He suppressed the urge, knowing had a highwayman set upon any travelers word would have made it to the Whisper Hook Inn long before now.
Instead, Rowan moved to lean against the wall of the inn, praying he remained out of sight from Molly Mae or anyone else that thought to disturb him. The note he’d sent to his mother, the Duchess of Harwich, had said they would arrive at three o’clock, and bloody hell, he did not relish the idea of keeping her waiting. She’d spent too many long, lonely years doing just that…for her husband to make a rare appearance at their country estate, for her body and the Lord above to bless her with another child, and for her only living son to take time from his vast business ventures to visit Kent.
A coach, loaded with travelers and their cargo, pulled out of the yard as another far more familiar carriage navigated around it with his driver holding tightly to the reins. The conveyance ambled to a halt.
Within, he spotted the neatly pinned coiffure favored by Miss Marce Davenport.
His driver spotted Rowan and climbed down from his perch, hurrying over to where he waited against the inn wall.
“Your Grace,” Charles called over the din of the stable yard, removing his hat and giving Rowan a curt bow. “The missus needed ta stop at a bookseller afore depart’n town.”
Rowan frowned at his servant’s choice of word: missus.
“It why we be late, Your Grace.” Charles focused on his boots, his head dipping with contrition. “She said it be fer the duchess. A gift.”
Rowan’s irritation waned at the mention of a gift for his mother. It was a peculiar practice Marce had begun on her second stay at Hadlow, as if she were making amends for their deception—begging his mother’s forgiveness, though the duchess would never know of their lies. Once the present had been a set of watercolor landscapes of Paris. The next trip, a dried bouquet of flowers from Holland. And just the past Christmas, a musical contraption from the Amazon.
Rowan had made the mistake of asking about the nature of the gifts only once. Marce’s answering glare had halted any future discussion on the topic. He did not ask about the token, for in quick order, Marce would present the wrapped trinket to his mother, and she’d display it in her private sitting chamber for all to admire.
With a dismissive nod, Rowan decided not to press the issue of his coach’s tardiness any further.
“Shall we be on our way?” Rowan pushed away from the wall and started for the carriage.
“I will collect ye mount, Your Grace,” Charles said. The servant moved to the post outside the inn and untied Rowan’s horse, leading it to the rear of the Harwich coach.
Rowan strode through the teeming yard to his waiting carriage and pulled the door wide.
Perched inside on the forward-facing seat, the blond, delicate woman stared impassively at the velvet bench across from her. His pulse spiked slightly at the sight of her—regal and indifferent.
The woman known as Lady Harwich—Rowan’s duchess during their infrequent time at Hadlow Estate.
No greeting passed either of their lips as Rowan situated himself on the rear-facing seat; however, her stare moved to the window to avoid his.
He watched her squirm on the bench, rearranging her skirts before picking at the cuff of her sleeve. Her forehead didn’t wrinkle with suppressed tension, nor did she fuss with her hair. She was uncomfortable, certainly, but not wary of him. Little had changed between them over the years. She continued to treat him as if he were a scoundrel to be ignored, and he continued to silently blame himself for the situation they were both trapped in—yet unwilling to put a stop to it.
Chapter 3
Marce resisted the urge to examine the Duke of Harwich; however, her body—and mind—betrayed her better instincts. Every time they traveled thusly, she wondered what it would be like if they hadn’t met under the circumstances they had. Would she relinquish her seat and take the place next to him? Brush her leg against his as their coach sped along the uneven roads? There were few occasions when he did not appear churlish and aloof, preferring to keep silent during their carriage rides to Hadlow. Normally, his pensive silence didn’t bother her; in fact, it suited her as much as it obviously suited him. However, with her decision now made and her nervousness getting the best of her, Marce would have been agreeable to a spot of conversation.
As a compromise to her treacherous thoughts, she kept her body positioned toward the side of the carriage but allowed herself to take in the man from the corner of her eye. His hair had grown in length since their last time together…and even now, she noted his skin had lost its summer glow from too many months spent indoors due to the inclement weather. His chartreuse eyes, the shade lingering unnaturally somewhere between yellow and green depending on the light, seemed less focused than usual. As did his despondent mood.
If Marce held any concern for Rowan, she might ask if all was as it should be.
Thankfully, despite their many years of acquaintance, she had suppressed all feelings for the man apart from pity. Or, at least, she reminded herself of this during the brief times they were alone together.
Her view of him and his demeanor should border on apathy, as his for her obviously did.
Though any man who needed to force a woman to act as his wife to appease his mother was certainly one to feel an immense amount of pity for—and no small amount of curiosity—not affection. However, Marce did not question his motives and, in turn, he did not delve into her life outside of their bargain.
“My apologies for my tardiness, Your Grace,” Marce said, breaking the silence that had settled since Rowan took his seat, and the coach started their hour-long journey to Hadlow Estate. An apology—or explanation—was not necessary; however, she felt driven to give one. Patting the brown-paper-wrapped book on the seat beside her, she continued, “A gift for the duchess. I was not expecting your summons for another few weeks, so I hadn’t yet picked up the purchase.”
