Page 30 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Such a misleading word.

She was no more worthy of a blessed future than her siblings. As the daughter of a marquess, she should have been afforded a proper Season. She should have been raised above reproach without a hint of scandal attached to her name. She should have been given a suitable education and the chance to meet girls of her own station.

Instead, her mother had worked tirelessly just to feed and clothe her children.

Each day, until Julian entered her mother’s life, had been spent keeping Craven House from the debt collectors.

There had been no time or money for fancy clothes or proper tutors.

And hadn’t Marce been operating in the same fashion since Julian Delconti passed away, and Rowan had come to call in her family’s debts?

She could not begrudge her mother’s actions nor condemn her own.

However, Marce was in a position to change her life’s path. And it started this day.

With time, she might find a miniscule amount of what Sam and Jude had found. At her advanced age, it was not as likely for her, but contentment and a life based on her own decisions and stalwart nature was still wholly appealing.

An image of Rowan, filthy from toiling in the garden, sprang to her mind, except it wasn’t how it’d been that morning. No, his soiled shirt lay open to his waist, and his trousers clung tightly to his muscular thighs. His sable hair was not combed to perfection in that way only Rowan could attain, but instead wild from his labors. No longer did his green stare hold the frantic look of a man possessed; rather, his eyes were slightly hooded as if he focused on something far more enticing than pruning garden shrubs. And he smiled…as he had when he entered the dining hall the previous night before he realized his misstep and his demeanor reverted to his usual fortified manner.

Marce closed her eyes, hoping to clear Rowan from her mind—shirtless or otherwise. Her mistake was apparent immediately when wiping his grin from her memory didn’t happen. Instead, she remembered the way he’d ridden up on her and Tobias in the meadow. The way he’d leapt from his horse and joined them, his guarded nature at the forefront, but he’d willingly assisted her to her saddle. A piece of her heart had soared at his appearance, unknowingly longing to be near him. Was it because Tobias’s confession regarding Rowan’s past was already clouding her good sense? Undermining the resentment she’d harbored for the man since he convinced her to agree to his proposition?

She should be thinking through what she planned to say to Rowan after she shared her evening meal with the duchess in her private chambers. The duke needed to know that things were over—officially. There would be no negotiations or alternative options for continuing their original agreement. Craven House was his to do with as he pleased. His decision to take her home away no longer affected her as it once had. It no longer meant certain ruin for her family.

His threat to evict her had lost its edge. His control over her and her life was coming to an end. No, it was at an end.

Staring into the mirror once more, Marce noted the way the circles under her eyes had diminished, how her shoulders were back a bit more, and even her skin glowed, though that was certainly due to her ride in the bright Kent sun.

Her chin lifted an inch, and she studied the smooth column of her neck, the noble set of her jaw, and her perfectly pinned blond curls. In another life, she would have been considered a stunning beauty, a debutante of the first waters, and a woman sought after by London’s most charming men—rogues and gentlemen alike. Instead, she was an unwed spinster who’d lived her life for others. Surprisingly, however, she wouldn’t have changed that for anything.

She’d kept her family whole all these years.

Yes, so many years had been wasted at the behest of the Duke of Harwich; however, there were still many decades laid out before her. A new excitement overtook her at the sheer amount of possibilities for her future. Certainly, she would make a few mistakes. Yet, they would not stop her from living. Truly living. Finding and securing a new home. Beginning with nothing and turning that into something she and her family would be proud of—much as her mother had done years before.

The tall, mahogany clock in the foyer began to chime…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times.

“Enough with the self-indulgence, Marce,” she chastised her image in the looking glass.

It was time to meet the duchess for their meal, and she would not be the cause of their food growing stale and cold. It was important that she try her best to appear serene and at peace when in Leona’s presence, or the woman would sense that something was amiss. Honestly, Marce wouldn’t doubt if the duchess were already aware that something was off.

Leona was free to ask all the questions she wanted, but by then, Marce would be gone, and it would be Rowan’s responsibility to explain what they’d done. Remorse flared within her, burning a hole directly into her chest where her heart resided. Saying goodbye to the duchess without actually uttering the words would be the most difficult chore thus far. Perhaps she could convince Pearl to hold a letter for her that could be given to the duchess at a later time.

Marce was on the verge of pitying Rowan for the disaster she’d leave in her wake after departing Hadlow and shedding her title as the Duchess of Harwich.

Standing, she glanced about the room, seeing her things everywhere—her brushes and hairpins on the dressing table, her clothes in the standing closet, and her muddied boots from her ride set against the far wall, waiting to be cleaned. Even her stationery table sat on the bed, the coverlet rumpled from her afternoon attempt at a nap. She hadn’t dared pack her things before it was time to depart for fear that someone would stumble upon her bags and alert the duke. Her maid, and every other servant at Hadlow, was loyal to Rowan, as they should be.

Surprise was her only chance to flee Kent without a scene.

If given the opportunity, Rowan would come up with another reason to hold Marce to their arrangement, and she couldn’t chance that there was something she’d missed. Something else Rowan could use against her to reassert his control. A nagging sense that she was misreading the situation pulled at her.

What if Rowan let her go without a fuss?

What if he claimed good riddance and cast her from Hadlow without further argument?

Would that hurt as badly as his past manipulations? Thinking that she meant so little to him that being rid of her would cause him no grief? After all this time, imagining that he would wash his hands of her, take her home, and be content to never see her again. It shouldn’t bruise her pride or injure her feelings in the slightest. They’d used one another long enough. Parting was the next logical step, was it not?

There was no time to think further on the subject. Leona was waiting for her.

With one final look about the room she’d called hers since first coming to Hadlow, Marce turned to depart as knuckles rapped at the door. It was not the light, nearly silent tap of her maid, nor the sharp, quick knock of the housekeeper. Even Pearl had a singularly identifiable cadence when she presented herself at Marce’s door.