The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3)

by Christina McKnight

  He was certain an outright look of panic crossed his face, for his body stiffened again, and his head throbbed.

  “Do not fret,” she continued reluctantly. “She thinks you are helping the groundskeeper.”

  “That is exactly what I am doing,” he retorted.

  Marce glanced over his shoulder, her gaze swinging over the garden. “If you say so, Your Grace.”

  With that, she stepped around him and headed off toward the stables.

  Rowan could do nothing but watch her walk away, her hand rising high in a wave to greet Tobias where he stood just outside the stable door, waiting for her.

  Every muscle in Rowan’s body tightened, and spots flashed before his eyes when Tobias waved back, his smile wider than Rowan had ever seen it.

  He wondered what in the bloody hell his best friend was up to with his wife.

  A shock so intense his knees threatened to buckle coursed through Rowan at the thought.

  Not his wife. Marce was not his spouse, nor would she ever be.

  He’d spoken the truth when he said she could do as she pleased. She could accept Tobias’s invitation or not, it mattered naught to him.

  It shouldn’t make any difference what Marce did with her time at Hadlow Estate or whom she chose to spend it with. Actually, Tobias was doing Rowan a favor by keeping the woman occupied and out of his way. He should thank his friend.

  So why did Rowan have the overwhelming urge to follow the pair and demand that he be included in their outing?

  An excursion between his counterfeit wife and his best friend…there were at least a dozen things more pressing and worthy of Rowan’s time. Namely, restoring some semblance of order to the garden he’d destroyed during his moment of madness.

  Chapter 11

  Marce eased into a calming sway as her horse navigated the trail beside Lord Cresthaven, the silence between them not one of discomfort but rather of a mutual friendship that allowed moments of quiet without the need for idle chatter. She found this most soothing. The man had a knack for knowing the right moments to lift her spirits and when she needed time to think. This was one of those instances.

  The differences between the two lords had never been as apparent and contrasting as they were now.

  If she’d known Rowan’s state of unrest, she never would have sought him out in the gardens.

  Cold, calculated, and confident.

  Those were words anyone would use to describe the duke.

  He had been none of those things when she happened upon him earlier.

  His unpredictable outburst and scattered ramblings had terrified her far more than the arrogant, poised lord she’d known all these years. There was something comforting in routine and predictability—and something altogether disconcerting about their encounter in the garden. It seemed not an inch of Rowan was under his control.

  Yes, the duchess had spoken the previous evening of her desire to till her own garden, but that was the murmuring of someone who had no other option but to sit idly by as others tended to her treasured space. The area hadn’t been in as much disarray as Rowan claimed—at least until he entered it. No servant had been negligent in his or her duties.

  So, what had caused Rowan’s aberrant and erratic behavior?

  Her first thought had been that he’d somehow found out about her decision to end their arrangement, but she’d spoken to no one about her plan. Trusting another was no easy feat for Marce. No one would know of her intent until she spoke with Rowan about it—even the duchess would learn about her deceit second-hand.

  Beside her, Tobias hummed, his deep tone lulling her and pushing all her worries aside.

  Closing her eyes, she allowed the breeze to wash over her as she took in the clear, fresh air. While some spoke of the odd scents to be found in the countryside, Marce favored the smell of open landscape more than the stifling, dense, ash-filled air that hung heavily over every inch of town. The mingling aromas of cooking meats, baking pies, and the pungent odor of cleaning solutions and waste were enough to send her senses into utter turmoil.

  Yet here, in Kent, she could take in the scents on the breeze, each independently identifiable. A single flower in bloom during the spring months. The dense, earthy aroma of freshly tilled soil during the fall. The blessedly satisfying smell of recently picked wild berries just before the heat of summer waned. It was why she’d decided that her next home would be on the cliffs bordering the ocean or deeply nestled within an open meadow, surrounded by fields of wild blossoms.

  Perhaps her association with Rowan hadn’t been completely negative. She’d at least learned, with concrete certainty, where she’d spend her future—or at least where she would not.

  She did not wish to be embroiled in the hustle and bustle of life in London, boxed in on every side by the ton who watched their counterparts for any hint of scandal or impropriety. She desired to live off the land and utilize what it produced to sustain her.

  There would be no hanging about the fringes of a crowded ballroom as finely dressed men and women flitted across the dance floor as was her due as the daughter of a marquess, but country gatherings held in open stables and attended by hardworking, loyal townsfolk.

  And she’d certainly not live off the kindness of her younger siblings—staying at their homes, invading their private moments, and depending on them for her basic necessities.

  No, Marce was the one who cared for those in need…she was not less fortunate, nor deserving of her siblings’ pity.

  Once she was settled and her new home prepared, she’d again help those in London who needed her. Women and girls abused by those who should care most for them: fathers, husbands, and brothers. There was a day, not so many years ago, when Marce’s own sibling, her half-brother, had tossed Marce, her mother, and Garrett out onto the cold, lonely, cruel streets of London without a farthing to their names and only the clothing on their backs. It had taken several months for her mother to gain access to the money set aside by Marce’s father to help his widow in case of his death. In that time, they’d lived off the kindness of others.

