. “I suppose not,” she said answering her own question and he gave his head a disgusted shake. Lusting after a goddamn ankle. What manner of rogue was he? “A person can’t very well go walking with an ankle in place of a foot.” She lifted her arms up and her skirts settled noisily about her.