Page 35 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

He leaned close, securely connecting them, and touched his lips to hers. It was a kiss born of repressed passion and the aftermath of their argument. Not demanding and insistent—slightly frantic yet gentle and searching.

Her lips were softer, more welcoming than the feather pillow he nestled against each night. He ignored the shiver of need that coursed through him, but the way she trembled in his arms was undeniable.

To Rowan’s astonishment, it was Marce who pushed herself closer to him as their kiss deepened, her tongue tracing his lower lips and demanding they part for her. It was her hands that dug into his shoulders as a throaty moan escaped her parted lips. Or had it been his moan that filled the room?

Her hands fled his shoulders, and Marce ran her fingers through his hair, lightly tugging at the same time she drew herself closer. The urge to close his eyes and simply relish the sensation of Marce’s touch was nearly more than he could control. He should rein himself in, steer his need, and step away, forgetting the feel of her in his arms.

He’d been cruel and heartless only moments before—he in no way deserved any part of her.

A tiny, breathless whisper escaped her parted lips as her hands fell from his hair to clasp his shoulders once more. They massaged and caressed, matching the rhythm he’d set as he kneaded her backside.

Rowan released her mouth and trailed light kisses across her cheek until he reached the spot just below her earlobe. He longed to whisper sweet nothings to her and beg to hear where she would have his kisses next. But he would not risk bringing her back to her sanity. His passion flared when her body undulated against him. If it were up to him, this moment would never end.

Rowan tensed at the same instant Marce pulled away, her hands slipping from his shoulders to his chest as she pushed, not with great force but enough to create space between them. Their embrace was the closest he’d been to another person in many years—likely his entire life. Not necessarily physically, but the underlying connection between them. They’d fought relentlessly, but it had only served to prove how wrong Rowan had been all these years.

“Your Grace, I must—” She pressed her fingers against her plump, reddened lips.

“Do not depart today,” he whispered, his voice weak and pleading. “Go on the morrow if you must. I will have a carriage prepared, and you can arrive in London before nightfall.”

“Then you must go.” It was a soft demand.

“But you will remain at Hadlow for the night?” He searched for any way to convince her to stay. “It is not safe to travel after dark.”

She nodded but turned toward her wardrobe—away from him.

He was uncertain whether she nodded because she intended to stay one more night, or if it was a way of hastening Rowan’s departure from her private quarters.

Pressing her more would only push her farther from him.

When Marce disappeared behind her dressing screen, Rowan turned and fled the room.

Once in the hall with the door closed soundly behind him, he leaned back against the hard, smooth surface and pressed his fingers to his mouth that had, for a brief moment, joined with hers.

Certainly, there had been other women in his life—several to be sure—yet none had left him desiring more, nor threw his mind into turmoil.

None had left him wanting because he’d never taken any true interest in them. How could he when Marce awaited him? Rowan had desired no long-lasting attachment with any woman since he met Marce.

He and Marce had been in this constant tug of war for eight years.

How was it possible that he felt not only a physical connection to her but also a mental and emotional draw, especially after everything they’d been through? She despised him; it was evident in her glare.

Yet, Rowan was absolutely certain she’d never embraced another with such passion.

Sounds emitted from the room as Marce unpacked her trunk. The thump of her muddy riding boots hitting the hardwood floor, the clank of her brushes being set on the dressing table, the slam of her wardrobe door after she’d rehung her gowns.

Marce would not be departing today, which meant that Rowan had at least the next twelve hours to make good on his promise to have a carriage readied to transport her back to London. He had until first light tomorrow to figure out what in the bloody hell had come over the pair of them in her chambers.

It was either that or watch her leave him for good.

Chapter 15

Marce reclined against the pillows fluffed at her back as she pulled the covers even higher and tried to wish away the pounding in her head. Two nights with nary a moment’s rest was taking its toll on her. Exhaustion seeped from every pore, and her muscles ached—though that was likely from her outing on horseback as much as the exhaustion. London—and her normal daily life—did not allow for many days spent upon a horse.

Glancing at her door, Marce confirmed it was indeed still latched tightly with her dressing table bench pressed close. She’d claimed a headache the night before to escape dinner with Leona and keep her maid from coming to her in the wee hours of the day when the sun was barely cresting over Lord Cresthaven’s manor. She supposed it was her due that she’d truly been set upon by a headache sometime during the endless hours of the night.

Her stomach let out a growl, reminding Marce that she’d forgone her meal the previous evening and was long past the hour she usually broke her fast.

If she departed her room, the likelihood of happening upon Rowan was higher than if she remained in her chambers.