Rowan had been a mystery to her for so many years, but last night, he’d allowed his guard to fall and had spoken of things so private, so intimate, so innately him, that a part of her understood every action from his past—their past.
And she forgave him.
She glanced about the room. The drapes were drawn so tightly, she was uncertain if the sun was still lingering on the horizon or if they’d languished in bed long past the noonday meal. Either way, Marce wasn’t ready to depart Rowan’s bed as his soft breathing caressed the nape of her neck.
The coals in the hearth had long since turned to ash in the grate.
Rowan sighed, pulling her closer to him.
Protective even in his slumber.
She couldn’t help but smile, remembering the way he’d delicately taken her in his arms and carried her from the study to his private chambers, their eyes focused on one another the entire time. He’d asked her if she was certain, said that it was not too late for her to return home as if nothing had occurred between them.
To deny their intimacy would have been to negate everything they’d spoken of…and Marce wanted to remember both.
The mask of the arrogant, severe lord had fallen away the moment she’d set her lips to his. The ever-in-control man had been undone by a simple joining of mouths. It was almost as if he’d been waiting—for years—for the moment he could relinquish his firm hold on life and simply enjoy a night of raw, pure passion.
Or perhaps it was her own longing she was projecting onto him.
Either way, Marce remained still, relishing the final moments in his arms before the reality of their situation returned.
He was still a duke, still the man who’d convinced himself that punishing an innocent woman would give him the power to put his father’s betrayal behind him.
Yet, that did not mean those two things went hand in hand. It did not make it impossible for change—both inside and out.
On the other side, she was still the forgotten daughter of a marquess…the madame of a famed London brothel.
Neither of them was foolish enough to think that this one night could entirely change everything about their pasts. She would return to Craven House, collect her belongings, and await the solicitor’s word that the property in Kent had been secured. Rowan would depart for Scotland or another business engagement, leaving London and Marce behind him.
“Good morning,” he whispered, brushing the curl from her cheek. “Or is it afternoon?”
“I wondered the same thing,” she said with a light laugh. “I should rise, gather my things, and be on my way.”
She attempted to wiggle toward the edge of the bed, but his arm fell across her once more, and her legs were hopelessly tangled in the bedcovers.
“I will ring for a meal. There is no hurry.” He pressed his lips, dry from sleep, to her neck.
Her body responded instantly to his touch, as if they’d spent a thousand nights before entwined with each other. Her body tensed with the promise of the pleasure to come…if only she’d allow it. If only her feelings of security were not clouded by her doubts from the past. She’d remained guarded and skeptical for so many years, questioning everything Rowan said and did, it would be nearly impossible to alter her way of thinking so quickly.
“Rowan…I—”
He lifted onto his elbows as she shifted to her back, gazing up into his sparkling eyes, enhanced by his tanned skin and ebony brows.
“Shhhh.” He silenced her by pressing his finger to her lips. “There will be plenty of time to talk. Allow me a few moments to gaze upon your beauty.”
The hardening of his length pressed into her stomach, but his eyes never left hers.
“Gaze upon my beauty?” she asked, her trepidation fading.
“Yes. However, one need look no further than your enchanting, wide eyes to witness your immense loveliness.” Her cheeks flushed, and he leaned down, their noses touching. “I cannot fathom how I went so many years without you in my arms.”
She longed to agree with him, make light of their sordid past, but a thump at the door stopped her.
Her back stiffened, and she scrambled for anything to cover her naked body from view if Rowan’s guest should enter the room.
“Your Grace, Your Grace!” The frantic call was only highlighted as the man continued to pound on the thick, wooden door. “Your Grace.”
“What is it?” Rowan growled.
“Word arrived from your estate,” the voice lowered as if relieved to have located the duke. “You are needed. Immediately. At Hadlow. Your driver, Charles, awaits you in the drive.”
“I have yet to leave my bed,” Rowan called back, the cords in his arms tensing. “What is so urgent that I need rise and depart with such haste?”
“It is the duchess…“ The voice paused. “The missive said you must come as quickly as possible. That is all that was written.”
Rowan leapt from the bed, his gaze darting around the room, finally settling on his clothes from the previous night. The hurried movements drowned out whatever the servant said next.
Following suit, Marce climbed from the bed, locating her shift, dress, stockings, and shoes lying haphazardly over a chair near the hearth. She focused on dressing herself as Rowan collected a fresh pair of trousers and donned his shirt from the day before. Next, he slipped on his Hessians and ran his hands through his hair before turning to assist her.
“Not the way I pictured acting as your lady’s maid for the first time,” he breathed against her exposed back as he latched the pearl buttons and called out, “Inform Charles that I will be ready to depart in five minutes.”
“Certainly, Your Grace.” Footsteps sounded as the servant hurried down the hall, away from Rowan’s chambers.
“I will come with you,” Marce said, her stare darting about the room. “As soon as I locate my gloves and cloak.”
“We can stop in the study before departing.” Rowan halted, taking her in from head to toe. “Are you certain you want to return to Hadlow with me?”
