Page 31 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Perhaps it was a footman come to collect her, silently chastising her for keeping the duchess waiting.

“I am nearly ready,” she called to whoever waited in the hall. She brushed at her cheeks, surprised to feel the moisture from shed tears. This was not a sad moment. Breaking the chains that bound her to Rowan should be freeing…it was freeing, or at least it would be once she gained a private moment to confront him. “Please let the duchess know I will only be a moment longer.”

Marce pinched her cheeks to return her color.

The knocking began again, growing louder and more persistent. There was no mistaking the harsh, unrelenting pounding for that of Mrs. Giles or the maid.

Marce leapt back in fright as the latch sprang open and the door swung wide, slamming against the edge of her dressing table—a single, long crack splitting her mirror.

Uncertain whom she expected to see on the other side, Marce did not think to face Rowan, his glare narrowed as his eyes darted about the room in search of her.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, clutching her throat. “What—what can I…what are you doing in my chambers?”

“Your chambers?” he scoffed, glancing about the room again as if he at least had sense enough to make sure her maid wasn’t present. “Hadlow belongs to me. Everything in it belongs to me.”

Her stomach sank at the hard edge to his tone. He was angry, that much was obvious, but something else showed in his pained stare. Hurt? Desperation? Mayhap, defeat?

Someone—Tobias, perhaps—had told Rowan of her plans. She’d thought she could trust the earl, that their years of friendship meant something beyond him being an ear for the duke. Any chance of her leaving Hadlow before Rowan could muster another con to keep her under his thumb was gone. Or, worse yet, he could restrain her, taking away her chance to flee entirely.

Rowan strode to the open wardrobe door, his movements jerky, and glanced inside before peeking behind her dressing screen and along the far side of her rumpled bed.

His eyes darkened further while his movements became strident, his cheeks turning crimson and flushed.

If she thought she would succeed, Marce would dart from the room and find safety with the duchess. Certainly, Leona would not allow anything untoward to occur in her presence, especially to Marce. The determined set of Rowan’s shoulders told her escape was impossible—and futile. He’d find her, much like the lions of the wild stalked their prey.

Marce was Rowan’s quarry.

And didn’t it seem appropriate that now was the precise moment he’d take her down?

The pit of her stomach dropped as her fighting instincts kicked in, her hands clutching into tight fists. Not that she thought Rowan would ever physically harm her. No, this was something else entirely. Instinct also heightened her every sense. Her back was to her dressing table with the door to her right and her wardrobe closet to her left. Rowan stood before her, between Marce and her mattress. Not that the bed offered any means of escape.

He took a step toward her, and without thinking, Marce retreated two steps, her legs slamming into the bench of her dressing table and knocking it over.

“Your Grace, I must—“

“You mustn’t do anything but tell me the truth, I assure you,” Rowan spoke with a quiet resolve belying his agitated state, his green eyes lighting with precise focus. “Sit.”

Marce most certainly would not. She was already at a disadvantage where she stood. Sitting and permitting Rowan to tower over her was not something she was prepared to do. She’d allowed him to hold such control over her the day they met in her office at Craven House, but not now. Too much had changed since then. Or more to the point, the duke had barged his way into Marce’s life and taken so much from her.

“What do you wish to know?” she gulped. Focusing on keeping her arms at her sides, Marce lifted her chin and stared up at Rowan. “I shall endeavor to be truthful and hide nothing.”

She would not cower before him, for she was not weak.

“I would know what you are up to,” he demanded. “You will tell me now, lest my irritation turn to anger.”

“Your pinked cheeks and rigid stance speak to the fact that it’s already too late, Your Grace.”

“Do not play coy with me, woman.”

“I must admit, I am not versed in the art of coquettish decorum.”

“Ha-ah.” He slapped at his thigh as if she’d told the finest jest, but the gesture was too irregular for her to think he actually found humor in her words. “Come now, Marce, do not think me a fool. My father, God rest his tortured soul”—He raised his empty hand in solute and turned his gaze toward the ceiling, acting as if he drank from a glass before focusing on her again—“was certainly a halfwit, but I am not.”

“I would never assume as much, Rowan.”

“You think to use my given name? As if we are friends of some sort.”

Marce’s mouth flapped open as she attempted to find the words to calm him. If his behavior had been erratic and suspect in the gardens, he was downright frightening in his menacing nature now.