Besides Marce, Rowan, and Tobias, Hadlow Estate didn’t get visitors—and truly, Rowan could not be considered a guest in his own home.
“It is Rowan,” Tobias exclaimed as the rider drew to a halt before them. “What in the bloody hell…”
“Your Grace,” Marce greeted, taking a step away from Tobias, though she hadn’t been standing inappropriately close before. It had been the nature of their discussion that was intimate. The thought fled immediately as Rowan dismounted, his expression dark and his mouth set in a grim scowl. “Is the duchess unwell?”
Rowan stared directly at Tobias, leaving her question unanswered.
The duke now wore trousers free of soil stains and a freshly pressed linen shirt, his riding coat unbuttoned to reveal his expertly tied cravat. Despite the clean attire, Rowan couldn’t hide the frantic darting of his gaze, or the worry lines etched around his eyes and mouth.
“Rowan.” She dropped her horse’s reins and stepped toward him, an edge of steel in her tone. “Is something amiss at Hadlow? Is Leona well?”
She glanced at Tobias as he looked Rowan up and down before shrugging and glancing away. It was as if a conversation had taken place, and things discovered, without a word being spoken between the men.
“I thought I would join the pair of you for your ride,” Rowan mused, turning back toward her. “Though I now see my error.”
“What error?” Rowan was acting strangely, even for him.
“It appears I have interrupted a private moment.” Rowan made to turn back to his horse, but Marce quickly placed her hand on his arm to halt him. “My apologies. I should return to Hadlow.”
“No, Your Grace,” Marce attempted to distract the duke from the scene he’d stumbled upon. The last thing she desired was Rowan questioning her or Tobias about what they’d been speaking about. Tobias had spoken of Rowan’s private musings—and it was as if Marce had in some way betrayed the duke. “We were just about to ride back to the estate. Please, join us.”
“Yes, Ro, we were merely walking to give the horses a chance to cool down.” Tobias avoided her and Rowan as he remounted his horse. “But I do believe they are well-rested and prepared for a good run back.”
Rowan offered his assistance, lifting Marce to her side-saddle before gaining his own horse. The trio turned toward Hadlow, and the horses fell into line, side by side. Marce kicked her horse into a canter before Rowan said anything further.
There was certainly something not quite right with the duke. He’d never joined her on an outing while at Hadlow before. They rarely dined together. But now, two days in a row, he’d gone out of his way to be in her presence. Did he suspect she was readying to run?
The wind tugged at her hair as she rode toward the manor, leaving Rowan and Tobias in her wake.
She knew time was running out to speak with Rowan and tell him of her plans, but now Marce sensed there was more she needed to hear from Tobias first. And she needs must beg him to keep her secret, at least for a while longer until she could ponder everything she learned and figure out how—or if—it affected her decision.
No, Marce could not allow the knowledge of Rowan’s painful childhood to affect her plans, nor could she risk delaying their conversation much longer. However, Tobias had given her much to ponder—and many new questions that needed answers.
Chapter 12
What in the damn hell had come over him? Rowan paced from one end of the billiards room to the other, his tumbler long empty and his patience expired—if it had ever existed in the first place. He’d been foolish to call for his horse and gallop after the pair much like a puppy after a neglectful owner who could not be bothered to give him a good-boy pat.
Stomping to the sideboard, Rowan refilled his glass, not bothering to offer his guest another drink. The room was closing in on him, the heat from the hearth oppressive, causing him to have trouble taking a breath. It had nothing to do with the tightness in his chest since dinner the previous evening—nor his overexertion in the gardens that morning.
What galled him the most was that Tobias and Marce had reacted like he was the outsider, the interloper, when he’d stumbled upon them in the meadow. Not the other way around. Did they not realize he was the common denominator in their triangle? He and Tobias had been friends since they wore knee breeches, while he and Marce were joined because of their bargain.
Tobias was his friend.
Marce was his… Rowan shook his head. He hadn’t the time or energy to think through what to call their association. It was in no way friendship. The woman was at Hadlow to fulfill their bargain, to stay out of his way, and make certain his mother remained happy and content during her infirmary.
Not to find flirtation with Tobias—if that was all they had.
Why did he care?
Marce was not his wife, nor anything beyond the woman whose family was responsible for the ruination of Rowan’s childhood. He didn’t care what she did outside of their arrangement. He shouldn’t care. He’d spent the last eight years not thinking about who and what Marce Davenport did if it didn’t pertain to their bargain. Rowan would be damned if he started now.
Except it appeared that the woman wasn’t content with stealing Rowan’s father’s love from his family. Now, she and Tobias looked happier together without him…and Rowan could not even begrudge them that because he was the reason Marce was at Hadlow. His inattention had led to Tobias and Marce’s friendship. If that friendship had developed into something deeper, that too was not something Rowan had the right to be angry over. He’d been too filled with rage and resentment to notice anything.
Tobias was Rowan’s friend. The bloody man had been his comrade since before either knew the meaning of the word.