Confusion swirled as Marce attempted to read the meaning behind his question. “Of course. Leona is like a mother to me. If she is in need, I will be at her side, no matter where you and I stand.”
His stare narrowed as if her reply hadn’t been what he wanted or expected, but after a few seconds, he nodded and started for the door, leaving Marce to follow quickly or be left behind.
By the time they reached the bottom of the grand staircase, Marce was in front of him as she hurried to the study to retrieve her cloak. There was no sign of Lord Cresthaven as they departed the townhouse, and Rowan assisted her into his waiting coach.
“Ready?” he asked.
Marce nodded, settling on the seat beside him. His hand found hers, and their fingers twined together in a way that felt both familiar and comforting. With a sharp rap on the ceiling above, the driver jangled the reins, and the coach burst into movement, throwing Marce back against the velvet squab.
Rowan’s hand trembled, and his fingers tightened on hers, betraying his apprehension. She shifted closer, hoping to offer him the reassurance and support he needed. Neither knew what awaited them at Hadlow.
And so, Marce remained silent at his side as he looked anywhere but at her. The passing landscape as they fled London proper and hurried through the early morning countryside held his attention while she was given ample time to dwell on their night together.
All the while, their hands remained clasped.
There was naught either could do until they arrived in Kent.
As they passed through Welling several hours later, Marce realized that this was their first complete journey together from London to Hadlow Estate. But with so much weighing on them both, and despite having unlimited things to discuss, they both remained silent.
Rowan, his breathing coming in haggard gusts, stared out the glass pane of the coach window.
Despite their joined hands and everything they’d experienced the night before, t
he distance between them could not have been greater. If Leona passed, their last excuse to remain together would be gone, and they’d need to further explore what lay between them.
Chapter 28
The day had remained bight, with nary a cloud in the sky or a passing carriage on the roads all the way to the Kent countryside. Their journey was endured in silence…a contemplative stillness, unlike their previous coach ride. Several times, he’d longed to inquire as to her musings, yet he’d remained mute, acting as if the passing scenery held his attention. Rowan was hesitant to speak on the matter of his mother, and Marce accepted that, sitting quietly at his side until slumber had pulled her into a deep sleep, her breath coming in even, smooth inhales and exhales.
Eventually, he’d drawn the drapes, shrouding the interior of the coach in darkness and keeping the afternoon sun from waking Marce. She’d taken the seat next to him so readily, it had sent him reeling. How had they progressed from two people who were little more than strangers to this?
Any other day, he might have found comfort in their newly discovered understanding of one another. Unfortunately, his worry over the duchess’s health made it impossible for him to explore all they’d learned of one another recently—on both a physical and emotional level.
It was only when his coach drew to a halt outside Hadlow that Rowan released Marce’s hand and nudged her awake.
“We have arrived,” he whispered. After their night together, locked in one another’s embrace, he was exhausted, too, but sleep had eluded him during their travels.
Running her fingers through her tangled, wayward curls, Marce gave him a tentative smile. “I must have fallen asleep. My apologies.” Her voice was thick with sleep, and Rowan thought he could wake to the earthy tone every morning for the rest of his life and die a happy man at the end.
Without any consideration, he leaned down and kissed her.
A simple, chaste kiss, but it sent a shock so intense through him, Rowan was certain she experienced the same.
And it held promise—a promise that the time would come for them to speak about everything that had transpired between them the night before. Time still for him to make amends—no justifications, no rationalization…only words of apology and a promise for them to explore a future free of lies and deception.
The carriage door opened, and a footman put the steps down for them to exit. Rowan ignored them, leaping down and raising his hand into the coach to assist Marce to the ground.
“Your Grace, Your Grace,” Miss Pearl shouted, hurrying out of the manor and down the steps. “Rowan, your mother. She is in her room…waiting for the physician to arrive.”
By the time the older woman stopped before them, she was panting and doubled over to gain her composure.
“Please, calm yourself, Pearl.” Marce stepped forward, patting the woman’s back. “That’s it, deep breaths. Now, tell us what has happened with the duchess.”
“She was”—his mother’s companion paused, glancing up at him before refocusing on Marce—“she was preparing for bed last night and stumbled off balance when a coughing fit overtook her. She fell and hit her head on the corner of her bed. I found her a while later when I went to bring her the orange tea she enjoys before she retires for the evening.”
“Was the physician called last night?” he growled.
His tone was more forceful than he’d anticipated, but the woman did not back down. “Of course, Your Grace, I am not feeble-minded.”
“No one said you were,” Marce soothed, taking the woman’s hands into hers and rubbing them gently. “Your hands, they are freezing. Have you gotten any rest since the physician arrived?”
“I have been with Leona since I found her.” Miss Pearl turned a narrow-eyed stare on Rowan as if to prove she was fulfilling her duties. “The physician feared a concussion from her fall and said I must keep her awake until he returned this afternoon to examine her.”
“Did she injure anything else?”
“A bruise on her arm, that is all, but it seems the doctor is also concerned about her increased coughing.” Miss Pearl pulled from Marce’s hold and turned toward the manor. “She insisted you not be summoned, Your Grace, but I was ever so worried and knew you could convince her to do as the physician says and remain abed.”
