The tall, mahogany clock in the foyer began to chime…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times.
“Enough with the self-indulgence, Marce,” she chastised her image in the looking glass.
It was time to meet the duchess for their meal, and she would not be the cause of their food growing stale and cold. It was important that she try her best to appear serene and at peace when in Leona’s presence, or the woman would sense that something was amiss. Honestly, Marce wouldn’t doubt if the duchess were already aware that something was off.
Leona was free to ask all the questions she wanted, but by then, Marce would be gone, and it would be Rowan’s responsibility to explain what they’d done. Remorse flared within her, burning a hole directly into her chest where her heart resided. Saying goodbye to the duchess without actually uttering the words would be the most difficult chore thus far. Perhaps she could convince Pearl to hold a letter for her that could be given to the duchess at a later time.
Marce was on the verge of pitying Rowan for the disaster she’d leave in her wake after departing Hadlow and shedding her title as the Duchess of Harwich.
Standing, she glanced about the room, seeing her things everywhere—her brushes and hairpins on the dressing table, her clothes in the standing closet, and her muddied boots from her ride set against the far wall, waiting to be cleaned. Even her stationery table sat on the bed, the coverlet rumpled from her afternoon attempt at a nap. She hadn’t dared pack her things before it was time to depart for fear that someone would stumble upon her bags and alert the duke. Her maid, and every other servant at Hadlow, was loyal to Rowan, as they should be.
Surprise was her only chance to flee Kent without a scene.
If given the opportunity, Rowan would come up with another reason to hold Marce to their arrangement, and she couldn’t chance that there was something she’d missed. Something else Rowan could use against her to reassert his control. A nagging sense that she was misreading the situation pulled at her.
What if Rowan let her go without a fuss?
What if he claimed good riddance and cast her from Hadlow without further argument?
Would that hurt as badly as his past manipulations? Thinking that she meant so little to him that being rid of her would cause him no grief? After all this time, imagining that he would wash his hands of her, take her home, and be content to never see her again. It shouldn’t bruise her pride or injure her feelings in the slightest. They’d used one another long enough. Parting was the next logical step, was it not?
There was no time to think further on the subject. Leona was waiting for her.
With one final look about the room she’d called hers since first coming to Hadlow, Marce turned to depart as knuckles rapped at the door. It was not the light, nearly silent tap of her maid, nor the sharp, quick knock of the housekeeper. Even Pearl had a singularly identifiable cadence when she presented herself at Marce’s door.
Perhaps it was a footman come to collect her, silently chastising her for keeping the duchess waiting.
“I am nearly ready,” she called to whoever waited in the hall. She brushed at her cheeks, surprised to feel the moisture from shed tears. This was not a sad moment. Breaking the chains that bound her to Rowan should be freeing…it was freeing, or at least it would be once she gained a private moment to confront him. “Please let the duchess know I will only be a moment longer.”
Marce pinched her cheeks to return her color.
The knocking began again, growing louder and more persistent. There was no mistaking the harsh, unrelenting pounding for that of Mrs. Giles or the maid.
Marce leapt back in fright as the latch sprang open and the door swung wide, slamming against the edge of her dressing table—a single, long crack splitting her mirror.
Uncertain whom she expected to see on the other side, Marce did not think to face Rowan, his glare narrowed as his eyes darted about the room in search of her.
“Your Grace,” she whispered, clutching her throat. “What—what can I…what are you doing in my chambers?”
“Your chambers?” he scoffed, glancing about the room again as if he at least had sense enough to make sure her maid wasn’t present. “Hadlow belongs to me. Everything in it belongs to me.”
Her stomach sank at the hard edge to his tone. He was angry, that much was obvious, but something else showed in his pained stare. Hurt? Desperation? Mayhap, defeat?