Tobias belonged to Rowan—they were friends. The man had never shown any sign of receding loyalty and knew far more about Rowan and his past than Rowan felt comfortable with all of a sudden. Did he seriously doubt Tobias’s devotion? In some deep recess of his mind, Rowan knew he was being irrational, yet he’d seen the pair together—last night and in the meadow. He’d sat and watched Marce and Tobias as they meandered through the tall grass, their heads tilted together as they spoke, their bodies nearly touching as the sun cast rays of brightness about them. It was a closeness Rowan had always longed for, yet had never found completely with anyone. His father had been distant and otherwise occupied, his mother had her illness that kept her trapped, and once Rowan had attended University, he was already plagued with doubt regarding every person who made his acquaintance.
There had only ever been Tobias. His friend had never disappointed him. He’d never been too busy to share a companionable afternoon.
“Why did you request that I remain after our ride if you are only going to carry on in your silent sulking?” Tobias asked, pushing from the lounge to fetch another drink.
“I am not sulking.” Rowan drained his tumbler once more and held it out for Tobias to refill. When his friend’s brow rose in question, Rowan shook his glass a bit. “Be a dear and see to my thirst.”
Tobias obliged and moved to the billiards table. “A game perhaps?”
Rowan’s eye twitched, and he rubbed at it, attempting to keep his mind straight. This was exactly what he wanted from his friend—his loyalty and time. “It appears you are already entangled in a game,” Rowan mused.
Tobias turned sharply to face his friend. His shoulders tensed. “If you have taken issue with something, come out and say it, Ro.”
Rowan flinched when he saw the look of hurt cross Tobias’ face.
“Fine, remain silent if that suits you; however, if something interests you, I would advise you do something about it…sooner rather than later.”
Every inch of Rowan went on alert. “What in the bloody hell does that mean?”
When Tobias only shrugged and turned to collect his cue for a match, Rowan followed him. The earl knew something he wasn’t telling Rowan, and his decision to remain at Hadlow—even after Rowan had insulted hi
m—meant the man wanted to tell him more.
“It is not my place to speak on the matter.” Or perhaps he did not.
Rowan stared at Tobias’ back as he racked the balls, and the opportunity to slip back into their comfortable companionship waned. “Not your place to speak on the matter? Do not talk in riddles, Tobias.”
“If there is something you wish to know, I suggest you ask your wife.” The earl spun around, holding out the cue to Rowan. “Until that comes to pass, let us enjoy a friendly game, shall we?”
Rowan shouldn’t have to ask Marce anything. Tobias should have enough integrity to come out and say it; admit that he enjoyed Marce’s company far more than Rowan’s. His friend was well aware of the bargain between Rowan and Marce. While they posed as a wedded couple at Hadlow, neither had any designs on the other’s time.
So, why did it have Rowan seeing red to think of Tobias and Marce enjoying time together without him?
Running his hand through his hair, Rowan settled his cue and took aim at the twenty-one colored balls aligned in the precise fashion of snooker, but the hues blurred and swam before him until he could not decipher green from blue and red from orange. It was of no use. He pushed away from the table and tossed his stick at Tobias.
“Perhaps it is best I speak with Marce.” Rowan strode to the door, pulling it open with enough force that it slammed against the wall behind it. The windowpanes rattled in their metal frames, and a maid shrieked and disappeared down the corridor toward the kitchens.
“Ro, wait!”
But Tobias’ call faded as Rowan stormed from the room and started up the grand staircase. The sooner he knew for certain, the sooner things could go back to normal. Whatever this new normal was, it would not include his best friend finding companionship with Marce Davenport.
The woman was the proprietress of Craven House…a bloody brothel. A house of ill repute. A place where men sought to slake their lust with willing, highly paid consorts. Certainly, Tobias was not ignorant of this fact.
Servants leapt from his path as he stomped down the corridor, but he did not continue past Marce’s room as he did on most occasions. Instead, he halted before it.
Chapter 13
Marce stared into the looking glass long after she’d dismissed her maid. Peculiar, but she wasn’t one to spend her precious time taking in her appearance. That had always been Samantha’s crutch: vanity. Her younger sister had spent so many hours perfecting the turn of a coy smile or arranging her auburn hair in just the right fashion that Marce had feared the woman would fall in love with a man as haughty as herself. Blessedly, that had not come to pass, and Elijah, Lord Ridgefeld, was the perfect lord for Sam. He was solid, steadfast, and thought through every action and decision before moving forward. He countered Sam’s tendency for impulsiveness far better than even Jude, her twin, could.
And Jude—Marce’s heart swelled at the thought of her quiet, pensive sister—had found Simon. Their love and devotion had been apparent from the moment they entered the same room. It filled Marce with pride to see the way Jude had taken Simon’s younger sister, Lady Theo, under her wing. She would be a fine mother when the time arrived.
There was no doubt Marce was thrilled by the happiness her sisters had found, yet it did not stop the spark of jealousy from slamming into her every once in a while when she allowed her guard to slip and her mind to wander—despite her best efforts to control it.
Resentment was never a rewarding way to spend one’s emotional energy.
Marce was overjoyed for her siblings, and she took great pride in knowing she’d raised them all as best she could.
