To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (28 page)

Marcia lifted an excited gaze to his. “And he even had a birthmark on his wrist, like mine.” She turned her hand up for his perusal.

Oh, God. Marcus’ eyes went to that crescent moon-shaped brown mark at the inset of her wrist. All the while, a dull humming filled his ears.

“Lord Wessex.”

The pair on the steps looked up as one. Thomas stood there. “Mrs. Collins will see you.”

Marriage license in hand, he shoved to his feet, and then held his other hand out to Marcia, who trustingly placed her fingers in his. “You should return to your lessons,” he said softly.

She sighed. “Yes. Mrs. Plunkett will be looking for me.”

Marcus watched as the girl made the slow climb abovestairs and then fell into step behind the butler. With each step, Marcus struggled to rein in the volatile rage coursing through him. He wanted to toss his head back and rail like a beast. He wanted to stalk from the townhouse, hunt down Atbrooke and shred him to pieces so that no remnants remained of the bastard who’d pinned Eleanor to the ground and taken the gift of her innocence.

Thomas stopped outside the White Parlor and announced him. “The Viscount Wessex.”

Eleanor stood at the empty hearth, staring down into the metal grate. At the introduction, she turned slowly to face him. “Marcus,” she said softly, pulling the brown leather book in her arms close.

He took in the ashen hue of her skin, the tight lines drawn at the corner of her mouth, and he
knew
. A heavy weight settled on his chest, like a boulder cutting off his airflow and slowly destroying him. She did not intend to wed him. He saw it in her empty eyes and the trembling fingers now plucking at her skirts. “Eleanor,” he murmured and closed the door behind them.

She stared at him with sad, guarded eyes, but said nothing.

He strode toward her, when she spoke without preamble. “I cannot marry you.”

Marcus staggered to a halt. “Why?” he braced for the same veiled, vague lies she’d fed him in the form of a handwritten note years earlier.

Her soft, shuddery breath filled the tense quiet. “Because I was foolish to believe my past did not matter. I deluded myself into believing I might never again see him and that Marcia would be safe.” She dropped her gaze to the book in her hands. “Of course it matters. It always will.”

Like navigating on a pit of quicksand, where one wrong move would mean ruin, he picked carefully about his thoughts. “It matters,” he said at last and that brought Eleanor’s head snapping up.

Her lower lip trembled. “I—”

Marcus closed the space between them in four long strides. “It matters, but not in the way you believe, or in the way you even now are thinking I mean, Eleanor Elaine. It matters because of the wrong done you. It matters that you were robbed of choice and right, and that another’s will was imposed on you.” Emotion roughed his voice. Gently disentangling the book from her tight-knuckled grip, he tucked the folded document inside, and set the volume down on a nearby side table forgotten. “Tell me why.” Because he needed the words to come from her, as much as she needed those words spoken.

When Eleanor had been a girl of ten, her father had taught her an American game of Hide and Go Seek shared with him by a fellow merchant. The first time he’d taught her, she’d raced to the spot of safety with her quick, agile father close at her heels. Her chest had burned with the exertions until it had been nearly impossible to draw breath.

Eleanor pressed her eyes closed and her chest rose and fell hard and fast. This moment felt remarkably like that long ago day. Since the Marquess of Atbrooke had upended her world for a second, irrevocable time, she’d been the same scared girl trying to muddle through his threats and the inevitable parting it would mean for her and Marcus. Staring at Marcus now, with palpable rage pouring from his tautly held frame, she’d little doubt that he knew the reason. And even knowing as he did, he’d hear the words and truth from her.

“Eleanor,” he urged with a gentle insistence.

A broken sigh slipped past her lips and she strode over to the window, putting much needed distance between Marcus and the dream she’d been so very close to attaining. And for that, she could no longer remain. “After I had been…after that night in Lady Wedermore’s gardens,” she substituted, for she was still too much a coward to lend words to that night. “There would be days I awoke in the morning. With the cloud of sleep, I would believe myself back in London and smile, filled with excitement of again seeing you.” She pressed her forehead against the crystal windowpane warmed by the sun’s rays. Marcus’ visage reflected back in the surface and she turned her gaze to the busy streets below. “But then, something would creep in. It would begin with a niggling in my mind, something prodding me, reminding me that my world was no longer the same, and then it all would come rushing back.”

She turned to face him. “The other night in the theatre, Marcus. That was my moment of waking with forgetfulness.” Eleanor offered him a quivering smile. “Today was the awakening. The reminder that no matter how much we wish it, or how much we will it, the past remains.”

