To Trust a Rogue (The Heart of a Duke Book 8) (31 page)

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.

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.

Two nights later

Spring 1818

T
he 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.”

She swallowed at his husky, mellifluous baritone. It ran over her like a warm summer sun. And there was nothing terrifying in that tone. This was Marcus, whose kiss she’d craved and even now…whose kiss made her heartbeat wildly erratic. She closed her eyes. But then, it was never Marcus she’d feared.

He settled his hands on her shoulders and her eyes flew wide. She stiffened and braced for that kiss, praying for the wildly erratic beat and not the long ago memories that once haunted her. He touched his lips to the corner of her temple. The caress was so gentle, so soothing, that the tension drained out of her.

Eleanor leaned against his back. “I am scared,” she conceded, taking the strength provided in his arms. And for the fear, there was something freeing in actually giving those words truth. It was her fear and it would always linger at the back of her mind, but she was no longer that scared, silent woman who’d been claimed by the darkness of that night.

“I know, love.” He placed another kiss against her temple and then tucked an errant blonde curl behind her ear.

“I-I know it is s-silly,” she whispered, as he trailed kisses down her cheek, worshiping her with his questing mouth, and settling his lips at the place where her pulse pounded madly from her need of him and her fear of what that would entail. “I-I am not a virgin,” she prattled. She hadn’t been a virgin for eight years. “I-I birthed a daughter.” And yet her teeth chattered with a virgin-like fear of their inevitable coupling.

Marcus swung her into his arms and pulled her against the protective shelter of his chest. “It is not silly.” His chest rumbled and she turned her cheek against the soft fabric of his lawn shirt. She inhaled deep of the purely masculine sandalwood that clung to him, finding a calming peace in the familiar scent that was his and no other’s. It was a smell that did not belong to her terror and the nightmare of her past, but entirely to Marcus, and she breathed in the pureness of it, letting it fill her lungs, and blot out remnants of another.

Marcus captured her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipped it up. “You are as innocent now as you were eight years ago, Eleanor, and I would be the man to show you how beautiful lovemaking can be.”

She caught the inside of her cheek, aching to cling to that offer he made, and tearing from the room in terror for what that might entail.

“Trust me.” And the simplicity of his gentle urging drove back the fear.

As though he carried nothing more than a sack of Cook’s flour, he made his way from the room and through the quiet, now darkened, corridors. The candle’s glow flickered from the satin wallpaper and she swallowed. “Marcus, someone will see.”

“The servants have been dismissed for the night.”

Her heart thudded with panicked dread as he mounted the stairs. “But—”

“My mother and sister have departed for the country.” He dropped his chin atop the crown of her head. They reached the top of the landing and his smooth, even breaths gave no indication of the burden in his arms. “It is only we two tonight, Eleanor.”

She closed her eyes and counted her deliberately drawn breaths. That truth should calm her and yet… He stopped outside a closed door. Her palms dampened as she forced her eyes open. The door stared threateningly back at her. It was just a door. A wood panel, really. She shook. Yet, it was what stood on the other side of that panel that sent fear dancing in her belly. Eleanor shook her head. “I am bound to disappoint you, Marcus,” she said on a rush. “You have been with so many women and they were experienced,” and not afraid, “and brought you pleasure and I hate it, and—”

Marcus touched his fingertips to his lips, gently silencing her terrified ramblings. “This night belongs to you, Eleanor Gray.”

Eleanor Gray.

Her heart skipped a beat. After years of taking a fictitious name and assuming it as her own, Marcus had conferred an honorable name, given in love.

He brushed his thumb over her lips now turned up in a smile. “That is better, love,” he said. Reaching past her, he pressed the handle and stepped inside.

Eleanor’s breath hitched as he closed the door behind them. The inviting fire glowing within the hearth cast a soft light upon the room. A pink rose-petal path stretched out the length of the room, leading to a wide, four-poster bed sprinkled with those gentle blooms. “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered, palming his cheek.

Wordlessly, he carried her across the room and then, as though he handled a gift of the Queen’s china, he lowered her upon the downy soft mattress. She pushed up on her elbows as he shrugged out of his jacket and tossed the elegant black garment. It sailed to the floor in a silent heap. She wetted her lips, her heart pounding in a frantic beat.

Except, this moment was not born of fear of the past or what was to come, but rather a breathless anticipation for what was now before her. Marcus lay beside her, propping himself on his elbow and slowly touched his lips to hers.

Eleanor’s lids fluttered closed and she turned herself over to the slow growing warmth spiraling in her belly and spreading out. Then, as fleeting as a butterfly’s caress, he broke that tender contact. He moved to the edge of the bed and knelt at her feet. “What…?”

Her heart caught as he delicately drew off first one slipper and then the next. He set them down beside each other at the side of the bed and then drew her foot to his mouth. Bowing his head over it, he placed a kiss upon the top and worked those gentle caresses up to the point where her ankle met her leg. He worshiped the deliciously sensitive skin at the inner portion of her foot until a breathy little moan escaped her.

For the ways she’d been violated, she’d not truly been touched, not in the questing way Marcus unfurled the now mythical secrets of her body, and not in the heat building like a slow conflagration within. Like unwrapping a carefully wrapped gift, Marcus drew her stockings down and laid them on the floor beside him. With the night air cool on her flushed skin, Marcus massaged the muscles of her calf until her eyes slid closed of their own volition at the luxuriousness of that tender touch.