Even Payton had settled into her post as a governess for Lord Ashford, a widowed baron in good standing among the ton. The man had sought out Marce to fill the position of tutor and caregiver for his two young children. Word had spread among the Londoners that Craven House was no longer what it once was. She—and her sisters—helped many women in need find homes and positions of employment, or make the journey back to their families. It just so happened that Payton had intercepted the missive from Ashford stating his need for a governess and the requirements for the position. The girl had begged to be granted permission to apply for the job, and Marce could find no reasonable objection to deny her. Perhaps caring for two children would keep Payton from the gambling tables…at least for the time being.
Yes, her siblings were a varied lot. Sam had once been suspected of being a mistress. Jude, a thief. And Payton was always drawn by the allure of a rousing card game. It was beyond comprehension that Garrett, their brother, seemed the least scandalous of the bunch.
Marce smiled at her reflection, noting the facial similarities between her and her siblings. Not many people saw what Marce did—her heart-shaped face matching that of Sam’s and Jude’s; her hair color and eyes matching Garrett’s; and her long, curling hair, though a different color, matching Payton’s. Beyond the minute similarities in physical appearance, they all possessed sharp minds, which could only be attributed to their mother.
Marce had a right to feel a certain measure of pride in everything her sisters had accomplished over the last year. That she had yet to find her own happiness was neither here nor there. If there was one thing Sasha had taught her eldest daughter, it was that things were rarely about her. Life was unpredictable and could never be trusted to justly provide for those who thought themselves deserving. Perhaps her due was exactly what she’d garnered in the last two years: happiness for her siblings.
Deserving.
Such a misleading word.
She was no more worthy of a blessed future than her siblings. As the daughter of a marquess, she should have been afforded a proper Season. She should have been raised above reproach without a hint of scandal attached to her name. She should have been given a suitable education and the chance to meet girls of her own station.
Instead, her mother had worked tirelessly just to feed and clothe her children.
Each day, until Julian entered her mother’s life, had been spent keeping Craven House from the debt collectors.
There had been no time or money for fancy clothes or proper tutors.
And hadn’t Marce been operating in the same fashion since Julian Delconti passed away, and Rowan had come to call in her family’s debts?
She could not begrudge her mother’s actions nor condemn her own.
However, Marce was in a position to change her life’s path. And it started this day.
With time, she might find a miniscule amount of what Sam and Jude had found. At her advanced age, it was not as likely for her, but contentment and a life based on her own decisions and stalwart nature was still wholly appealing.
An image of Rowan, filthy from toiling in the garden, sprang to her mind, except it wasn’t how it’d been that morning. No, his soiled shirt lay open to his waist, and his trousers clung tightly to his muscular thighs. His sable hair was not combed to perfection in that way only Rowan could attain, but instead wild from his labors. No longer did his green stare hold the frantic look of a man possessed; rather, his eyes were slightly hooded as if he focused on something far more enticing than pruning garden shrubs. And he smiled…as he had when he entered the dining hall the previous night before he realized his misstep and his demeanor reverted to his usual fortified manner.
Marce closed her eyes, hoping to clear Rowan from her mind—shirtless or otherwise. Her mistake was apparent immediately when wiping his grin from her memory didn’t happen. Instead, she remembered the way he’d ridden up on her and Tobias in the meadow. The way he’d leapt from his horse and joined them, his guarded nature at the forefront, but he’d willingly assisted her to her saddle. A piece of her heart had soared at his appearance, unknowingly longing to be near him. Was it because Tobias’s confession regarding Rowan’s past was already clouding her good sense? Undermining the resentment she’d harbored for the man since he convinced her to agree to his proposition?
She should be thinking through what sh
e planned to say to Rowan after she shared her evening meal with the duchess in her private chambers. The duke needed to know that things were over—officially. There would be no negotiations or alternative options for continuing their original agreement. Craven House was his to do with as he pleased. His decision to take her home away no longer affected her as it once had. It no longer meant certain ruin for her family.
His threat to evict her had lost its edge. His control over her and her life was coming to an end. No, it was at an end.
Staring into the mirror once more, Marce noted the way the circles under her eyes had diminished, how her shoulders were back a bit more, and even her skin glowed, though that was certainly due to her ride in the bright Kent sun.
Her chin lifted an inch, and she studied the smooth column of her neck, the noble set of her jaw, and her perfectly pinned blond curls. In another life, she would have been considered a stunning beauty, a debutante of the first waters, and a woman sought after by London’s most charming men—rogues and gentlemen alike. Instead, she was an unwed spinster who’d lived her life for others. Surprisingly, however, she wouldn’t have changed that for anything.
She’d kept her family whole all these years.
Yes, so many years had been wasted at the behest of the Duke of Harwich; however, there were still many decades laid out before her. A new excitement overtook her at the sheer amount of possibilities for her future. Certainly, she would make a few mistakes. Yet, they would not stop her from living. Truly living. Finding and securing a new home. Beginning with nothing and turning that into something she and her family would be proud of—much as her mother had done years before.
The tall, mahogany clock in the foyer began to chime…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times.
The Madame Catches Her Duke Page 10