“What are you saying?” There was a gruffness in his tone.

Emotion wadded in her throat. “I cannot marry you,” she whispered. If there was no Marcia, then she could face the scandal and gossip. Not now. Not with her daughter being the person who would suffer most. Once again, Atbrooke had stolen the happiness she’d imagined for herself and Marcus.

Tense silence thrummed between them. His gaze grew shuttered, but not before she saw the flash of rage and hatred.

Eleanor winced as those sentiments from their reunion in the London street not even a fortnight earlier flared to life, and a sliver of her soul died at the palpable sign of his apathy.

“Who?” he asked quietly.

She tipped her head. Of all the vitriolic words spilling from his lips, the last she’d expected was—

“Tell me, who are you afraid of?”

His knowing question sucked the breath from her lungs. The need to turn this burden over to him gripped her with a physical intensity and yet to do so would endanger the person whose very life meant more to Eleanor than her own. “I cannot.”

He firmed his jaw. “You
will
not, Eleanor. Those are two entirely different things.”

“What would you have me say?” she cried softly.

“The truth.” How very easy Marcus made it sound. She dropped her eyes to his cravat. How very simple and enticing and right, in giving him the answers to the questions he both craved and deserved. One faulty misstep, however, could threaten Marcia’s security and happiness. She chewed at her lower lip.

“Was it Atbrooke?” His quietly spoken question brought her head shooting up.

How very surreal to have this man she loved utter the name of her attacker. It let Marcus into her world in ways she’d fought so hard to keep him out.

“He called on me.” Did that faint whisper belong to her?

Marcus’ body jerked erect.

Of course, he’d not know how to make sense of that admission. Unable to meet his gaze, she glanced at the tips of her slippers. “The gentleman who…” Her throat worked spasmodically. “The…”

Her words trailed off as Marcus closed the space between them. With a tenderness that threatened to shatter her already fractured heart, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. Had he been demanding or inquiring, she’d not have found the courage to continue. There was, however, strength to be had in his patience. When so much had been forced upon her, Marcus once more offered her choice, and there was something heady and beautiful in that power he turned over to her care. “I will have your word. I will have your word when I tell you, you’ll not call him out, because I would share this with you.” She spoke on a rush. “But I’ll not share it if you intend to face him at dawn.”

For a long moment, Marcus remained silent. The grating ormolu clock ticked on so long she thought he’d ignore her request, but then a black curse burst from his lips. “You have my promise,” he gritted out.

“It was the Marquess of Atbrooke.” Her voice caught, under the weight of the mysteries she’d not herself known all these years until just a few short moments ago; about the man who’d raped her, and fathered her child. She buried her face in her hands and sucked in great big breaths at the freedom in sharing this with Marcus.

Marcus drew her against his chest and she buried her face in the fabric of his coat. The sandalwood scent clinging to him wafted about her senses and drove back the stench of brandy and evil. She turned her cheek against the white lawn of his shirt and absorbed his strength. “He has promised to allow me my,” daughter “secret, if I leave.”

Incredulity spilled from his tone. “And you trust him?”

For how could a dastard like the marquess ever be trusted to honor any pledges or promises he’d made? Eleanor curled her hands into tight balls. Ultimately, it was not her own future or security she wagered with, but rather Marcia’s. And for that, the decision had been made for her. “No.” She shook her head. “But it is no longer just my happiness I have to worry after.”

He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “You are not alone. I will stand by you.”

“And what of your sister?” she countered, taking a hasty step away. At his silence, she continued, relentless. “What match will she make when my past is revealed and Society learns there was never a Mr. Collins and Marcia is no more of legitimate parentage than I am a lady born and bred?”

Marcus captured her hands in his and turned them over. He raised them to his lips, one at a time. “So you will run, again, to protect my sister and Marcia? But who will protect you?”

Her heart skittered a beat. “We are not—”

He growled. “If you say you are not my responsibility—”

“He wants me gone.” She hesitated, recalling the marquess’ intentions for Marcus. “Lord Atbrooke would have you marry his sister.” She brushed an errant strand of hair from his forehead. “I have to leave, Marcus.”

“I’ll have no one as my wife, except you, Eleanor Elaine.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his right eye. He worked his powerful gaze over her face, as though he sought to imprint all of her upon his memory. “And I know you feel you must leave,” he said quietly, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “Oh, Eleanor, I have wanted you from the moment I first saw you eight years ago. I will want you until the day I draw my last breath.”

