Page 50 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

It was impossible to reconcile the lord she’d come to know with the man she’d met during their recent time at Hadlow. He’d been volatile, unrestrained, and simmering with an emotion she didn’t understand. In the end, he’d lost control—they’d both lost control.

She’d stopped short of giving him everything. During the dark hours of the night, Marce had dreamed what it would be like to give herself completely to Rowan. To throw caution to the wind and embrace the simmering passion that had drawn them together—despite their many years of anguish.

It would only be Marce who suffered the consequences if that happened.

Marce was to lose her home. She would also bear the embarrassment before her siblings. She’d had no other option but to sacrifice the duchess and their close relationship as a result of ending her association with Rowan.

“Penny for your thoughts, dear sister?” Garrett mused, catching her stare in the looking glass.

Straightening, Marce smiled. “I was about to ask you the same.”

The simplest way to turn her brother’s line of questioning in a new direction was to give him the opportunity to speak about himself. It was not a tactic Marce was proud of using against him, but it never failed to steer the conversation in a more favorable direction.

“Oh, I was pondering whether I should allow my hair to grow a bit,” he mused, turning his head from side to side and pulling at the ends of his tresses. This time proved no different than the other times Marce had used this approach. “Fashion is ever-changing, and I seek to alter the way women view me. Do you think if I grew my hair longer—like that new lord about town, St. Seville—the ladies of the ton would fawn over my rakish appearance?”

Marce wanted to laugh but never would she wound her brother’s delicate pride—vain as his words were. Instead, she pressed her lips together pensively before responding. “I think any woman would be lucky beyond measure to have you by their side regardless of the length of your hair.”

“You are biased, dear sister,” he retorted, once again pulling his hair taut until it hung past his collar, nearly grazing his shoulder. “Mayhap my wardrobe needs a bit of reworking, too. Sir Edwin McGuire wore pantaloons of canary yellow to a ball a week ago, and he is already being hounded by every marriage-hungry maiden in town.”

“Isn’t Sir Edwin the man who inherited a large sum of funds from a deceased spinster aunt in Cornwell?” Marce wasn’t one to read up on town gossip, however—

Payton skidded into the room, nearly stumbling on the rug at her feet as she inhaled deeply to catch her breath. “Marce, you have a guest in the front parlor.”

She and Garrett glanced at the clock in unison. “Are you expecting someone?”

Her reply wasn’t one in need of voicing, for Marce rarely entertained visitors beyond the men who came for her card nights. The daytime hours at Craven House were ones spent quietly, only interrupted by her siblings and the chores that needed to be accomplished to secure employment or travel for the women she helped.

“I am fairly certain you are familiar with your guest.” Payton’s honey-coated tone alarmed Marce.

Her siblings were kept above stairs when she entertained below, and never had the two crossed in all the years since her mother’s death.

“Tell me it is not the magistrate come asking after Jude again,” Marce sighed, pushing from her seat before freezing. “Or another debt collector here to settle a score for…you.”

“Oh, no, this guest is neither of those. It is the dark-haired man you warned me against at the ball a few months ago.” Payton winked and bounced from the room, likely going to hide in the darkened hall outside the parlor to eavesdrop on Marce’s conversation.

In the pit of her stomach, Marce had known it was Rowan all along. She was actually shocked that he hadn’t come sooner; however, his inconvenient ways continued as he arrived when her two siblings were also at Craven House. If he’d come later in the afternoon or early the next morning, no one in her family would’ve been the wiser.

“A man…here to see you?” Garrett asked, popping from his chair. “I will speak with him directly and ascertain his intentions before I send him on his way without further entanglement.”

In any other instance, Garrett’s brotherly concern would have incited laughter. The younger Davenport had never been what Marce would consider the responsible sibling, nor the best in formal situations.

“You will do nothing of the sort.” Marce moved toward the door. “You will gather Payton and return to the dining hall. I will join you as soon as I’ve spoken with my visitor and have sent him on his way.”

Garrett’s brows pulled low, and if she tarried a moment longer, the questions were certain to come. She was quick enough to realize how suspect a gentleman caller seeking her attention was, especially during the daytime hours.

To escape his questioning glare, Marce patted his shoulder as she passed and continued out into the hallway, silently pleading for him not to follow. Lying to her family wasn’t something Marce set out to do, but to keep them from the heartache that coursed through her at the impending loss of their home, she would. She would smile, hold her head high, and prance about the house as if she were happy as a lark without a worry in the world…until she was alone and the time came to face the consequences of her decisions.

And worse? Rowan had given her a few days, nearly a week, to settle back into her life in London. Marce had continued as usual at Craven House, helping the women who needed her, all the while packing the things that meant the most to her: the drawings Sam and Jude had incessantly painted in their youth, Garrett’s first fencing rapier, Payton’s collection of books on gambling tricks, their mother’s collection of scarves, and all the portraits she could find of their family. Very few existed from recent years; however, she’d found several of Jude and Sam with their father when they were only infants, and several more from when her own sire was still with them. They were all stored in trunks in an empty spare room on the third floor next to Mr. and Mrs. Darlington’s chamber.

Marce listened as she walked down the hall toward the foyer, her footsteps muted by the rug beneath her feet, but she heard no signs of Garrett following her. Perhaps, this one time, he would do as requested and give her a moment’s privacy to hear Rowan’s edict and accept her fate before joining her family for their meal.

What if the duke demanded she leave immediately? Surely, he would not dare. Yet, why else would he attend to this himself and not send his man of business or a solicitor?

She’d hurt his mother by calling off their ruse. Maybe now he wanted to see her in the same pain. Did he not see the anguish she’d lived with since their first meeting? The agony she’d endured over the years was more than enough to satisfy his need for retribution. Both for his father’s transgressions and his mother’s hurt.

The door to the parlor was slightly ajar.

She peered through the gap in an attempt to catch sight of Rowan and gauge his mood—would he have returned to the cool, aloof lord she’d become accustomed to over the years, or have changed once more into the erratic, unpredictable duke from her recent trip to Hadlow?