When had he stepped so close that their ragged breathing mingled and his boots nearly touched her delicate, white slippers? The familiar aroma of lavender—the soap procured in the local village for Hadlow—clung to her.
“You can go to the devil, Your Grace,” she whispered. “Take Craven House with you for all I care. Or, better yet, burn the house to the ground. I do not care a whit for it…or you.”
No one had ever dared speak to him in such a brazen manner. Their association had always been one of a reserved nature; namely, he’d set forth the terms, and she’d accepted them to escape the consequences of denying him. She’d never shown him even a hint of the fire she was presenting to him now. Their agreement was not completely one-sided.
He’d gained the guise of marriage to assuage his mother’s worry.
And Marce remained in possession of the home his dukedom rightfully owned.
He was able to give his mother a measure of happiness and contentment in her final years, even though he hadn’t expected his mother’s illness to allow her to live for so long.
And in return, Marce continued to support her siblings in a well-appointed neighborhood.
Rowan had even heard that two of her four siblings had married—and married well, to an earl and a marquess as the gossip sheets reported. She should be thanking him for the advantageous outcome. Rowan did not suppose there was much clamoring to secure a match with women born out of wedlock, no matter who their father was. They could be the offspring of a butcher in the East End, or a fishmonger at the docks for all Rowan knew.
Could it be that the woman before him did not see the benefits of their bargain?
Rowan hadn’t any notion what to say or how to gain her willingness to stay at Hadlow. She had every right to call into question his standing as a gentleman and a lord most proper. Since that fateful day he’d spied his father in the warm interior of Craven House, surrounded by Marce and her siblings, while his own mother lay fairly dying in childbirth, Rowan had been a rogue, a scoundrel, and a reprobate only concerned with exacting his own brand of vengeance on this woman and her family.
Would he have truly followed through on his threat and tossed Marce and her young siblings from their home? Had it all been a bluff, an empty threat, and something he’d never be called upon to fulfill? In his period of mourning, Rowan had been blind. Blinded by so many things: his hatred for his father, his worry over his mother, and the all-consuming need to make certain that someone paid for it all. The duchess had lost precious time with her husband because of the duke’s infidelity. Many a time, Rowan wondered if Sasha were the only one who stole his father’s heart or if there had been women before or after her.
Losing Julian’s attention and affection had weighed on the duchess so much, Rowan feared that her ailments had progressed because of her feelings of abandonment. It had been Rowan’s cross to bear, especially after discovering where and with whom his father had found solace.
As he stood there in his silent stupor, Marce bustled to her wardrobe and removed her traveling case. With nary a look in his direction, she darted around him and plopped it onto the disheveled bedding before collecting her meager possessions spread about the room—brushes, ribbons, stockings, and boots, still muddy from her ride. He eyed her when she leaned into the wardrobe, arms wide, and wrapped them around her hanging gowns, pulling them out in one large heap. Effortlessly, she bent and grabbed her cloak that had been thrown over a chair and walked back to the trunk. Without a care for creases or order, Marce stuffed the gowns into the waiting case and set her brush and other small possessions on top before snapping it shut with a huff.
“You are serious about leaving?” Rowan hadn’t meant to speak aloud, and the unease in his tone only solidified his position of weakness. “It will be long past nightfall by the time you return to London.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowed, and her shoulders stooped. “If your accusations are correct, I will be safely ensconced within Lord Cresthaven’s home within the hour.”
Her words stung, and Rowan realized just how wrong he’d been to accuse her of such an outlandish thing.
His fists clenched and unclenched as every nerve ending screamed for him to do something—anything—to stop her from leaving. If she fled Hadlow, the house would be abuzz with the gossip, and Rowan would be called to his mother’s private suite to explain.
How would he explain the situation? Simply…“my wife has been carrying on with another right under my nose and has left Hadlow Estate to be with him. But don’t worry overmuch, she’s only relocated to the neighboring estate.”
The story of a husband cuckolded did not suit him well at all.
Marce held her trunk at her side and stopped before him as she rounded the bed on her way to the door. “Where shall I deposit the key to Craven House?”
He wanted to command her to keep it or cast it into the murky Thames if that would satisfy her. There was nothing he wanted less than to possess the house his father had absconded to when he abandoned his family. Never had the thought crossed Rowan’s mind that he’d one day be forced to take possession of the property. With his mother’s imminent death, he’d give Marce the deed to the property, as promised.
His mind was a muddled mess. His decisions and plans, at one time understandable, were now unfolding in ways he hadn’t thought possible. When they’d struck their bargain, Rowan had despised the woman for what she stood for, he’d spent countless nights cursing the Davenport name. But now, suddenly, he could not imagine his life without her. His rash arrogance had come crashing down upon him. To hide his own insecurities, he’d levied her with his regrets about the past.
She was leaving, never to return.