His words spoke to their parting and should fill her with a warm solace. He understood her need to leave and loved her still. Yet…agony shredded the already broken and bruised organ that was her heart. For the greedy, selfish part of her wanted him to want her to remain, regardless. She wanted him snapping and snarling at the prospect of her parting. What a horrible, contrary creature she was. Shamed by her own selfishness, Eleanor willed her lips up into a smile, and then held her hand out.

He eyed her outstretched fingers. “What the hell is that?”

She looked about and then followed his gaze to her trembling hand. “As it is goodbye,” again.
Oh, God, how can I leave him? How, when he is the other half of my heart?
“I am shaking your hand.”

Marcus captured her fingers and drew them close to his mouth. He placed a lingering kiss upon her hand. “Is that what you believe?” His breath caressed her skin and shivers of warmth radiated from the point of contact and spiraled rapidly through her being. “That this is goodbye?”

“Isn’t it?” she managed on a faint whisper.

He trailed his thumb over her palm. “You misunderstand me. I am saying goodbye to you for now. But I am coming for you. I will deal with Atbrooke and we will be free of him, and then you, Marcia, and I can be together.” He pierced her with his gaze. “And not even God Himself with an army of angels at his side could separate us.”

She gasped and Marcus kissed her hand once more. He turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlor and out of her life.

P
anicky rage lent jerkiness to Marcus’ movements. If he’d not left Eleanor when he did, the fury pounding away at his chest would have exploded from him. She’d entrusted him with the truth, the least he could give her was a calming response. So he pounded away at the unfamiliar front door.

Except, with the much-needed space between them, a torrent of emotions whirred inside him so that madness and sanity waged a war within. For now, he had the name from Eleanor’s lips, which had confirmed the truth he’d already suspected. He growled and pounded all the harder. He had a goddamn name and she’d expect him to not kill the black-hearted cad at dawn for the crimes he was guilty of?

He renewed his knocking, uncaring of the sea of passersby taking in his frenetic movements, uncaring that with his unkempt hair, the world now saw a man hanging off a cliff with nothing more than his nails and if he let go he would be forever destroyed. Marcus let fly a black curse and pounded once more. “Goddamn bloody—”

The door opened. An old, wizened butler stood peering at him through rheumy eyes. “May I help you?”

Marcus fished around the front of his jacket and withdrew a card. “Lord Wessex to see the Marquess of Rutland.”

The old servant eyed the card a moment and then accepted it in his gnarled, white-gloved fingers. He peered down at the name and seal emblazoned upon that card. “His Lordship is not—”

Marcus stuck his foot in the doorway and willed the other man to see with the ferocity of his stare that he was not leaving. “I would see Lord Rutland immediately.”

The servant hesitated a long while, and with a sigh, he moved aside and motioned him forward.

Lest the man change his mind, Marcus strode into the soaring foyer, dimly registering a lavish opulence to the home of one of the darkest, most feared, reviled, and scandalous lords in the realm. He’d not known what he’d expected; crimson fabrics and shocking murals, perhaps. But certainly not the innocent cherubs dancing in clouds of pastel overhead.

“I cannot promise His Lordship will receive you.” The older man’s reluctant tones spoke volumes.

Marcus gave a tight nod and waited as the servant shuffled off. By the devil and all his spawn, Rutland would see him. He’d take apart each goddamn room until the evil bastard granted him an audience and gave Marcus the only gift he needed.

As the moments ticked by, he yanked out his watchfob and consulted the timepiece. With a growl of annoyance, he stuffed it back into his pocket.

“His Lordship will see you.”

Marcus spun about and found the servant studying him. With a gruff murmur of thanks, he fell into step behind the ancient servant. The man moved with slow, shuffling footsteps. With the marquess’ notoriously ruthless reputation, Marcus puzzled that he would keep a man who was anything but quick in his employ still. The inanity of that musing kept him from focusing on the thirst for Atbrooke’s blood.

“Here we are,” the servant said with a slight wheeze. He pulled out a crisp white kerchief and dusted his brow. The man opened the door. “The Viscount Wessex to see you, my lord.”

Marcus did a sweep of the room and his gaze landed on the marquess. Seated behind a broad, immaculate, mahogany desk, the man with his head bent over a ledger evinced power. “You may go,” he said, not taking his gaze from his task.

The servant sketched a bow and then took his leave, closing Marcus in with the most dreaded lord in Society.