A bit of Rowan’s unease receded, and they followed his mother’s companion into the house and up the stairs and to the west wing of Hadlow. He nodded to various servants as they passed them in the foyer and the corridors. Each seemingly stunned to see him.
He leaned close to Marce when they rounded the corner and entered the west wing and said, “It appears every servant assumed I would abandon my mother in her time of need.”
“It isn’t that, Rowan, I assure you.”
His step faltered at her words. “Then what in the bloody hell is it?”
She squeezed his hand in answer, and he realized he’d taken hold of her again at some point…and every occupant of Hadlow had noticed.
Her hand in his felt natural and normal—a feeling he’d never felt before. Rowan had spent so many years comforting his mother that being comforted was foreign—yet very welcome.
“She is in her bedchambers,” Miss Pearl called, glancing over her shoulder. “However, she is expecting you, Your Grace.”
They entered the duchess’s private drawing room and continued on to her bedchamber beyond, the air thick with warmth from the roaring fire in the hearth. The room was dim with the drapes pulled closed, and but a single candle lit on her dressing table. The stench of sickness nearly overwhelmed him. Only a few days before, his mother appeared to be improving and was looking forward to working in her garden come warmer weather. But now, her eyes were sunken, and her arms looked deathly thin.
His mother appeared fragile and pale where she lay in her large, four-poster bed, the sheer curtains tied back with a chair positioned close to the mattress.
Rowan led Marce farther into the room, pulling her close to him as they reached the side of the bed. “Mother,” he whispered so as not to startle her if she slept. When she began to stir, her eyes opening a crack, Rowan lowered himself onto the chair. He sensed Marce at his back. “Mother, Marce and I are here.”
“My dear boy.” Her voice was a ragged croak, and she reached out to touch him. “And my dear daughter.”
“We are both here, Leona.” Marce’s warm breath caressed his cheek when she leaned closer so Leona could see her. “How are you feeling?”
“You are both here?” Her glazed stare narrowed, and her eyes moved between them in seeming disbelief.
“Of course, we are here.”
“Together?”
Rowan couldn’t help but turn a questioning gaze up at Marce, who stood behind him before focusing on his mother once more. “You should rest, Mother. The physician should be arriving shortly. We will return once he leaves.”
In response, his mother snorted, the sound turning quickly to another coughing fit.
Pearl rushed forward and handed the duchess a kerchief.
Pressing it to her mouth, his mother scrutinized them, her green stare identical to Rowan’s. “I was afraid that I would never see the pair of you together again.”
“Nonsense, Mother.”
“It is not nonsense, boy.” She wiggled up into a seated position and set the kerchief aside, the coughing fit over. “You had quite a row before Marce fled back to London.”
He patted his mother’s hand. “We needn’t discuss that now. You should rest.”
“Yes, I think that is a sound idea,” Marce said from behind him, her hand squeezing his shoulder. “We will return as soon as the physician approves guests.”
Rowan didn’t miss the unease in Marce’s voice.
“Oh fiddle-faddle,” the duchess sighed. “The pair of you think you are so wise. Assuming that I, a frail, old woman cannot see what is what.”
“You are exhausted,” Rowan argued. “You should sleep. We can talk later.”
; “I did not tell her, Your Grace,” Miss Pearl pleaded from across the room. “I swear to it.”
“Tell her what?” Marce asked.
“What, exactly, is going on?” Rowan pushed to his feet, glaring between the duchess and her companion, his words echoing through his mother’s chambers.
“Sit down, Rowan…and you, too, Lady Marce Davenport.” The sharp edge of his mother’s voice had Rowan falling back into the straight-back chair. Another seat appeared next to him, and Marce sat. “Do you think I am ignorant of everything that happens under my roof?”
Even in his childhood, Rowan had never witnessed his mother speak with such force and conviction.
No longer did she appear pale and sickly as color blossomed in her cheeks.
“Your Grace.” Marce sat, her back ramrod straight as she assessed his mother. “I am—”
His mother’s stern glare halted Marce’s claim. “I have waited all these long years for the two of you to finally come to your senses.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
Slashing her hand through the air, she addressed him. “To be forthcoming, I lost my bet to Pearl years ago. I had no idea the pair of you would be able to keep up your charade for so much as a year, let alone nearly eight.”
“You know?” Marce put a hand to her throat, her eyes wide.
“It took me only an hour, on your first stay at Hadlow, to discover the truth. Not that he had forced you into agreeing to pose as his wife, but that you’d decided together. If I’d known the extent of my son’s resentment, I would have stepped in sooner.” She shook her head with remorse, speaking only to Marce. “Besides, though I’ve chosen to reside in Kent, I am not oblivious to town gossip—or the lack thereof, as it were. No lord in my day, or this day, could wed without the London Daily Gazette reporting on it, especially when he is a duke, and the bride is the daughter of none other than Madame Sasha.”
“I am sorry for deceiving you, Your Grace.”
Rowan’s resolve splintered at the heartbreak in Marce’s voice. He’d caused this…had known the day would come when his mother discovered his deception.
The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3) Page 22