Someone—Tobias, perhaps—had told Rowan of her plans. She’d thought she could trust the earl, that their years of friendship meant something beyond him being an ear for the duke. Any chance of her leaving Hadlow before Rowan could muster another con to keep her under his thumb was gone. Or, worse yet, he could restrain her, taking away her chance to flee entirely.
Rowan strode to the open wardrobe door, his movements jerky, and glanced inside before peeking behind her dressing screen and along the far side of her rumpled bed.
His eyes darkened further while his movements became strident, his cheeks turning crimson and flushed.
If she thought she would succeed, Marce would dart from the room and find safety with the duchess. Certainly, Leona would not allow anything untoward to occur in her presence, especially to Marce. The determined set of Rowan’s shoulders told her escape was impossible—and futile. He’d find her, much like the lions of the wild stalked their prey.
Marce was Rowan’s quarry.
And didn’t it seem appropriate that now was the precise moment he’d take her down?
The pit of her stomach dropped as her fighting instincts kicked in, her hands clutching into tight fists. Not that she thought Rowan would ever physically harm her. No, this was something else entirely. Instinct also heightened her every sense. Her back was to her dressing table with the door to her right and her wardrobe closet to her left. Rowan stood before her, between Marce and her mattress. Not that the bed offered any means of escape.
He took a step toward her, and without thinking, Marce retreated two steps, her legs slamming into the bench of her dressing table and knocking it over.
“Your Grace, I must—“
“You mustn’t do anything but tell me the truth, I assure you,” Rowan spoke with a quiet resolve belying his agitated state, his green eyes lighting with precise focus. “Sit.”
Marce most certainly would not. She was already at a disadvantage where she stood. Sitting and permitting Rowan to tower over her was not something she was prepared to do. She’d allowed him to hold such control over her the day they met in her office at Craven House, but not now. Too much had changed since then. Or more to the point, the duke had barged his way into Marce’s life and taken so much from her.
“What do you wish to know?” she gulped. Focusing on keeping her arms at her sides, Marce lifted her chin and stared up at Rowan. “I shall endeavor to be truthful and hide nothing.”
She would not cower before him, for she was not weak.
“I would know what you are up to,” he demanded. “You will tell me now, lest my irritation turn to anger.”
“Your pinked cheeks and rigid stance speak to the fact that it’s already too late, Your Grace.”
“Do not play coy with me, woman.”
“I must admit, I am not versed in the art of coquettish decorum.”
“Ha-ah.” He slapped at his thigh as if she’d told the finest jest, but the gesture was too irregular for her to think he actually found humor in her words. “Come now, Marce, do not think me a fool. My father, God rest his tortured soul”—He raised his empty hand in solute and turned his gaze toward the ceiling, acting as if he drank from a glass before focusing on her again—“was certainly a halfwit, but I am not.”
“I would never assume as much, Rowan.”
“You think to use my given name? As if we are friends of some sort.”
Marce’s mouth flapped open as she attempted to find the words to calm him. If his behavior had been erratic and suspect in the gardens, he was downright frightening in his menacing nature now
.
“Mayhap it is you who is the fool,” he mused. “Thinking Tobias would keep your secrets from me.” He turned away from her and faced the bed. Marce glanced at the door for only a brief moment.
This moment was as good as any to follow for her escape.
The cords in his neck tensed as his desperation turned to something far darker. “Has he visited you here?” he asked, gesturing to Marce’s rumpled bed sheets. “Or mayhap you journey to Cresthaven Park to see him.”
“What?” Marce stumbled over the word, not fully believing she’d heard him correctly.
“I suppose I must take after my mother a bit as it took me this long to notice what was going on right in my own house. My best friend and my—” His words cut short.
“Yes, Rowan, your best friend and your…what?” She was baiting him. It was wrong, and would only end badly for her, yet how could she not pressure him to finish? If he said the word—not that she knew what it would be—it would certainly be simpler to tell him to go to the Devil. Regardless, she was leaving Hadlow Estate and Rowan. When he remained silent, she prodded, “Your what, Rowan?”