She shot them open once more as he continued to move those questing kisses along the lower portion of her leg. His breath tickled and caressed her skin, and sent shivers of anticipation racing at the point of contact. Eleanor bit the inside of her lip and turned herself over to sensation. “Wh-who would have i-imagined that a l-leg could elicit s-such a response?” she gasped.

A golden curl tumbled over his brow and he paused in his ministrations to favor her with a half-grin that sent her heart skittering.

“W-well, I-I suppose it is not my leg eliciting the response, but rather your l-lips.” Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Stop rambling, Eleanor Elaine. Stop rambling.
Then, “I-I suspect the ladies you usually take to your bed d-don’t ramble in this manner.” Which only conjured unwanted, insidious images of Marcus with another woman; beautiful and eager in the ways he’d hope, taking him in her arms. And Eleanor hated all those faceless, nameless creatures who’d earned him the reputation as rogue.

The floorboards shifted as Marcus stood. Eleanor lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling overhead, not taking her gaze from the pale blue plaster as Marcus came down beside her. They lay with their shoulders touching, staring up at that same blue paint.

“I love you.” The deep rumble of his gentle baritone went through her. The bed dipped, as he levered himself onto his side. He stroked a hand over her cheek and she leaned into that soft caress. “I’ve only ever loved you,” he continued with an earnestness that sent another round of butterflies dancing in her belly. He brought his lips to hers and she turned her mouth up to receive his kiss, when he froze. Their breaths danced and melded.

She looked questioningly at him.

“I will never hurt you, Eleanor. If you want me to stop, whenever that moment may be, you need just say the word. That control belongs to you and I would never violate that gift.” He touched his nose to hers. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

Love suffused her heart, lifting the organ that had always belonged to him. He would not consummate the marriage unless she ordained that act. Rather, he would wait until she was ready to trust herself to him with this sacred gift. “Oh, Marcus,” she whispered and kissed him.

His body jerked and then he met her mouth in a tender exploration. As he slid his tongue inside, there was no pain or ugliness, but all the glorious desire she’d always known with him. Heat pooled in her belly and spread lower, and an incessant ache built between her legs.

He drew back and she silently cried out at the loss of him but he only moved his mouth, tormenting and tantalizing so that her breath came hard and fast. He worked a path of teasing kisses from her neck, lower, and ever lower to the neckline of her gown. Unhesitant, he placed his lips there and worshiped the skin so the fire grew within, spreading like a fast-building conflagration.

Eyes closed, Eleanor turned herself over to feeling. She breathed in the heady masculine scent that clung to his skin, fixed on his broad, powerful hands as he guided her upright, and then mourned the loss of his questing mouth.

“I want to feel the satiny softness of your skin, to worship you as you should be worshiped,” he said, his whisper a promise.

Tension flickered to life, as he unfastened the pearl row of buttons that ran the back length of her gown. But he placed his hands upon her shoulders and caressed her neck with his lips and desire tamped out all fleeting doubt and fear. Shoving the sleeves of her pink dress down, he slid it past her hips, and Eleanor kicked it aside, exposed, as she’d never been, naked to his gaze.

He studied her through hooded lids and she shifted under the scrutiny. The veiled expression gave no indication of his thoughts and then he spoke in tortured tones. “You are so beautiful, Eleanor. I have longed to know you in this way, in every way, since the moment I saw you smiling on the sidewalk.”

Marcus drew her into his arms and she melted into the hard wall of his chest. Her nipples pebbled against the front of his lawn shirt; the over-sensitized flesh stirred that burning ache between her legs. He cupped her breast in his large, naked hand and she drew in a shuddery breath.

Even in their youth, she’d never known the joy of his hand on her naked person. There was something wicked and wonderful and endlessly beautiful in the intimacy of his touch.

Marcus stilled and peered questioningly at her. He made to withdraw, but Eleanor placed her hand over his and held him close. Their chests moved fast to a matched harmonious beat. Then he leaned down and brushed a faint kiss over the erect nipple and Eleanor drew in a shuddery breath through her teeth.

“M-Marcus…” And lest he do something maddening and foolish like stop, she wound her fingers in the luxuriant, unfashionably long, golden tresses and held him in place, wanting him to continue, needing him to go on forever. And then God help her, he did. He drew the sensitive, swollen tip into his mouth and sucked. Desire mobbed her senses. She undulated against him, desperate to appease the agonizing ache between her thighs. And because Marcus had always known everything there was to know about her, he palmed the soft thatch of curls shielding her womanhood. A long, whimpering moan slipped from her lips, endless, as he delved a finger gently inside, teasing, and caressing so that her whole body was attuned to nothing more than the incessant ache that only Marcus could satisfy. “Marcus, I want…”

Except, she didn’t know what she wanted. For years, she’d believed lovemaking an act of shame and pain, and yet there was only beauty and wonder in Marcus’ touch. In the way he drew her erect nipple between his teeth and tortured that bud, all the while he slid another finger inside. Eleanor’s hips shot off the bed and she cried out.

“That is it, love,” desire hoarsened his voice and there was something heady in rousing that hunger in him.

Emboldened, she began working his shirt up his body.

He groaned and stayed her movements. “Eleanor, what are you doing?”