Page 59 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

In a way, Marce envied his confidence.

That did not mean she sought to emulate him in any way or give him the upper hand.

This was to be the final time she spoke to him. After this night, she was resigned to never see him again. The final attachment between them would be severed. Craven House would return to its rightful owner, and Marce would make the move to her new home in Kent.

Entering the study, the silence that descended on the room was deafening. Broken only by the tick-tock of the clock. Instead of taking a moment to glance about the room, she kept her stare trained on the duke. She sensed that they would both grapple for the upper hand in the coming confrontation, and whoever broke eye contact first would surely be deemed defeated.

Rowan had held the advantage in the past.

Now, Marce had nothing left to lose by taking control of the situation.

Her siblings, while shocked and disappointed by her choice to hand over their home so readily, were aware of her decision. Her solicitor was acquiring a new home for her with the small amount of funds she’d managed to collect over the years. There was nothing Rowan could take from her that she would not survive.

There was a definite freedom in knowing she could have her present taken from her but still have the courage to go on and create a new future.

“May I take your cloak?” he asked.

She was uncertain what she’d expected him to say, but acting the gentleman was not it.

When she only stared in disbelief, he continued, “The Cresthaven butler is abed, and as such, it falls upon me as your host to offer.”

Marce unclenched her fists and reached for the row of buttons keeping her cloak secured. She begged her hands not to betray her by trembling. This Rowan was not the man she’d come to know—or thought she’d come to know. Something had changed as surely as something within her had altered and transformed her over the last week.

Slowly, she released each button.

His eyes followed her progress with a level of interest she’d never before gained from him. It had always seemed to her that she was an afterthought, an interloper forced into his daily existence while in Kent but easily overlooked and ignored. For years, Marce hadn’t minded it. His perusal was intimidating, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the final button, her cloak opening to show her light green gown beneath. The scooping neckline and high waist were crafted for a woman ten years her junior, but the color suited her golden curls.

And matched Rowan’s eyes.

How had she not noticed that coincidence before now?

She turned, allowing him to take her cloak as it fell from her shoulders. Next, she removed her gloves, tugging each finger free before pulling the long, satin length from her hands. They were her finest set, purchased in black to minimize the chance of staining and, therefore, certain to last longer. That they drastically contrasted with her creamy white skin was only another boon. Now, from the intense scrutiny gained, Marce questioned her every decision…including coming to face Rowan at all.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to send a letter…after she’d removed herself from Craven House and settled in her new home.

Her bare arms tingled, and her stomach fluttered, only settling when Rowan stepped away to lay her cloak on a table and close the door.

“Your father was a marquess,” Rowan said, turning to face her once more. “Why did you not tell me this?”

“My lineage is not a well-kept secret, Your Grace.” Marce glanced at the hearth, longing to step closer and accept its warmth. “Besides, it would have changed nothing between us.”

“Perhaps not…” He hung his head and clenched his hands behind his back as he made his way toward the open fire, his arm brushing hers as he passed.

It was an unexpected touch, and he seemed not to notice the contact; however, every nerve ending in her flared. Her exposed skin prickled with goosebumps; not from any chill in the room, but from anticipation of when next their skin might meet.

Marce had no plans for another touch between them, and she chastised her body for betraying her. This was her opportunity to finally put an end to everything between them, to gain a measure of satisfaction and closure before walking out the door for good.

“May I offer you a refreshment?” He nodded at the sideboard, heavy with decanters filled with spirits of varying hues ranging from clear to amber. “Perhaps a glass of sherry?”

She remained rooted to her spot, just out of reach of the hearth’s warmth, but also a location that afforded a clear view of Rowan as he knelt before the sideboard and rummaged through the cabinet below before standing once more, a glass bottle held high in triumph.

It was difficult to hide her grin when Rowan saluted her in a rare moment of boyish abandon. Not for the first time, Marce was confused by the change in him. His mask of the arrogant, severe lord had been cast aside just as Marce’s cloak had been laid upon the table after entering the study. His every move was no longer measured and expected, but at ease in a way she’d thought impossible. As if all that hung between them was no longer of consequence or something that drove them relentlessly apart.

Marce nodded, and he made quick work of opening the bottle, pouring her a glass and heading in her direction. It did not escape her notice that he did not collect his tumbler. Needing warmth, Marce took several steps toward him, and they met closer to the glow of the fire.

Presenting her with the glass of rich, deep red sherry, Rowan bowed slightly as if it symbolized a peace offering. Could there be any peace between them after everything they’d been through? After all the insults they’d hurled at one another?

A part of her, a deep, nearly hidden part of her, wondered if the possibility was there. Perhaps she even longed for a measure of peace between them.