“Perhaps your solicitor will accept it,” she sighed, transferring the trunk to her other hand. “Good day, Your—“
Without thinking, Rowan stepped toward her and grasped her arms, fearing that she’d flee his closeness as he looked into her clear blue eyes. They were deeper than the deepest ocean, yet as rich as a cloudless sky. His fingers inched up to her shoulder, and he gently captured a wayward curl, wrapping it loosely around his hand. Her shoulders were elfin but possessed a strength of resolve he could only marvel at. Many a man had cowered before Rowan. Many a lord had hurried out of his path. Many a woman had sent coy smiles in his direction, though lacked the fortitude to seek an introduction.
But not Marce Davenport.
She’d never been scared or hesitant in his company.
Even now, after he’d entered her private chamber without an invite, she didn’t pull away—or balk at his closeness. His fury should have been enough to send her running for protection.
Yet, she stood before him, her chin notched high with determination, and her shoulders thrown back in confidence. Why had he never noticed her quiet tenacity?
He’d held the belief that Marce was a woman who possessed a large measure of cunning and smarts. A shrewd lady who could turn misfortune to her benefit. A proprietress supremely learned in her art.
The way she stood before him, not backing down or begging for his forgiveness, spoke of a woman with a much deeper sense of self. Something Rowan lacked.
Rowan reached down and pried the trunk from her grasp. The handle was slick with perspiration as he set it on the floor beside them. There was no denying that she was nervous. Her eyes held questions Rowan wasn’t prepared to answer as he considered the unthinkable.
In that brief moment, however, it wasn’t unimaginable at all. It was inevitable.
Time drew to a halt, affording Rowan precious seconds to ponder why this had yet to happen. Would he regret it come the morning?
When Marce glanced over his shoulder toward the door, Rowan decided there wasn’t time to scrutinize anything further. If she walked out the door—which he did not doubt she would do—his chance would disappear along with her. They would never know what lay beneath their disdain for one another.
He leaned close,
securely connecting them, and touched his lips to hers. It was a kiss born of repressed passion and the aftermath of their argument. Not demanding and insistent—slightly frantic yet gentle and searching.
Her lips were softer, more welcoming than the feather pillow he nestled against each night. He ignored the shiver of need that coursed through him, but the way she trembled in his arms was undeniable.
To Rowan’s astonishment, it was Marce who pushed herself closer to him as their kiss deepened, her tongue tracing his lower lips and demanding they part for her. It was her hands that dug into his shoulders as a throaty moan escaped her parted lips. Or had it been his moan that filled the room?
Her hands fled his shoulders, and Marce ran her fingers through his hair, lightly tugging at the same time she drew herself closer. The urge to close his eyes and simply relish the sensation of Marce’s touch was nearly more than he could control. He should rein himself in, steer his need, and step away, forgetting the feel of her in his arms.
He’d been cruel and heartless only moments before—he in no way deserved any part of her.
A tiny, breathless whisper escaped her parted lips as her hands fell from his hair to clasp his shoulders once more. They massaged and caressed, matching the rhythm he’d set as he kneaded her backside.
Rowan released her mouth and trailed light kisses across her cheek until he reached the spot just below her earlobe. He longed to whisper sweet nothings to her and beg to hear where she would have his kisses next. But he would not risk bringing her back to her sanity. His passion flared when her body undulated against him. If it were up to him, this moment would never end.
Rowan tensed at the same instant Marce pulled away, her hands slipping from his shoulders to his chest as she pushed, not with great force but enough to create space between them. Their embrace was the closest he’d been to another person in many years—likely his entire life. Not necessarily physically, but the underlying connection between them. They’d fought relentlessly, but it had only served to prove how wrong Rowan had been all these years.
“Your Grace, I must—” She pressed her fingers against her plump, reddened lips.
“Do not depart today,” he whispered, his voice weak and pleading. “Go on the morrow if you must. I will have a carriage prepared, and you can arrive in London before nightfall.”
“Then you must go.” It was a soft demand.
“But you will remain at Hadlow for the night?” He searched for any way to convince her to stay. “It is not safe to travel after dark.”
She nodded but turned toward her wardrobe—away from him.
He was uncertain whether she nodded because she intended to stay one more night, or if it was a way of hastening Rowan’s departure from her private quarters.
Pressing her more would only push her farther from him.
When Marce disappeared behind her dressing screen, Rowan turned and fled the room.
Once in the hall with the door closed soundly behind him, he leaned back against the hard, smooth surface and pressed his fingers to his mouth that had, for a brief moment, joined with hers.
Certainly, there had been other women in his life—several to be sure—yet none had left him desiring more, nor threw his mind into turmoil.
None had left him wanting because he’d never taken any true interest in them. How could he when Marce awaited him? Rowan had desired no long-lasting attachment with any woman since he met Marce.
He and Marce had been in this constant tug of war for eight years.
How was it possible that he felt not only a physical connection to her but also a mental and emotional draw, especially after everything they’d been through? She despised him; it was evident in her glare.
Yet, Rowan was absolutely certain she’d never embraced another with such passion.