His eyes flashed and clouded.
This would likely be the only moment of true honesty between them.
“Do not squander this private moment to share with me how you truly feel.” Marce took a step toward Rowan. It was his turn to retreat. “There is no one here but you and I. This meeting is years in the making. Your what?”
“You are nothing to me; however, no matter what profession you embroil yourself in while in town, you will see to it that you do not conduct business in my home.”
Marce’s breath left her in a whoosh. It was as if someone had punched her in the gut. No, not someone—Rowan. And he questioned her friendship with Tobias, of all people. “You accuse me of bedding Lord Cresthaven…and doing so to earn a living?”
She wasn’t certain what offended her more—Rowan thinking she and Tobias were intimate, or that he’d called her a whore. Marce had never so much as lain with a man, let alone embarked on illicit coupling with Tobias while in residence at Hadlow.
Marce had half a mind to confirm his accusation—if she thought it would injure Rowan as much as he’d wounded her.
“Need I remind you, Your Grace,” she seethed, placing her hands on her hips. “It was you who came to me and demanded that I fulfill the financial obligation to your family. Need I also remind you that it was you who demanded I agree to your proposition or risk my entire family being turned out onto the cold, harsh streets of London? What I do, and do not do, outside of those obligations is not your concern.”
“Nowhere in our arrangement were you to seduce my best friend.” He stepped forward, mirroring her pose, but Marce was not prepared to back down.
“Nothing in our agreement forbid it either,” she challenged.
“It is just not proper.”
It was Marce’s turn to laugh. “Nothing about our arrangement is proper.”
He cursed under his breath, running his hand through his hair, mussing it even more.
“But, be that as it may,” Marce said, straightening her shoulders, attempting to give herself the nerve needed to continue. “I have been meaning to speak with you about—”
“Is this what you wanted a private moment to discuss?” He paused for a moment, dragging in a deep breath. “You and Tobias?”
“No, Rowan. However, I did come to Hadlow with the intent to end our association.” She’d spoken the words, there was no going back. A weight she hadn’t realized she carried all these years fell from her. Freedom would be hers, as long as she remained calm and escaped Hadlow. “And I am well aware of the repercussions of my decision. If you allow me to collect a few belongings—family mementos and clothing—from Craven House, I will turn over the house”—she could no longer think of it as a home—“to you within a few days.”
And with those words, the gravity of her decision set upon her.
She’d always been Marce Davenport of Craven House. Now, she was simply Marce Davenport. Hadn’t that been exactly what she desired?
Looking up into Rowan’s tantalizingly raw and hungry green eyes had Marce wondering if she’d misinterpreted her true desires.
Chapter 14
Rowan stood perfectly frozen, the air trapped in his lungs, and his entire body tense. Focusing his glare on the single blond curl that had been lightly grazing her creamy shoulder since he entered the room, Rowan pleaded with his head to stop spinning. He must remain in control. If he let his guard fall for even a moment, he’d never get the control back.
He’d accused her of bedding his best friend, all because Rowan selfishly longed for the connection the pair obviously had.
Yet, her words invaded every crevice of his mind, making Rowan question both his words and the feelings behind them. In his heart of hearts, he knew Marce and Tobias had not betrayed him.
“You do not have the right to end our arrangement.” Rowan knew that wasn’t accurate. If she were willing to give up Craven House, then there was nothing to hold her to their bargain. She was free to walk out of Hadlow and never look back. How had he not seen this coming?
“I haven’t had many rights for these last eight years, but I assure you, I do have the resourcefulness to call an end to our outlandish charade.” Her chin didn’t so much as tremble, and her eyes remained locked on his—the determination he saw there banishing his anger.
He shouldn’t be wounded by the friendship she’d found with Tobias. If it did not affect his mother’s happiness, then Rowan should be content. The duchess did not deserve such a betrayal, however. No matter how feigned Rowan and Marce’s relationship was, it was real to her. His mother cared deeply for Marce, and he’d misguidedly thought she felt the same about the duchess.