  It was a debt Marce would repay every day of her life, as long as she was able.

  Perhaps, one day, her eldest brother, Benton, now the Marquess of Buckston, would seek her or Garrett out to make amends for his deplorable behavior. However, if he were anything like the majority of the men she’d come into contact with over the years, he would never stoop so low as to give his younger siblings even a single moment’s thought.

  “You look like you would greatly benefit from a healthy tumbler of scotch.” Tobias paused, and Marce wished she could forget everything that weighed her down and just enjoy their outing. “I mean, as a proper lady, you would probably find a glass of sherry more to your liking. We can return to the manor if you wish.”

  She longed to be anywhere but Hadlow, yet she was drawn to the house as if the tides swept her in that direction. No matter how hard she fought against it. All things she could not—dared not—share with the earl, no matter the familiarity they’d grown accustomed to. His role was to entertain her, keep her busy while in Kent…not to be her confidante or companion. It was likely Tobias paid such close mind to her at Rowan’s insistence. Tobias was to distract her. Keep her from saying or doing anything that would jeopardize their ruse.

  All these years, she’d been glad for it. Truly, if she thought about it, Tobias knew more about her than her own siblings, despite her and the earl only seeing one another a few times a year. Had she cast him into the role of her lady’s companion?

  “Lady Harw—“

  “Marce, simply Marce,” she sighed. “How many times must I request you address me as such?”

  “At least once more, Lady Harwich. I am nothing if not above reproach, Your Grace, especially when it concerns my best friend’s wife.” The earl turned a lopsided grin in her direction before prodding his horse into a canter.

  He laughed and pulled ahead of Marce and her mount as their trail widened on t
he way to an open meadow, blanketed in thick, green grass.

  If he were any other man, and she was not supposedly spoken for, Marce would think Tobias a dashing lord. Very gallant, indeed.

  Marce pulled her horse to a stop and slipped from her side-saddle to the ground.

  The earl reined in his mount and circled back to her, dismounting his stallion.

  “Have I offended you?” he asked, taking his place at her side as she walked into the meadow, their horses trailing behind them. “If I have, I will lay myself upon my sword and—“

  “You do not possess a sword, my lord,” Marce said with a light laugh. “And even if you did, you’d have to do and say much to offend me.”

  “Then what is it?” His gaze flitted about the field before them, settling on nothing. “I noted your distraction last night, and it only seems to have intensified today.”

  He was worried—whether about her personally or something altogether different, she did not know.

  “May I ask you something?” She glanced up at him as they walked side by side. “A question of a delicate nature?”

  His brow rose, but still, he nodded.

  “Don’t you think this charade has gone on long enough?” Marce focused on the rolling landscape as her eyes blurred. “I mean, it has been eight years. Eight years Rowan could have been searching for a woman he truly loved and longed to wed. Eight years I’ve spent lying to both my family and his…” She expelled a rough sigh. “I am exhausted, Tobias.”

  Her stomach tightened. Never had she been so forward with anyone on the subject—and spoken words so close to the truth. The earl knew every detail of their arrangement but was kind—or perhaps he didn’t care—enough to discuss the topic with her. If she could trust anyone to keep her secret and also be honest with her, it was Tobias.

  They both cared greatly for the duchess and didn’t want to see her hurt.

  “You are thinking of ending things with Rowan.”

  Marce’s steps faltered. There was no question in his words, only a statement. “How did you know?”

  His chuckle was uneasy as he stopped to face her. “The correct question is: why have you waited so long? Though Rowan doesn’t believe it, I always knew this charade would end…and badly. Perhaps not for you or Rowan, but for Leona. She’s lost enough in her too-short life, and I suspect losing you—a woman she’s known as her daughter for years—will crush her far more than all the babes she lost in the past.”

  “But I will still write her. Perhaps even visit once in a while.”

  “We both know Rowan would never allow you back at Hadlow.”

  She did know that, and it saddened her far more than she was willing to admit—even to Tobias.

  “I would also never see you again,” she mumbled.

  “Why ever not?” He turned and resumed their walk. “We are friends. Rowan cannot keep us from seeing one another on occasion. After all, London is a small town.”

  “I won’t remain in London.” The city had been her home her entire life, and a small part of her would miss it, even if she tried to convince herself otherwise. “The duke will take Craven House, and I will be forced to seek another home. When I do, it will not be in in the city; likely, it will be far from town and society.”

  The tall grass from the meadow parted as they proceeded, their boots trampling the previously untouched greenery, leaving a path in their wake.

  “And what if you and Rowan continue your charade, at least for the time being?”

  Tobias could not truly be asking her to linger longer, to remain at the mercy of Rowan and their never-ending arrangement. “What of my future? Do I not deserve to find love, happiness, and contentment for myself?” She didn’t wait for his response. “There is nothing for me if I remain under Rowan’s control. And what of his future and the dukedom? He needs an heir, and I am not the woman to give him one.”

  “Rowan isn’t concerned with his happiness or the next in line to take over the dukedom,” Tobias challenged.

