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

by Christi Caldwell

  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.

  He briefly mourned the enticing display of flesh. “What are you doing?”

  “If ah’ve fallen, shouldn’t you carry me?”

  And with her arms held out and the invitation on her lips, Eleanor’s husky contralto conjured all the most wicked, wanton dreams he’d carried for her. Marcus slid his eyes closed and prayed for patience.

  The soft tread of slippered steps brought his eyes flying open just as Eleanor wound her arms about his neck, clinging to him like tenacious ivy winding its way up a garden wall.

  Take her. Take her in your arms and rid yourself of the lady’s captivating pull…

  Why couldn’t he be one of those truly roguish sorts? He sighed. Alas, he wasn’t a total bastard that he’d accept the offering of an inebriated Eleanor. Marcus quickly disentangled her hands from his person. “Tired,” he gruffly amended. “I shall tell your aunt you were fatigued.” He reeled backward, seeking an escape from her hold.

  Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “Am I injured or tired?”

  “Tired,” he managed the hoarse utterance. “You are tired.”

  She sighed. “Very well.” Without a parting greeting, Eleanor swept through the doorway to the servants’ stairs.

  He embraced the much-needed distance between them, when her voice slashed through the quiet. “Do you know, Marcus? For all the rogue business and sneers and snarls since I’ve returned, you really are a gentleman—a true gentleman with honor and integrity. Not like all the other bounders.”

  Which bounders? He scowled. No doubt, a woman with an ethereal beauty to rival Aphrodite would have been pursued by countless gentlemen who’d put to her an indecent offer. Just as I’ve done… Guilt needled at his conscience.

  While he flagellated himself with guilt, Eleanor’s eyes took on a dreamy, far-off quality that sent warning bells clamoring. “Y-you’re the only man I’d let carry me, Marcus Gray. Are you certain you’ll—”

  He yanked at his cravat. “I am certain.”

  “Oh, very well.” At the forlorn note to those two words, he bit back a smile. Eleanor took her leave. And this time, remained gone.

  With the silence his only company and her request dancing around his thoughts, Marcus dashed a hand over his eyes.

  With her eyes and words, the lady had been all but pleading in her request for help and, yet, if he assisted her in completing the remaining items on that list, he risked being destroyed by her in ways he’d never recover. For his disavowal of the lady and their love, he’d proven he was not, nor ever had been, strong where Eleanor was concerned. The greatest risk she represented was to his heart and reason.

  The sound of footsteps brought him spinning around. His heart started. Eleanor’s daughter stood several paces away, a wide smile on her lips. He stood there frozen, eying this tiny, miniature replica of her mother.

  “Hello, Marcus.”

  He dropped a bow. “My lady.”

  A dimple filled her plump cheek as she skipped over. “Are you having the most splendid time?”

  Words escaped him and he stared, unblinking. Had she observed his meeting with Eleanor? On the heels of that horrifying possibility, he racked his mind to think of any improper or scandalous words he tossed at her.

  “I wish I was permitted to attend,” she continued, filling the void of silence with her child’s prattling.

  Of course. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders. “Indeed, it is a splendid time.”

  With a long, exaggerated sigh, she rested her cheek in her palm. “I saw but some of the ladies in their gowns. I was not quite close enough to make out the types of fabric. I believe most were in satin, but some were silk, and then Mrs. Plunkett came along and ushered me back to the nursery.”

  “Mrs. Plunkett?” he asked slowly, in a bid to keep up with the girl’s rambling.

  She nodded. “My nursemaid.”

  “Ah, of course. I was quite skilled at evading my nursemaids and tutors, as well.”

  Marcia folded her arms. “Yes, well, anyway, Mrs. Plunkett rushed me off before I could see any of the dancers. Have you danced this evening?”

  His arms throbbed with the memory of Eleanor’s lithe frame. “I did,” he said giving his throat a clear.

  “You are so lucky.”

  Yes, he had been.

  Marcia took another step closer. “Did you waltz?”

  “But once. With your mama,” he felt compelled to add.

  Her eyes lit up. “Truly?”

  He crossed his heart and then bowed deeply. “Will you honor me with the second set, my lady?”

  Marcia stifled a giggle with her fingers. “You are silly, Marcus. I do not even know the steps.” Nonetheless, she evinced her mother’s unwavering courage and climbed atop his boots, laughing uproariously as he awkwardly guided them about the floor.

  And as her childlike giggles peeled off the hallway walls, a vicious envy threatened to devour him; envy for the man who’d called her daughter and for the happiness they’d surely known as a family, and for the regret that Marcia was not, nor would ever be, his child. With reality rearing its ugly head, Marcus brought them to a stop. “You are a splendid dancer. Your father must have been a skilled partner.” He wanted to call the words back as soon as they left his mouth.

  Marcia shrugged. “I do not know. He died before I was born and Mama doesn’t speak of him.”

  He opened and closed his mouth several times. Yes, she’d mentioned that she’d not known her father and he’d erroneously assumed she’d been a babe. His mind raced to do the calculations. The sadness in her eyes stymied all questions. “Your mother is a splendid dancer,” he said, in a bid to drive back the girl’s solemnity.

  By the restoration of her gap-toothed smile, he’d succeeded in his endeavor. “You must like her very much because Aunt Dorothea said Mama is a rotten dancer.”

  His heart missed a beat. From the mouth of babes… “I should return to the ballroom,” he murmured.

  Eleanor’s daughter sighed and, once again, the gesture so very much her mother’s brought forth another swell of regret for all that could have been, but would never be. “I expect you�
�ll help her,” Marcia called out as he started to leave.

  He froze mid-step.

  “With her list. I told her you would help her because she is afraid and you are her friend.” At his silence, the little girl stitched her eyebrows together. “You will help her?” There was hesitancy in that inquiry.

  He had resolved not to. He had decided when he’d sent her abovestairs to politely decline and move on from Eleanor Collins. Standing here, with her wide-eyed daughter before him, he could no sooner reject the offer to help than he could cleave off his own right hand. “I will,” he said quietly.

  She beamed. “I knew it. Thank you for making sure my mother is not scared.” Then dropping a swift curtsy, Marcia fled down the corridor and raced up the servants’ entrance Eleanor had disappeared through a short while ago.

  And as he stood there, staring after Eleanor’s daughter, the first niggling question crept in—what did Eleanor Collins have to be fearful of?

  Chapter 13

  The following afternoon, Marcus sat in his office and stared into the contents of his brandy glass. He swirled the snifter in several slow circles and took a sip. With a curse, he took a long swallow of his drink, grateful when a knock sounded at his office door. “Enter,” he called out.

  The door opened. “Oh, dear,” his sister said from the entrance of the room. “You’re ever so serious again.” He stiffened and turned around.

  Lizzie sailed into the room in a noisy flurry of skirts. Her faithful friend, Lady Marianne, trotted along behind her, attired in a low-cut, sapphire satin gown a mistress would have compunctions wearing at this hour.

  Marcus could not help but compare this woman’s jaded cynicism to Eleanor’s reserved thoughtfulness and dignity. Years younger than Eleanor, Lady Marianne possessed a worldliness that had once appealed to Marcus. Now he found himself repelled by the brazen promise in her eyes.