Sounds emitted from the room as Marce unpacked her trunk. The thump of her muddy riding boots hitting the hardwood floor, the clank of her brushes being set on the dressing table, the slam of her wardrobe door after she’d rehung her gowns.
Marce would not be departing today, which meant that Rowan had at least the next twelve hours to make good on his promise to have a carriage readied to transport her back to London. He had until first light tomorrow to figure out what in the bloody hell had come over the pair of them in her chambers.
It was either that or watch her leave him for good.
Chapter 15
Marce reclined against the pillows fluffed at her back as she pulled the covers even higher and tried to wish away the pounding in her head. Two nights with nary a moment’s rest was taking its toll on her. Exhaustion seeped from every pore, and her muscles ached—though that was likely from her outing on horseback as much as the exhaustion. London—and her normal daily life—did not allow for many days spent upon a horse.
Glancing at her door, Marce confirmed it was indeed still latched tightly with her dressing table bench pressed close. She’d claimed a headache the night before to escape dinner with Leona and keep her maid from coming to her in the wee hours of the day when the sun was barely cresting over Lord Cresthaven’s manor. She supposed it was her due that she’d truly been set upon by a headache sometime during the endless hours of the night.
Her stomach let out a growl, reminding Marce that she’d forgone her meal the previous evening and was long past the hour she usually broke her fast.
If she departed her room, the likelihood of happening upon Rowan was higher than if she remained in her chambers.
The notion of sending word to Tobias about everything had been quashed without much thought. Marce knew she should warn the earl of Rowan’s accusations, but that would only further draw Tobias into the midst of a problem that didn’t concern him. She and Tobias had never been intimate; never more than an appropriate touching of hands—hers glove-covered—when the situation demanded it. Never had he invited to her Cresthaven Park without Rowan in attendance.
While Rowan’s allegations about her relationship with Tobias stung, it was his utter ignorance about her life in London that truly wounded her. They’d known one another for all these years, yet, he still believed Craven House nothing more than a brothel. For a man who prided himself on his successful business ventures, his complete lack of interest and knowledge in her was, frankly, startling. Was he utterly daft, or did he truly have no interest in her daily life?
His attention to his business endeavors was something she’d read in The Post, not that Rowan had ever shared that tidbit of information with her. Perhaps it was their dealings that were of little import to him.
How could he so readily connect himself to her and not know a thing about her? Her life, her chosen career, her family…he knew none of it, and had never shown any interest in asking. All these years, he’d believed her to be a common whore. A woman whose life depended on her ability to sell her body.
Even Tobias had learned more about Craven House and the good deeds Marce and her siblings did within its walls. It was not the best-hidden secret about town. Anyone who asked could learn that while Marce still hosted several high-stakes card games during the week, she allowed no improper behavior, no drunken tirades, and no scandalous antics within her walls. Men acted as gentlemen should while in her home. And in return, they could wager to their hearts’ content and stay until the early morning hours. Men from Seven Dials could sit beside the Duke of Northumberland, as long as their funds were good and they didn’t wager above their means. As long as they conducted themselves with decorum and tact, they were allowed to remain—and return. There were no arguments, and no game had ever ended in the throwing of fists.
Marce collected five percent of every hand for the house, and in return, the men were fed and given a clean, private room where they could play cards.
The women she helped, as well as Marce’s siblings, stayed in their private chambers, and no man dared break Madame Marce’s rule by setting foot on the stairs leading to the floors above.
Marce pushed the covers back
and departed her bed, pacing along the length of the room.
Her irritation was evident in the stomp of her stocking-covered feet.
How dare Rowan speak of her—to her—in such a disrespectful manner?
She should have fled Hadlow Estate during the dark of night. It was more than the duke deserved for his abhorrent behavior. Calling her a whore and then being so bold as to kiss her.
It was unthinkable!
Maddeningly brazen.
She should have kicked him in the shin for his impertinent, brash actions when he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers—though he was not plagued by a weak lower lip or clammy skin.
Brow furrowing, Marce chastised her wandering thoughts, which, in turn, brought images of a shirtless duke to the forefront of her thoughts once more.
“Bollocks!” she cursed.
Why had her body so readily responded to his scandalous advances? It was as if the years of tension between them had built to that exact moment—as if all that had come before had led them to that one kiss. It was undeniablly true that she’d begun to see the duke in a far different light during this stay in Kent. She’d seen his calm exterior falter, and she’d been drawn to it. He’d lost control at their dinner party and in the garden. It had always been Rowan’s way to have every detail outlined and every person in his presence act accordingly; however, something had altered. Leona was not doing as Rowan demanded. Tobias had broken and spoken of Rowan’s past. And Marce had decided to leave Rowan.
Yet, instead, she’d found herself in his arms, enjoying the touch of his lips to hers.
She was not fool enough to deny that she’d known the danger she flirted with the moment Rowan stepped into her private chambers. The sensible thing would have been to demand that he leave, cast him from the room, and bolt the door.
The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3) Page 12