  “He should be very concerned about his future and that of the dukedom, instead, he continues as it has been with little regard for his duty as a duke.”

  “I think you judge him too harshly, Your Grace.”

  “Stop, Tobias.” Her steely tone sparked a morsel of remorse even before the words had left her mouth. “He demanded I pay the penance for a sin that wasn’t mine to bear—nor was it his.”

  Tobias stiffened as his knuckles turned white where he held his stallion’s reins. “May I speak frankly, Marce?”

  Every instinct shouted at her to say no, to regain her saddle and ride as fast and hard as she could back to Hadlow, to deny any future outings with Tobias. He knew her secrets and about her family, but he was also privy to Rowan’s musings.

  She’d often wondered what drove the duke’s continued need for retribution, but did she dare gain the information from Tobias? In a way, she was once again using him, and that knotted her stomach.

  Helpless to turn away from anything he knew, Marce said, “Certainly.”

  “Do you know where Rowan’s anger comes from?” Tobias spoke low and calm. “Have you considered why he sought to punish you?”

  “I don’t have to consider it at all, he told me that first night. I will never forget it.”

  “He told you?”

  “Yes, my mother accepted money, gifts, and Julian Delconti’s love,” she sighed. “With his father gone, Rowan could only hope to regain the monetary value of what the dukedom lost.”

  “Rowan isn’t concerned with money, Marce, you know that as well as I.”

  “But it is what he said, the reason he demands not only my attendance here but monthly payments toward the debt I owe him.”

  “You aren’t a fool, Your Grace.”

  “I must be—”

  “How do you think Rowan learned of his father’s infidelity?” he prodded.

  “I’ve never thought on the matter. I assume he learned of it when he found the deed to Craven House.” Marce fell silent, remembering the night Rowan had shown up at her home. She hadn’t expected him—though she’d known someone would come. The duke had passed away not a fortnight prior. She’d heard of it on the scandal sheets so common about London, but Marce—and her siblings—hadn’t seen Julian Delconti since shortly after their mother’s death. Sasha had been Julian’s lover, nothing more. He’d owed them nothing after the affair ended…except for the deed to Craven House, which never arrived. She hadn’t thought more on the matter at the time, her lack of experience and her youth telling her that Julian would follow through on the promise he made. “Perhaps his solicitor spoke of the duke’s involvement with my mother.”

  “If only it were that innocent.” Tobias’s bitter laugh held an animosity Marce was unfamiliar with, as if the way in which Rowan had learned of his father’s infidelity had also wounded the earl. “It was a dark time for Rowan…and he had no one there but me.”

  “What do you mean?” Marce kept her stare trained on the path before them as they slowly walked through the meadow. She hadn’t known in her youth that Julian had a family. She’d discovered that only after her mother’s death. “Rowan was grown, a gentleman with the arrogance of a man raised to be a duke when he came to see me at Craven House that night.”

  Tobias bent to pick up a flower—a yellow blossom—and held it out to her, a sad, listless smile tugging at his lips. “While that was the first time you and Rowan met, it was not the first time he saw you. Though it was the first time he confronted anyone from your family, he’d been aware of your existence for many years.”

  For many years?

  That couldn’t be. For if it were true, that meant Rowan had bided his time—planned his vengeance, and waited until his father passed to seek it. Besides, the money she owed for the note on Craven House was promised to the dukedom, not Rowan. She was not indebted to Rowan. The sins of her mother—and his father—were not theirs to bear.

  “How long?” she asked, terrified o
f the answer and what it would mean.

  “About fourteen years ago…”

  “Rowan would’ve been but a boy of fifteen summers,” Marce breathed. And she only fourteen. That was about the time she and her siblings had met Julian Delconti. Their mother had hidden much from them after they were cast out of their home upon Marce’s father’s death. Sasha had protected her children from the deplorable depths she’d been forced to lower herself to in order to support her family, demanding her children remain above stairs after their evening meals and locked safely in their private chambers. “That was about the time my mother introduced us to Julian. She was in love. I think he was, too. We hadn’t any notion that he had another family. Garrett and I, as well as the others, were merely children.”

  Marce’s mind spun with the new knowledge, thinking back to that time…a happier time for her entire family, though she now knew it was a period of heartache for Rowan.

  Her family had finally found a security that hadn’t been afforded them in years, while Rowan was having his stripped away.

  Something pricked at her. Fourteen years ago had been when Leona fell gravely ill and nearly died giving birth to stillborn twins…girls. Had Rowan spoken of Julian’s affair and caused the duchess such grief? He’d always told her Leona knew nothing of his father’s weakness.

  “We’ve been friends for many years, and you’ve never spoken of this.” Marce wondered if the information would have changed anything. Would she have thought so unkindly of him all these years had she known Rowan’s childhood was as wretched as hers?

  “It was not my place, I’m sorry to say.”

  Tobias halted, lifting his hand high to shield his eyes from the sun, directly overhead now, as a rider approached from the opposite side of the meadow. She’d been so deep in her own musings that she hadn’t heard the man approach.