Page 37 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

It hadn’t been until Benton accused Marce and Garrett of being bastards, born of an affair, Marce had turned into a wild-eyed madcap. She’d waited until her mother fled the room in tears before slipping in to give her brother—a man she’d thought highly of only a few days before—a piece of her mind and went at him, claws bared like a wild hellion cat. She yelled, berated, and mauled him.

She remembered that night as if it were yesterday: the way the expensive wax candles adorned her father’s study, how her fingers had ached and her nails had bled after her unrelenting assault, and the manner in which her head had cracked against the wooden leg of the lounge when her half-brother had nearly thrown her across the room to escape to his own chambers.

She’d felt a measure of satisfaction as she lay on the floor listening to Benton flee through the house—as only the innocent, misguided mind of a child could.

The next morning, she’d been greeted by her mother and called to ready herself with all due haste, and told to collect only things she could carry in the pockets of her pinafore, essentials she deemed absolutely necessary.

They’d been cast from their home at Buckston townhouse an hour later.

The guilt and remorse from that night had stayed with Marce all these years. She’d been the reason her mother was thrown from her home—and that expulsion was not something she ever wanted her younger siblings to experience.

The horror of that night was only overshadowed by the evening the Duke of Harwich had come to collect on the debt owed to his family.

Both had altered Marce’s view of any man who sought her out. Motives and the means to control her…that was what Benton and Rowan had in common, though never had the duke so much as placed a hand on her or raised his voice at her, unlike her unscrupulous brother.

Until the previous night.

She was unsure if his actions were out of line with his normal behaviors because, beyond their infrequent trips to Hadlow, Marce did not know the man on a personal level. He could be an abuser of women for all she knew, but she’d never heard rumors to that effect. He could be accustomed to shouting to attain what he wanted, yet who would do business with a lord that acted as such? She shook her head, dispelling her naïve thoughts.

Despite all that, or likely because of it, Marce had been adamant about never speaking of her past with Rowan.

What if he were a cruel man and thought Benton’s actions justified—or worse yet, warranted?

Marce had once been an ignorant, guileless child, but she hadn’t been that in many, many years.

Chapter 16

A draft traveled down the deserted hallway, sneaking past Rowan’s expertly tied cravat and sending goose pimples down his arms. The chilly, moist breeze could set further illness upon his mother, settle in her lungs, and cause even more coughing fits. He’d speak with Pelton about his grievance as soon as he had a moment to himself, and after the entire wing was checked for deficiencies that allowed the cold winter air in. Every windowpane and doorframe would need to be reinforced and sealed.

Damnation. He shouldn’t have anything more troubling to tend to than his mother’s health and well-being; yet, here he was, loitering outside her private chambers and waiting for Marce to appear. He could have waited downstairs or outside her quarters, but Rowan was terrified of what the women spoke of. There was no doubt that Marce was saying her goodbyes, making an excuse to depart Hadlow; however, he also feared she’d let slip mention of their farce.

He needed to be close at hand when it happened to soften the blow for his mother.

Rowan had never wanted to lie to the duchess. He cared for her more than he cared for his own well-being. That was not true…he’d lied by omission when he discovered his father’s infidelities. And he’d outright lied when he introduced Marce as his wife and duchess.

Ever since that day, he’d feared this moment. Even though a part of him never thought it would come to this—the time when his deceptions would be brought to light and his mother would no longer cherish him.

The duchess had been ill for so many years…

He’d wanted his charade with Marce to be over years prior, but not at the expense of losing his mother’s love. Her disappointment would crush him.

Rowan stepped closer to the door and listened for any sound that suggested their meeting was coming to an end. What did he expect to hear? Sobbing? Laughter? Raised voices?

Anything would be welcome after his extensive wait in the hall without anything to occupy him but his thoughts.

Only during the dark hours of night had he come to the realization that his mother discovering his deception was a good thing. And when he made the discovery, he’d instantly felt an immense burden lift from his stooped shoulders. No more would he be an actor in his home and around his own mother. He could just…be.

That would mean letting Marce go while he remained to pick up the pieces and reassemble the splintered remnants of his life. With surety, Rowan would let her go. No man owned a woman so wholly as to keep her against her will. Not even he could be so cruel, despite all the harsh words he’d hurled at her the previous day.

Had his father felt similarly? Had he lived in fear every day that his betrayals would be discovered by his wife and son? How had it weighed so little on him as it dragged Rowan so low? While Rowan prided himself on not being his father’s son, he had perpetuated his father’s sins. An outsider would have a difficult time distinguishing between the two men.

Rowan had a difficult time believing his father would have felt any remorse for injuring his family and tarnishing their good name. Not that the Harwich dukedom was even remotely as important to Rowan as his mother.

Finally, Rowan heard the door between his mother’s drawing room and her bedchamber open. Two voices mingled together as Marce and the duchess moved closer to him, though the solid, closed door kept his presence hidden.

“…you will tell them I send my kindest regards?” his mother’s raspy tone said.

“Of course, Your Grace. And I will certainly write while away,” Marce’s melodic voice chimed in. “But you must promise me you will rest—” His mother must have nodded agreement, but Marce continued. “Very good. And do not venture into the garden until the weather has warmed considerably. Oh, and make sure Pearl accompanies you.”