Page 34 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

He was able to give his mother a measure of happiness and contentment in her final years, even though he hadn’t expected his mother’s illness to allow her to live for so long.

And in return, Marce continued to support her siblings in a well-appointed neighborhood.

Rowan had even heard that two of her four siblings had married—and married well, to an earl and a marquess as the gossip sheets reported. She should be thanking him for the advantageous outcome. Rowan did not suppose there was much clamoring to secure a match with women born out of wedlock, no matter who their father was. They could be the offspring of a butcher in the East End, or a fishmonger at the docks for all Rowan knew.

Could it be that the woman before him did not see the benefits of their bargain?

Rowan hadn’t any notion what to say or how to gain her willingness to stay at Hadlow. She had every right to call into question his standing as a gentleman and a lord most proper. Since that fateful day he’d spied his father in the warm interior of Craven House, surrounded by Marce and her siblings, while his own mother lay fairly dying in childbirth, Rowan had been a rogue, a scoundrel, and a reprobate only concerned with exacting his own brand of vengeance on this woman and her family.

Would he have truly followed through on his threat and tossed Marce and her young siblings from their home? Had it all been a bluff, an empty threat, and something he’d never be called upon to fulfill? In his period of mourning, Rowan had been blind. Blinded by so many things: his hatred for his father, his worry over his mother, and the all-consuming need to make certain that someone paid for it all. The duchess had lost precious time with her husband because of the duke’s infidelity. Many a time, Rowan wondered if Sasha were the only one who stole his father’s heart or if there had been women before or after her.

Losing Julian’s attention and affection had weighed on the duchess so much, Rowan feared that her ailments had progressed because of her feelings of abandonment. It had been Rowan’s cross to bear, especially after discovering where and with whom his father had found solace.

As he stood there in his silent stupor, Marce bustled to her wardrobe and removed her traveling case. With nary a look in his direction, she darted around him and plopped it onto the disheveled bedding before collecting her meager possessions spread about the room—brushes, ribbons, stockings, and boots, still muddy from her ride. He eyed her when she leaned into the wardrobe, arms wide, and wrapped them around her hanging gowns, pulling them out in one large heap. Effortlessly, she bent and grabbed her cloak that had been thrown over a chair and walked back to the trunk. Without a care for creases or order, Marce stuffed the gowns into the waiting case and set her brush and other small possessions on top before snapping it shut with a huff.

“You are serious about leaving?” Rowan hadn’t meant to speak aloud, and the unease in his tone only solidified his position of weakness. “It will be long past nightfall by the time you return to London.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowed, and her shoulders stooped. “If your accusations are correct, I will be safely ensconced within Lord Cresthaven’s home within the hour.”

Her words stung, and Rowan realized just how wrong he’d been to accuse her of such an outlandish thing.

His fists clenched and unclenched as every nerve ending screamed for him to do something—anything—to stop her from leaving. If she fled Hadlow, the house would be abuzz with the gossip, and Rowan would be called to his mother’s private suite to explain.

How would he explain the situation? Simply…“my wife has been carrying on with another right under my nose and has left Hadlow Estate to be with him. But don’t worry overmuch, she’s only relocated to the neighboring estate.”

The story of a husband cuckolded did not suit him well at all.

Marce held her trunk at her side and stopped before him as she rounded the bed on her way to the door. “Where shall I deposit the key to Craven House?”

He wanted to command her to keep it or cast it into the murky Thames if that would satisfy her. There was nothing he wanted less than to possess the house his father had absconded to when he abandoned his family. Never had the thought crossed Rowan’s mind that he’d one day be forced to take possession of the property. With his mother’s imminent death, he’d give Marce the deed to the property, as promised.

His mind was a muddled mess. His decisions and plans, at one time understandable, were now unfolding in ways he hadn’t thought possible. When they’d struck their bargain, Rowan had despised the woman for what she stood for, he’d spent countless nights cursing the Davenport name. But now, suddenly, he could not imagine his life without her. His rash arrogance had come crashing down upon him. To hide his own insecurities, he’d levied her with his regrets about the past.

She was leaving, never to return.

“Perhaps your solicitor will accept it,” she sighed, transferring the trunk to her other hand. “Good day, Your—“

Without thinking, Rowan stepped toward her and grasped her arms, fearing that she’d flee his closeness as he looked into her clear blue eyes. They were deeper than the deepest ocean, yet as rich as a cloudless sky. His fingers inched up to her shoulder, and he gently captured a wayward curl, wrapping it loosely around his hand. Her shoulders were elfin but possessed a strength of resolve he could only marvel at. Many a man had cowered before Rowan. Many a lord had hurried out of his path. Many a woman had sent coy smiles in his direction, though lacked the fortitude to seek an introduction.

But not Marce Davenport.

She’d never been scared or hesitant in his company.

Even now, after he’d entered her private chamber without an invite, she didn’t pull away—or balk at his closeness. His fury should have been enough to send her running for protection.

Yet, she stood before him, her chin notched high with determination, and her shoulders thrown back in confidence. Why had he never noticed her quiet tenacity?

He’d held the belief that Marce was a woman who possessed a large measure of cunning and smarts. A shrewd lady who could turn misfortune to her benefit. A proprietress supremely learned in her art.

The way she stood before him, not backing down or begging for his forgiveness, spoke of a woman with a much deeper sense of self. Something Rowan lacked.

Rowan reached down and pried the trunk from her grasp. The handle was slick with perspiration as he set it on the floor beside them. There was no denying that she was nervous. Her eyes held questions Rowan wasn’t prepared to answer as he considered the unthinkable.

In that brief moment, however, it wasn’t unimaginable at all. It was inevitable.

Time drew to a halt, affording Rowan precious seconds to ponder why this had yet to happen. Would he regret it come the morning?

When Marce glanced over his shoulder toward the door, Rowan decided there wasn’t time to scrutinize anything further. If she walked out the door—which he did not doubt she would do—his chance would disappear along with her. They would never know what lay beneath their disdain for one another.