Marcus stood there, the forgotten visitor, as the marquess scribbled away at the page before him. He fisted his hands into tight balls at the grating scratch of the pen meeting paper. Periodically the marquess would pause, dip his pen into a crystal inkwell, and then resume that frantic pace of jotting notes upon a page. How coolly arrogant the man was. How unaffected, and how he hated this man, more stranger, than anything for that freedom from caring when Marcus’ world was in tumult.

A growl rattled in his chest, and the marquess froze mid-movement, scratched something else upon the page, and then tossed his pen down. Then with an aggravating meticulousness, Lord Rutland folded the page and affixed his seal. The message of his movements clear…he was in control and Marcus’ presence here was merely being tolerated.

“Rutland,” he bit out.

Lord Rutland leaned back in his chair. “Wessex.” The hard, noble features set into an impenetrable mask gave no indication as to what the widely reputed scoundrel was thinking, feeling, or whether he was even capable of emotion. He spread his arms wide, inviting Marcus to sit. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

With jerky movements, Marcus marched over and yanked out the leather winged-back chair at the foot of the desk. He settled into the seat. “I am here to request your assistance,” he said without preamble. Neither of them were friends and they were barely acquaintances. As such, there was no need for false pleasantries or niceties.

Rutland lowered his brow, but otherwise gave no indication that he’d so much as heard Marcus’ reluctant bid for help.

Marcus layered his arms on the sides of his chair and leaned forward. The leather groaned in protest. “You have a book.” Members of the
ton
, both polite and impolite lords and ladies all knew of the famed book. Purported to document the weaknesses and debts owed by the most notorious reprobates and letches, such a catalogue had once earned Marcus’ disgust and disdain. Now he needed words penned within those pages. Needed the book to be as real as it was rumored to be. “You have a book,” Marcus went on when Lord Rutland said nothing. “And I am in need of the name of one of the gentlemen who is surely on the pages.” He’d wager his very life ten times on Sunday that Atbrooke owed countless debts to the very man before Marcus now.

Rutland shuttered his gaze and then shoved to his feet. With a nonchalance that made Marcus grit his teeth, the marquess made his way to the well-stocked sideboard. He paused and looked at the crystal decanters, lingering over his decision, and then selected a bottle of brandy. He turned, bottle in hand, and hefted it in Marcus’ direction. “Brandy?”

“No,” he said tersely. The man was utterly mad. Marcus gripped the arms of his chair hard. But then, he was desperate enough that he’d appeal to the mercy of a madman stranger.

The clink of crystal touching crystal filled the quiet as did the stream of liquid as the marquess poured his snifter full. With the same casualness that had driven him to that sideboard, the marquess strolled back to his desk, and reclaimed his seat. He took a sip. All the while, he studied Marcus over the rim of his glass with an indecipherable stare.

“You were saying?”

Marcus swallowed back the impatient retort on his lips. It wouldn’t do to lash out at the one man who could help him in this moment. “A book,” he repeated impatiently. “You are rumored to keep a book of men indebted to you. There is one gentleman who is within those pages.” Fury thrumming inside him, Marcus snapped. “And I would have that man’s name. I would own his debt.”

Lord Rutland took another sip of his brandy and then cradled the glass in his large hands. “What business do you have with this man?”

The sole reason for Marcus’ happiness, Eleanor, was what would make Marcus humble himself this minute, and yet he could not share that with this ruthless stranger. “It is not your business.” The marquess lowered his eyes and Marcus turned his palms up. “But I have funds and will pay you whatever amount you name for the transfer of this gentleman’s weakness and debt.”

Rutland took another sip. And then, “I cannot help you.” There was a gruff quality to the man’s tone that hinted at a man who spoke to few.

Marcus sprung from his chair. “Whatever amount you name,” he rasped. He planted his palms on the surface of the desk and leaned across the impeccable surface, shrinking the space between them. “Any amount,” he repeated, forcing a calmness into that promise, when inside, his heart was thundering painfully in his chest.

The marquess stared at him for a long while, until Marcus reclaimed his seat. His skin flushed with embarrassment. But then, when a man loved a woman he would humble himself before a ruthless stranger.

Rutland rolled his snifter back and forth between his hands. “At one time, I would have gladly helped you, Wessex. I would have helped you because it would have strengthened my power and influence, and I reveled in that.” He shook his head. “But I am no longer that man.”