“Very kind of you.” The duke eyed the package, and Marce suspected he wanted to inquire as to its contents. “I am certain my mother will enjoy whatever you present her with.”
Marce set her hand on the book—an illustrated exposé on the Swiss Alps—and allowed the discord that’d haunted her since she made the decision to end their arrangement settle heavily upon her. She would not miss the silent, brooding, arrogant lord who sat across from her, his dour demeanor overshadowing his strikingly handsome looks. How could she?
She and the duke had never grown an association or familiarity one would miss when gone.
The duchess, Lady Harwich—Leona—was another matter entirely. The older woman was kind, compassionate, and a superior listener, despite her illness-ridden body. Leona was tall and lean with silken black hair shot through with grey, and green eyes that, for some reason, suited her but were intense and a bit startling on Rowan. The duchess and Marce had gained a quick and companionable friendship following Marce’s first visit, though it had taken nearly two years for Marce to understand why.
Not that Rowan ever spoke of his mother’s ailment beyond what was socially acceptable. Nor did he talk about the nightmares that lay in their past.
With time, Leona had opened up to Marce, and in return, Marce did the same with the duchess…as much as was allowed by the duke. A shame the same occurrence hadn’t come to pass between Rowan and herself.
“How does the duchess fair?” she asked, not because it was necessary but because it was expected.
Rowan’s mother wrote Marce often by way of the Harwich solicitor in London, who forwarded all correspondence to the wedded couple wherever they happened to be traveling. It was the lark they presented to explain their absence from Hadlow for most of the year. Rowan traveled, meeting with gentlemen across England and Scotland to discuss investments. That was the knowledge Marce was aware of surrounding his daily endeavors anyway, and he’d never given her cause to question him—in that regard, at least. Marce, being the loving, devoted wife, was called on and expected to travel with him. O
r so others were led to believe.
His stare snapped to hers as he drummed his fingers on the sill of the carriage window. “As well as can be expected, or so I’ve been informed.”
Expectations. There were many things expected of Marce…and those around her. What would it feel like to brush them all aside and do the unexpected?
“And where have we journeyed since we last visited Hadlow?” Again, their usual and expected conversation on the hour-long ride to his family estate, and Marce was glad for it. Rowan was far more pensive than usual, and that did not bode well for their stay. She was always careful not to speak of their travels in any of her letters to Leona for fear she’d detail something incorrectly, and the woman would question it. Truly, Marce had never journeyed farther from London than Hadlow. “Tell me we did not spend our time in Dorset again. I am fast running out of stories to regale the duchess with about that particular region of England.”
“Manchester during the fall, Sunderland for the holidays, and New Year’s in Edinburgh—where we will be returning directly after our visit.” His dry, disinterested tone irked Marce, and she had half a mind to tell him exactly that, but she needs must watch her tongue until their farce had officially come to an end. Allowing her temper to get the best of her was something she must avoid.
Leona never sought out Rowan for stories of their travels. It was Marce who was called upon to share all with the duchess. Over the years, she’d prepared by reading accounts of many cities around the country, and while she’d researched Manchester and Edinburgh before, she knew nothing of Sunderland or their holiday traditions. Did the local village have a festival she should be aware of? Perhaps they did not celebrate the season at all; instead, following folklore of old and keeping one’s joy and happiness within and close to the heart by forgoing town celebrations such as routs and musicales.
“The weather was cold in all three towns; however, it only snowed in Edinburgh over New Year’s. You remained in our lodging quarters while in Sunderland and Edinburgh but enjoyed a lovely shopping expedition with Lady Munston in Manchester while Lord Munston and I journeyed to his textile plant outside the city.” Rowan stopped drumming his fingers long enough to straighten his collar before turning his gaze to the window once more as the chilly landscape passed them by.
Cool. Calm. Collected.
His pensive and distracted air fleeing.
The only ounce of emotion he’d ever shown was that first night they met.
He’d been enraged, furious even, and hurt to the point of desperation. All things Marce understood in his situation. Everything she’d experienced since that night—with the addition of fear—due to his abrupt arrival and rightful possession of everything she held dear. After that night, her home was no longer hers, and her daily living depended on her ability to satisfy the duke’s demands.
But since then, he’d kept his entire façade impassive.
As if they were, in fact, a couple wedded going on eight years with nothing of relevance to speak of between them—no marital spats or misunderstandings.
A normal societal match to anyone looking on from the outside.
Many nights when she was at Craven House, and Rowan was off to places unknown, Marce had wondered which man he actually was—the young lord seething with anger and resentment, or the cool, composed man she’d witnessed since. Neither possibility should endear him to her…nonetheless, the question continued to prickle at the back of her mind. A query still unanswered.
Marce kept her stare trained on him, noting the color that edged up his neck at her scrutiny. “Textile plant in Manchester. What of Edinburgh and Sunderland?”
“My mother will not expect you to know any more about my business dealings, I assure you.”
Any more? Marce wondered if it were possible to know any less of her husband’s business dealings.
They were nothing more than strangers brought together by…she pondered what had actually drawn them together. It was most definitely not fate, for how cruel would that be?
