Page 39 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

For now, enough with the pity.

Marce wasn’t deserving of the emotion, even her own.

There was much to do if she hoped to reach London before nightfall, though the task of departing Hadlow without a commotion might prove problematic.

A draft cascaded down the hall, bringing with it the aroma of vetiver, earthy and virile. It was the favored cologne about town, yet Marce hadn’t remembered the scent at Hadlow. The shuffling of muted footsteps had Marce turning toward the shadows farther down the abandoned corridor.

The hall was not as deserted as she’d thought.

She’d expected to see Pearl or possibly another servant lurking in the darkened recesses, but the sheer width of the man’s shoulders and extreme height left only one option as to who was silently observing her.

Rowan.

Standing in the hall outside Leona’s private chambers was not the ideal location for another of their arguments. And Marce was not prepared to remain frozen as he hurled more insults at her. Their arrangement was over. She owed him nothing, for she had nothing left to give. He’d single-handedly stripped her of not only her home and livelihood but also her dignity when he insinuated that she was nothing but a whore—a trollop who was not above conducting business at Hadlow.

Marce tensed as he continued to stare at her from the shadows but made no move to speak. Standing in the glow of the single wall sconce, she felt completely naked to his glare.

Their silent standoff could not last long for Pearl would return to her mistress at any moment. Finding Rowan and Marce in a heated battle in the hall would cause no small amount of gossip, even though the woman was privy to their deception. Would Pearl speak out, if only to cast blame on Marce after she’d departed Hadlow? Would anyone remember her come next spring, or would she fade from memory with only murmurs of forgotten times—a period when Rowan passed a brothel proprietress off as his duchess?

For what seemed like the millionth time, Marce told herself she did not care. She was not responsible for the mess they were embroiled in. That lay at Rowan’s feet. If they remembered her with fondness didn’t matter either, for she’d be long gone and far away from any gossip that might traverse the many halls of Hadlow Estate. She also reminded herself that these people didn’t truly know her. They knew nothing of her struggles or her fears.

No one—besides Leona and Tobias—had ever sought to learn anything about her.

She would be leaving Hadlow as she’d arrived all those years ago: an unknown.

Rowan hadn’t known her the day he arrived at Craven House, and he still did not. Perhaps that was favorable. If he knew her deep longings, her unbidden desires, and her unending need to prevail over her past, leaving Kent would be far more difficult.

Lifting her chin, Marce pushed a stray curl back over her shoulder as she turned and headed toward her room—away from Rowan.

There was nothing left for him to hold over her. He could not convince her to stay and play the part of his wife any longer. Her home was gone, her means for supporting her family along with it, and her willingness to be ordered about by this man was at an end.

She was free—or she would be as soon as she escaped through the front doors of the duke’s estate.

Her solid, confident footsteps echoed in the hall as each step brought her closer to a future of her own choosing. A bit of the poise and undeniable confidence she’d felt before meeting Rowan returned. Perhaps one day, she would find the happiness she sought and deserved, even if that was only a life of solitude. At least she would have chosen it for herself.

Reaching the main landing, she turned and headed toward her room in the east wing, her pace increasing when she realized Rowan’s heavier footfalls followed closely behind her. If she could only reach her quarters, get inside, and throw the bolt, he would be denied entrance. She could quickly pack and be gone. If he refused her a carriage, she would walk the short distance to Tobias’s estate and throw herself upon his mercy to beg for transport. Putting the earl in the middle of things was not what she wanted to do, but these were desperate times.

“You will continue to write my mother?” His words traveled on a whisper that pulled her to a halt, her door only ten paces ahead; however, she did not turn to face him.

“I shall. At least for a time, until she learns of our deception. That is unless you forbid it.”

“Why?”

“Why would I continue to write, or why would you forbid it?” she asked, clutching her hands before her to dispel the urge to look at Rowan. “I can offer an answer for the first, but the latter is a question for you; though I suppose it is because, as a man of means, you would seek to hold on to the control you’ve become so accustomed to. The former, because, despite the ruse you’ve embroiled me in, there is genuine affection between the duchess and I. Dare I say, we have much in common?”

It was the longest civilized conversation she’d ever had with the duke.

And it would be their last if Marce had aught to say on the matter.

“I will collect my personal effects and will be ready for my carriage within the hour, Your Grace.” Her hands fell to her sides, and she kept her stare trained on her door—so close, yet so far away. Marce didn’t want to hurt the duchess, but it seemed inevitable. If she could extend the woman’s happiness for even another fortnight, she would.

“Stay, Marce,” he sighed. “At least another day. I will conclude my obligations here and see you safely back to London. Things do not have to end like this.”

Marce snorted. When had she ever felt safe in Rowan’s company? She’d never sensed herself in immediate danger, of course, but neither had she been comfortable or at ease while at Hadlow.

There was no reason to postpone their split. “We both knew this day would come…and here we are.”

“We did not know it would come to this,” he said. “My mother’s illness was severe after my father’s death. I only meant to give her a sense of comfort before she passed.”