Page 12 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Everyone except Rowan’s mother.

Who mustn’t ever discover the depth of her son’s deception.

Thankfully, the servants at Hadlow Estate adored Lady Leona and valued their employment far more than they disapproved of Rowan’s decision to exploit Marce and risk hurting the duchess.

Chapter 5

Marce breathed in deeply the moment she crossed Hadlow’s threshold, her lungs filling with all the smells that had at some point over the years become familiar—and even comforting—to her. The scent of the lemon used to polish the floors and wooden stair rails. The delightful, tangy aroma of baked goods emanating from the kitchen at the rear of the house, somehow making its way across the manor. Not only to the foyer but also all the way to the east wing where she and Rowan resided, and the west wing where Lady Leona’s private suite overlooked the Hadlow gardens. There was yet another sweet scent that carried through every square inch of the estate, and it reminded Marce how far removed Rowan and his mother were from her way of living at Craven House.

The honeyed fragrance of beeswax candles.

Marce was fortunate to possess enough coin to light their home with tallow in their private chambers and rush-lights in the most frequented rooms below. Only on the few nights per week that she invited men into her home for card games were proper beeswax candles brought out—and they were blown out and whisked away immediately after the games concluded, burning not a second longer than necessary.

Oh, the airs one put on for the benefit of others.

Closing her eyes, Marce threaded her fingers together before her, holding the duchess’s gift to her chest and inhaling one last time…her exhale achingly slow as the tension from the carriage ride drained from her.

She would miss the smells of Hadlow—among other things.

To her, these were the scents of a true home, a place where a family resided—lived, laughed, loved, and cherished one another. There had been many firsts and lasts within these ancient walls. Leona had wedded Julian in Hadlow’s gardens. Rowan had been born in the very room Lady Leona still kept as her own. And Julian, the previous duke, had died here…along with their many babes who did not survive. Despite the hardships the Harwich family had endured over the generations, these walls still provided a treasured sanctuary for the occupants.

One day, Marce would possess a place like Hadlow. Not equal in size or to its grandiose nature, but a house that was more than a mere dwelling, more than four walls and a roof that afforded shelter as long as she abided by the terms of an agreement.

A home.

A place her siblings would come to for short respites from their hectic lives in London.

A place with a small garden where Marce could tend to the herbs and vegetables. The satisfaction of feeding her guests with crops tended by her own hands would surely be fulfilling.

Situated a short distance from a small village where the townsfolk would greet her by name, and she would invite them to visit her for tea or an afternoon of lawn activities…perhaps even a dinner party every few months.

There would always be a feast to share, sweets to enjoy, and festivities to plan.

A home that her children would enjoy—not her children, but those of Garrett, Sam, Judith, and Payton. They would come and visit every holiday season, and she’d demand they remain until after the new year dawned. There would be a yuletide log with plenty of holly decorating every table and railing.

Yes, that was what Marce longed for.

A small slice of Heaven that was hers, and hers alone.

Never would a man take from her. Marce would not allow it.

Never would a man own her. She would perish before agreeing to such a thing again.

“Lady Harwich.” The soft, familiar voice drifted through the foyer. It had taken many years for Marce to halt herself from glancing about for Leona, Rowan’s mother, when someone uttered the greeting. “I wish you a good afternoon, Your Grace.”

She opened her eyes with a smile upon her lips to see Pearl, the duchess’s maid, at the bottom of the stairs.

Lady Harwich, or Your Grace, were difficult titles to assume when Marce knew the depth of the deception she and Rowan were embroiled in. The name and title were not hers, not in truth; however, that did not alter the greeting she received each time she arrived at Hadlow.

“My mistress has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. I fear she will not rest until she has set eyes on you.” Pearl was nearly the same age as Rowan’s mother, but for some reason, she hadn’t seemed to age in over two decades, at least if the painted portraits in the duchess’s sitting room were to be believed. With her mousy brown hair, milky skin, and delicate frame, many would think the duchess’s companion no older than Marce. “She spotted Johnathon leading the duke’s horse round to the stables, and I rushed to collect you.”

Aside from when Marce was in residence, Pearl was Leona’s sole companion, hired as the duchess’s maid long before she and the duke had wed. She bathed the older woman, changed her linens, and even pinned her hair each morning, despite Leona rarely leaving her private suite of rooms. They were more than mistress and servant, they were bosom friends.

“I shan’t endeavor to keep her waiting a second more,” Marce said, unable to keep the joy from her tone. Pearl returned her smile before turning and leading the way up the stairs. “How has she been since my last visit?”

If the servant noticed her use of my instead of our, therefore excluding Rowan, Pearl did not hint at it.

“My mistress has been as well as can be expected. She has good days, bad days, and days I fear I will need summon His Grace back to Hadlow.” Pearl kept her eyes trained before her, nodding slightly with sorrow as she spoke of Leona’s persistent sickness. Marce had learned when they first met that the duchess had never been in good health, not since her birth. However, Leona’s father’s status in society had afforded her a successful match with the Duke of Harwich despite her frail state. “Today, it is only you—and her son—she speaks of. Not a moment of rest will be had until she has set eyes upon you, my dear.”