Rowan was a fool, likely far surpassing his father’s delusions.
How long had Tobias and Marce’s closeness diminished Rowan’s standing with his friend? He’d been content to keep Marce at arm’s length, but he’d never meant for Tobias to exclude him from such an important thing in his life, even if that thing was the woman who’d caused Rowan’s family to collapse.
And Marce stood before him without so much as a simple denial of his accusations.
How had he ever thought an arrangement with a woman who gained her living by bedding men would benefit him? There had never been any degree of trust in their cold, removed association.
She was the bloody proprietress of the famed Craven House, a gentlemen’s brothel. Everything about her spoke to refinement and poise, exactly what she’d want her clientele to pay handsomely for. And in a way, Rowan would be paying handsomely for many years when his mother learned of his lies.
No, Rowan could not dwell on the repercussions of his folly. Marce had to remain at Hadlow, at least for a couple of days. Then, they would depart, and she would return to Craven House and see her words for what they truly were…impulsivity. There was no chance she’d thought through all the consequences of ending their association: losing her home, admitting to her siblings she’d failed them, and being cast to the street like a pauper. She’d never been the least bit impulsive; however, Rowan took hold of that possibility with a vise-tight grip.
“You will be without a home.” Perhaps reminding her of that simple fact would spark some sense in her. “Where will you go?”
Would Tobias be hurt by her disappearance from Hadlow? What of his mother?
How would he survive losing her?
It was a most absurd thought, but the only question that clawed at his insides, the pain so great he feared it would soon be too much to take.
“I will find another home.”
“It is that simple?”
“Certainly,” she replied without a hint of the trepidation that coursed through him when his anger continued to recede. “You think me daft enough to believe Craven House would ever actually be mine once more?”
He wanted to shout that Craven House had never been hers. No
t when her mother ran the brothel nor after her death.
A confident smirk settled on her perfect lips. “I have saved every spare shilling since the night you came into my family’s home and stole our independence.”
Rowan rarely considered finances in any of his life decisions; his coffers were overflowing from many generations of shrewd Harwich dukes. Even in his daily business dealings, it wasn’t the cost of a project or the funds in surplus that mattered, but the integrity of the men he chose to embark on business ventures with that played into his decisions. If anyone questioned Rowan’s integrity, he was unaware. As everyone had trusted his father, they also trusted Rowan.
That Marce had been socking away money spoke volumes. She’d known from the beginning not to trust him—and the promises he’d made to secure her agreement. She’d questioned his honesty from the moment they met.
“You’ve planned all along to dupe me and cast a shadow of scandal over my family,” he accused, knowing full well he deserved every ounce of her duplicity. He had been the one behind their arrangement, but now he turned to churlish behavior when it all came crashing down around him. “My mother, every day more fragile, will not survive this treachery. And it is at your hand!”
Rowan’s anger flared, but it was aimed only at himself. Every accusation, every cruel word was better focused on his own transgressions.
Her cheeks finally reddened with the anger that Rowan was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress. A measure of satisfaction filled him at the sight of her blue eyes sparking with fury. Let her be angry. Let her rail at him. Let her scream, shout, and cause a fuss. He deserved it all, especially after everything he’d accused her of.
“Your heart, Your Grace, is as black as your coal-hued hair,” she yelled, stomping her slippered foot. The rug muted the sound. “Dare I guess that your soul has been plagued by the same obsidian darkness?”
“If my heart is black, it is only because your family stole every ounce of color from it.”
Her chest heaved against her tightly tied bodice, the mounds of her breasts rising high above her neckline. The pulse at her throat was visible to his eyes when her chin shot up a notch, and she looked down her nose at him—or, his chest, as she was quite petite, another thing he hadn’t taken much notice of before.
The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3) Page 11