Page 16 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

His eyes narrowed on the package she’d nearly forgotten she carried. “Are you on your way to see my mother?”

It was evident from her position that she was not on her way to the west wing; however, she did hold Leona’s gift. Did the duke attempt to bait her into lying?

If he thought her incapable of honesty when asked a simple question, then he knew her not at all. “I was going to visit her, but Daisy informed me that Mrs. Giles was cautioning against disturbing her. I decided to break my fast first and check on her after speaking with Pearl. But if you think—”

“I will not presume to order you about.”

“Is that not exactly the parameters of our agreement, Your Grace?” It was now Marce’s turn to bait him. “I mean, that has been my understanding for the last…what has it been”—Marce glanced at the ceiling, making a show as if she were actually counting the days—“let us leave it as years, that you presumed to dictate my every move, whether it be here or in London.”

Marce didn’t bother censoring her tone but managed to give him her most sincere, guileless smile. If a servant happened upon them in the corridor engaged in a very obvious argument then so be it. Her days hiding her true feelings were behind her.

“Besides, after seeing the duchess, I was hoping for a private word with you,” Marce continued, leaving herself no opportunity to avoid Rowan any longer. “Hopefully around midday, if that is agreeable.”

“I only just came from my mother’s rooms, and she is not up to receiving visitors this morning; however, she is stubborn as usual and will attend us—downstairs—at our evening meal. As for a private word with you, we are both here”—he glanced over his shoulder quickly and then past Marce down the stairs—“and it appears the moment is private…”

Damnation. She couldn’t call off their arrangement without first seeing Leona. That was the one thing Marce was unwilling to alter regarding her plans.

“It can wait until the morrow if your time is already allotted.”

His brows drew low over his glowing green glare as he assessed her quick change in tone. “I can certainly find a few moments—before our evening meal—to speak privately.”

Marce wracked her mind for any excuse to put off the conversation she’d requested. Her anxious nerves were threatening to shake her resolve now that she’d finally managed to solicit an audience with Rowan. “The duchess said Tobias—Lord Cresthaven—would be joining us for supper.”

The duke rubbed the back of his neck, and his jaw tightened. “Yes, yes, it escaped my memory that Mother insisted he visit while we are in residence. A private conversation may have to wait until tomorrow.”

Rowan quieted as a maid walked down the hall toward the servant’s stairwell, her arms loaded with soiled linens.

At any other home, it would be oddly peculiar a duchess would need schedule an audience with her own husband, yet the relationship between Marce and Rowan was far from normal.

While most of the servants were aware they were not truly wed, none suspected the true aversion and dislike they held for one another. Even when they’d stumbled across one another at a ball the previous Season, each had gone about their business as if they didn’t know one another.

It was the way of things, and how they would forever continue—at least, if Marce had anything to say about it.

Despite her errant—and somewhat disconcerting—thoughts.

Chapter 7

Rowan leaned farther over his desk, peering at the assortment of Hadlow Estate paperwork in need of his attention as he attempted, for the twentieth time, to read—and comprehend—the detailed list his steward had made in reference to improvements needed about the estate. Yet, his mind refused to cooperate as his vision blurred and his thoughts strayed to other matters. Far less important subjects—or at least they should be far less imperative. Instead of finalizing and signing land and crop agreements, tenant leases, and repair notices, Rowan found himself once again staring off at nothing, his mind returning to those brief moments on the head of the stairs.

Shoving the papers aside, he scrubbed at his face and blinked several times to clear his focus before retrieving his quill.

It had been hours since he happened upon Marce after his morning visit with his mother. And, still, he could think of nothing but their upcoming private conversation.

What could possibly be so pressing that the woman demanded an audience with him?

Hadn’t they traveled for nearly an hour in private the day before? They had been alone with no fear of being overheard, but Marce had broached no subject of a delicate nature.

Rowan reclined in his desk chair, his neck and back aching from his continued resolve to finish the task before him, even after several hours of making no progress. Instead, his eyes drifted closed once more, and all his mind conjured was that bloody pink frock…far too innocent and demure for Marce with its high neckline and simple waist. Not a speck of adornment accompanied the outfit—no jewels strung around her neck, or bobs hanging from her exposed earlobes. Even her hair was secured, half up and half down, as was her chosen fashion in recent years, without a single ribbon, flower, or comb.

In his dreams…no, not his dreams. Rowan did not fantasize about Marce. In his mind’s eye, when he envisioned Marce at Craven House, she wore gowns of the deepest scarlet or rich emerald green, accompanied by diamonds or rubies or sapphires. Her hair would also flow freely down her back and curl over her bare shoulders to cascade across her supple, mounding breasts where they strained against the tight silk of her bodice. Never did she bother with flounces or hoops, instead preferring skirts that hugged her body until they skimmed the floor at her feet. Her lips were always a rose red, and her cheeks a healthy pink, but never from the paints and dyes that some women preferred. No, everything about Marce was natural, from her long, fair, curling hair to her bright lips to the curve of her hips.

Bloody hell.

Thinking about Marce in such a way was only serving to distract his focus further.

There was little arguing that she was beautiful and poised, but desiring her in any true sense beyond their current arrangement was not something Rowan would allow himself. Any need or longing to hold the woman, kiss the woman, fit their bodies perfectly together, was the precise thing Rowan had avoided since the first time they were alone together. He’d covered his attraction with his fury that night, and he could do the same now. He had to.

Rowan shoved the mound of papers on his desk to the floor and threw his favored quill across the study, watching the driblets of ink that had clung to the tip spray about the room as it sailed through the air. He noted where each drop of black stained the rug, a wingback chair, and the frame of a landscape portrait that hung on the wall. Why could he focus on such a miniscule thing and not the mounding stacks of paperwork needing his attention?