Page 22 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Remorse coursed through Marce, and she turned toward the window, her fingers instantly tightening on the gift in her lap. Below, Rowan stood with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and old, worn trousers hanging loosely over scuffed boots. He pointed this way and that, giving instructions, but whomever he commanded was too close to the manor wall to be seen. Even more shocking than his attire was the dirt covering his arms, neck, and pants as if he’d been tilling the soil all morning. His hair lay flat against his head as if he’d recently discarded a hat. The bright morning sun gleamed off his ebony locks and kissed his bare skin.

“What is he doing?” Marce stammered.

Leona shrugged, causing the blanket to slip down to her waist. “One never knows with Rowan. I thought maybe he’d said something to you.”

Marce couldn’t admit that she hadn’t seen, let alone spoken to Rowan since she excused herself from the table following their meal the previous evening. “He mentioned nothing about working in the garden this morning.”

“Interesting…”

If Marce didn’t know better, she’d think Leona was attempting to get a confession of some sort from her.

“Is that package for me?” the duchess asked, the exhaustion so evident a few moments before, vanished.

“Yes, I found it for you in a bookstore on our trip to”—Marce paused, trying to remember where Rowan had said they’d traveled since their last visit to Hadlow—“well, that is not important. What is significant is if you like the book. Go ahead, open it.”

Marce set the bundle in the duchess’s lap, hoping the large tome didn’t weigh too much for the woman’s legs to bear.

Tentatively, Leona pulled at the twine that held the paper wrapped securely around the book. When the string fell away, Leona slipped her hand under the wrapping and removed the book, holding it before her as she mouthed the title silently.

“It is an exposé, about the Swiss Alps, complete with illustrations.” Marce couldn’t tell if the duchess was overjoyed at the gift or disinterested. “I suspect it is a place neither of us will ever visit and that we will only learn of its wonders through books.”

Leona smoothed her hands over the leather-bound volume before lifting the cover to peek inside.

Air burned to escape Marce’s lungs as she waited for the duchess’s reaction. This was to be Leona’s final gift from Marce—and if the duchess were not completely taken with it, would that cloud her fond memories of Marce once she was gone? No, the duchess had to love the gift, there was no other option.

Time slowed to a halt, and a maid could be heard rushing down the corridor outside the room. The fire crackled in the hearth as it struggled to provide ample warmth for the large room. Marce’s senses were so sensitive in that moment she thought Rowan could be heard in the gardens below; however, that was not possible with the solid windows and thick walls of the manor between them.

“It is lovely, Marce,” Leona sighed. “The Swiss Alps. I can say I have not given the area much thought…ever.”

“The illustrator, Hans Govstein, is a famed artist in Austria,” Marce shared the only fact that she’d been told about the book. “It was his final work…and many say his most accomplished.”

Marce clamped her mouth shut and turned her attention back to the window and Rowan below at her near mention of Govstein’s death. Leona needed no reminders that her sickness was progressing each day—so much so that she’d been banned from visiting her garden.

While the duchess flipped page after page, Marce focused on Rowan out the window. His movements were erratic and chaotic as he rushed about the garden. He stopped before a large rose bush, sheering off several branches before gesturing to someone out of sight. Next, he moved to a strand of greenery, devoid of blossoms, and pulled the plant out of the ground, roots and all, tossing it on the pile of rosebush trimmings.

The duke was frantic.

Marce could see that as clear as day; however, the Rowan she knew never allowed himself even a moment of such mania. He was always composed to the point of coldness. What could have led him to such uncharacteristic behavior, especially in front of the servants?

“Will Pearl be joining us again?” Marce asked, reaching forward to tug the curtain closed a bit to block the duchess’s view of her son. When she nodded, Marce continued, “I think I will see what Rowan is up to in the garden.”

“Yes, hurry along.” Leona reclined in her seat, clutching the book closely as Marce collected the discarded wrapping. “Do not languish away here in my sick room a moment longer. See to Rowan and have a delightful time on your outing with Lord Cresthaven.”

Lord Cresthaven. Tobias. Their ride around the estate.

Marce had nearly forgotten the man was to arrive at any moment.

“I will find Pearl before journeying downstairs,” Marce reassured the woman.

If she hurried, there would be time to ascertain why Rowan was flitting about like a madman and be prepared for when Tobias arrived to collect her.

There was something amiss with Rowan, though what could have sent him to the garden in such a frenzy remained a mystery.

Much about Rowan was ambiguous to her, even after all these years.

The man journeyed all over England and Scotland under the guise of business dealings, yet she’d never fully understood what exactly his business ventures entailed. When in London, he never caused a commotion or so much as a speck of gossip. Marce was aware because she always kept abreast of the gossip mills, if only to make certain her family was not fodder for the ton. Besides Leona and Tobias, she knew of no other friends or even acquaintances of the duke.

Why he’d perpetrated the arrangement between them was the one thing that wasn’t a mystery to her. Rowan blamed Marce’s mother for destroying his family. And, largely, Sasha had done just that by taking a married lover who dedicated more time to her than his own wife and child. What Marce had never understood was why, after both Sasha’s and Julian’s deaths, the blame had been laid upon her shoulders.