Page 20 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

The servant behind the duchess stepped forward, ready to do Leona’s bidding, but Marce held up her hand to halt the man.

“No, no,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips once more. If Leona noticed it was not the genuine grin from moments before, she didn’t mention it as she eased back into her chair. “It is just a bit warm in here.”

“Likely because of all these senseless candles,” Rowan murmured as he sat. “Enough wicks to illuminate an entire factory.”

Tobias caught Marce’s eye across the table, his brow rising in question.

If Lord Cresthaven thought Marce held any answers to the mystery that was the Duke of Harwich, he was gravely mistaken and likely to be disappointed.

“I think it is that Lady Harwich is in need of fresh air,” Tobias proclaimed, thumping the table with his open palm. “I will come ‘round tomorrow and collect her for a ride about Hadlow and my estate.” The earl paused, shifting slightly to face Rowan. “That is if your husband does not have any objections.”

“Why would I have any objections?” Rowan croaked. “I am not her keeper.”

Oh, but wasn’t he? Marce longed to say just that, but she held her tongue and smiled, even as her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed a bit.

“I think a horseback ride about the countryside sounds positively delightful,” Leona gushed. “If only my physician would allow me out of the manor every once in a while.”

“That is not happening anytime soon, Mother,” Rowan cut in, his tone severe. “And do not think to convince Miss Pearl—or your physician—any differently.”

Suddenly, three sets of eyes turned toward her, two of the purest green and one of light brown. And they waited. For what, Marce wasn’t certain. Had she missed something?

“Tell me you are not rejecting my offer, Lady Harwich.” Tobias laid his palm against his forehead as if he couldn’t bear to be turned away. “I will flee Kent in embarrassment, Your Grace.”

“Do not be ridiculous, my lord.” Marce shifted slightly, nodding to the waiting servants to serve their soup portions. “Of course, I will accompany you tomorrow; however”—She glanced at the duchess at Tobias’ elbow—“it would be grand if you could venture out with us, as well.”

“Do not worry over me, my child.” Leona turned and placed a quick kiss to Tobias’ cheek. “My dearest Tobias will be all the company you need. These old, aching bones would never make it even as far as the apple trees behind my garden.”

For not the first time, Marce cursed fate for saddling Leona with a frail body despite her healthy mind. If she’d been given both a fragile mind and body, perhaps it would not be such a burden. As it was, her mind was well aware of all the things her body was incapable of.

“Mayhap Rowan will accompany you to the garden if the weather warms by midday.” Tobias winked at her across the table. “It is in no way fair that only Lady Harwich and I will be enjoying the outdoors.”

The duke scoffed, but when Leona turned to her son, her eyes pleading, Marce suspected that Rowan would not deny the woman.

“That would be lovely,” Leona said. “With your assistance, Pearl and I could spend a bit of time in the garden. I can meet with the groundskeeper and instruct him on how things should be cared for before spring is upon us.”

Rowan’s brow furrowed. “The garden is not being taken care of in a manner that suits? You should have spoken of this to Pelton or me earlier. Dictate a list to Miss Pearl, and I will have everything corrected immediately.”

“That is not necessary—”

“I insist,” Rowan thundered before picking up his spoon and staring into his bowl of duck soup.

Silence fell over the room as each followed Rowan’s lead, turning their attention to their meals. The only sound was the clinking of silverware against the bowls, giving Marce ample time to think through what was to come. On the morrow, she would have her final visit with Leona, say her goodbyes to Tobias on their ride, and finally, speak with the duke. After that, she was uncertain what would ensue. Would Rowan cast her out immediately? Would he deny her transport back to London?

She could ask Tobias for assistance if Rowan turned cruel. The men were friends, but the earl was ever the gentleman, and after so many years, Marce had come to think of him as her friend, as well.

As time passed, their soup dishes were whisked away, and cheese with fresh bread was served, followed by roasted pheasant and vegetables from the Hadlow hothouse. Each dish tasted better than the one before, but Marce found herself barely able to take more than a few bites of each. Her stomach churned, and her head began to ache with trepidation, making the final plate set before her taste like sawdust and not the sweet raspberry tartness she’d come to enjoy from Mrs. Pelton’s pies.

If other conversation was made, Marce did not hear it or participate.

If Leona noticed her reserved nature, the woman did not comment.

If Tobias teased the duke or lavished further attention on the duchess, Marce remained withdrawn and unaware.

If Rowan suspected that something was amiss, he made no mention of it. As the evening progressed, the stiffness in his shoulders receded, and the hard set of his jaw relaxed. Tension usually went hand in hand with their interactions, as both were always on guard when in one another’s company. Few occasions presented themselves for Marce to witness Rowan while surrounded by trusted friends and family.

Unrestrained ease sat well on his broad shoulders, brightened his eyes, and even diminished the air of arrogance that normally clung to him tighter than his evening coat. How would their past have progressed had Rowan presented himself as this man instead of the arrogant, entitled son of Julian Delconti, hell-bent on taking everything from her family?

It was something Marce would never know, and she had resigned herself to that fact long ago. They were who they were. She was the daughter of a notorious brothel proprietress despite her father being a marquess, and he was the son of a wealthy, influential duke. Their paths had never been destined to cross. Unfortunately, they had.