Marcus sank back in his chair. Married several months earlier, little was heard from the marquess, and now Marcus knew why. He swiped a hand over his face, a mirthless laugh lodged in his throat. The rogue, rake, and scoundrel had been reformed. Bloody hell. He let his hand fall to his side. “Do you love your wife?” he asked with a bluntness that earned him a lethal stare.

“Say what it is you’d say, Wessex, and get the hell out,” the other man commanded on a silken whisper that promised retribution should Marcus in any way threaten those he loved.

Marcus gave his head a clearing shake. “I am bungling this,” he muttered. “Do you love your wife?” he asked once more, his tone quiet and incessant.

Still, Rutland said nothing.

“I suspect your silence is your answer,” Marcus predicted and the vein pulsing above his eye indicated Marcus was one wrong word away from the other man charging over and pummeling him with his powerful fists. “I suspect you love her and you would do anything for her.” He spread his hands out. “There is a woman whom I am in love with.” Lord Rutland went still. “I would do anything for her.” He held the marquess’ impregnable stare. “Including humbling myself before you, a stranger.” Marcus dropped his gaze to the desk and his eyes collided with that half-empty brandy.

He stank of brandy…

For the knowing of Atbrooke’s identity made Eleanor’s agonizing telling, all the more real. Bile climbed up his throat and he choked it down. He wrenched his gaze away from that glass and found the marquess staring at him.

“The Marquess of Atbrooke would hurt her.” Hurt Eleanor when he’d already stolen so much from her. Marcus’ throat worked and, uncomfortable with that show of emotion, he coughed into his hand. “If I do not destroy the gentleman, he will destroy her, and she is all that is good and kind, and she is a mother, and…” He buried his head into his hands, helpless and unable to save her just as before. Suddenly, the futility in being here assaulted him and he jumped to his feet. “Forgive me for wasting your time with the affairs of those who do not concern you,” he said stiffly. Dropping a bow, he started for the door.

“Wessex,” Lord Rutland called out, bringing him back around. He motioned him forward. “Please,” he said quietly, gone was all earlier vestige of frigid guardedness.

Marcus hesitated and then as hope mixed with wariness, he reclaimed his earlier seat.

“I do not have a book.”

And with those words, Lord Rutland killed that hope. The marquess gave his entire focus to his glass. “Not any longer. Had you paid me a visit one year ago, I would have pulled out that tome, scratched your name inside, and handed over the information you wanted in return. I resolved to not be the man I had been and some of that,” he grimaced and yanked at his cravat. “
All
of that is because of the woman I married.”

By God, the speculative whispers about London proved true. The Marquess of Rutland truly loved his wife. Loved her enough that he wished to be more than the ruthless scoundrel he’d been. Then, wasn’t that the power of a woman’s hold? She made a man wish to be better than the person he was. “I am sorry I have wasted your time,” he said tersely. “If you will forgive me?” He made to rise, when Lord Rutland held a finger up.

“I did not say I would not help you.” His heart stilled. “I just will not help you in the way you believe. I want nothing from you,” the marquess said, his tone gruff. “I’ve no need for money or power, and nothing of the material which you may give. Atbrooke is an evil bastard.” A sardonic grin formed on the hard lips of Society’s most dreaded scoundrel. “And it is, indeed, quite a day when I identify others as such.” He smoothed his lips, killing all earlier hint of weakening. “I am not unfamiliar with his proclivities.” Had the man’s proclivities included forcing other young women as he’d done to Eleanor?

A blinding rage clouded his vision and he blinked it back, attending those words.

Lord Rutland pulled open his desk drawer. He shuffled through pages and then withdrew a single sheet. He slid it across the desk.

Marcus glanced down and then froze.

“You are wondering what I want from you? You’re asking what debt I’d exact for this favor?” The marquess shook his head. “The answer is nothing. I want the Atbrookes and Brewers gone from my life. The vowels are yours to do with as you wish.”

With numb fingers, Marcus picked up the sheet. He promptly choked. Eighteen thousand pounds the man was turning over. He eyed Rutland dubiously over the top of the page. “I don’t understand.”

A ghost of a smile hovered on the other man’s lips. “You are in love with your lady. As such, you understand. I’ve pledged to live a life that is good and I will not prey on others. So Atbrooke is yours to deal with.”

Marcus tightened his fingers reflexively upon the page. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely, studying the sum inked on the ivory velum. “I can never repay you.” Not for this kindness. Not for allowing Marcus to claim freedom from fear of this man’s machinations.