Yet, their relationship was the way of things in the Delconti family—at least where Julian and Leona were concerned. Men were charged with taking care of their families, and how they chose to do so was not questioned.
The duchess was unaware of so many things her dearly departed husband had been embroiled in. Including, but not limited to, his long-time mistress.
The coach hit a bump in the road, and Marce held firmly to her wrapped package. A tumble to the floor could gravely damage the spine of the ancient book.
Rowan sat unfazed as he stretched his long legs toward her and crossed his ankles. Never had she asked where he traveled from when they met at the Whisper Hook Inn; however, he was always garbed in a suit of the latest fashion with a proper neckcloth without a wrinkle to be found. Perhaps he kept a room at the inn where he bathed and dressed before she arrived. Or a home nearby where he stowed a well-cared-for mistress that he resided with while in the area.
That was how little she knew of the man.
Certainly, he’d taken a lover during their eight-year tenure. Marce was not proud to admit that she’d waited with bated breath for any news of Rowan taking a woman—either as a mistress or something more. Yet, her limited connections in society had turned up nothing.
The man was a societal unknown in many ways. Some even called him a reclusive saint.
Reclusive for his tendency to skirt society, and the saint as a play on words for his dark demeanor. At least that was what she’d gathered from the name.
She should tell him of her plans. Have his anger and threats aired before they arrived at Hadlow. However, the thought of him preventing her from seeing Leona kept her silent on the matter.
She was uncertain what Rowan would do once he learned of her decision, but hurting the duchess was something Marce would avoid at all costs. The woman was blameless in everything and had been as much a mother to her over the years as Sasha had. Repaying Leona’s kindness with cruelty was not part of Marce’s plan.
And so, Marce would wait until she’d visited with Leona and checked on the woman’s well-being before meeting with Rowan to end their association…and relinquish Craven House to him. The key she’d tucked into her bodice before departing London hung heavily between her breasts, the metal heated to match her warm skin.
The thought of being homeless should incite fear, yet all she could muster was a sense of relief.
When Rowan convinced her to go along with this preposterous arrangement, he’d given the impression Leona was gravely ill—and likely to follow the same path as her husband before long. It shouldn’t have mattered what he said or, furthermore, his motives. Marce should have walked away from it all with her siblings in tow, despite the consequences they’d have faced.
They would have found a way to survive.
And her conscience would not have been torn to shreds by all the lies she’d been forced to tell to those who mattered most to her. All to protect a home and a man she had no obligation to.
“What?” he scoffed.
“Pardon, Your Grace?” She brought her stare back to his from where it had strayed to her hands, clenched tightly in her lap.
“You sighed…with much despair.”
“I most certainly did not,” she argued, though he could very well have spoken the truth. Her unbidden contrary attitude flared to life.
“Very well,” he countered.
His eyes drifted shut, and the hard line of his jaw softened as if he were preparing for a period of rest.
The interior of the coach grew uncharacteristically warm as she regarded him. “I did not sigh.”
“Very well,” he repeated without so much as opening his eyes. “As I said.”
Marce huffed, turning her body to face the window. It also helped her to focus on anything but the infuriating man across from her. He questioned her, yet did not believe her reply.
She would not allow him to bring her to anger over such a ridiculous matter.
She was upset; therefore, she’d sighed. Though her ire had naught to do with the actual sigh or his reply. “Mayhap it is your very presence that exasperates me,” she hissed before clamping her mouth shut to halt any further argument on her part. It would gain her nothing—as evidenced by Rowan’s continued repose across from her.
She crossed her arms but immediately regretted the decision. She may be angry and irritated, but appearing the petulant, sulking child did not suit her.
This time, it was Rowan who sighed as he drew his legs back to his side of the coach and shifted in his seat. “Is this how our visit is to proceed?”
The draw to be overly obtuse and deny acknowledging what he spoke of was overwhelming. Instead, she attempted to give an honest reply. “It is not my intent.”
“Just as you most certainly did not sigh.”
Her irritation flared anew. “Correct.”
Perhaps Marce should have ended the charade before departing the Whisper Hook Inn. It seemed preferable to Rowan’s peculiar attitude at present. She could have stopped by Hadlow to tell Leona farewell once the duke was safely back in Edinburgh—and she on her way to her new home. If she had, she would not be trapped in this carriage with Rowan and dependent on him to see her to Hadlow without further incident.
“I do not have the patience nor the time to cater to your sensitive feminine sensibilities, Marce,” he chided as if she were a child still in the schoolroom. “We have one week—possibly ten days—to see ourselves through. After that, you are free to return to London…until I summon you again.”
In no way was Marce free.
She hadn’t been such for many, many years. While Rowan had kept her hostage, in a sense, since his father’s death, there was always another who held the strings to her freedom, someone else that stepped forward to quash her independence. First, it had been her brother who tossed Marce, her mother, and Garrett from their home. Now, it was Rowan. Who was to be next? Her siblings were masters of their own fates now. Marce had worked tirelessly to give them that small gift. Perhaps Marce was never meant to steer her own path? Maybe she would forevermore be at the mercy of another’s whims.
The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3) Page 3