Page 62 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

“Without inconveniencing yourself.” Marce took the final drink of her sherry and moved to the sideboard, pouring another glass. “You did not want to wed.”

“It was not that I didn’t want to marry…” Rowan clamped his mouth shut, afraid to utter any more. He’d shared so much of himself already, more than he’d ever told anyone, even Tobias.

She tapped her finger on her goblet, waiting for him to continue.

He owed her the truth, the entire story, no matter how shameful it was.

“I feared that I would be as my father was.” He let out a ragged breath. “I was afraid that I would take a wife, sire children, and abandon them just as my father did with my mother and me. I felt his disinterest every day of my damned life after I found him at Craven House. I am certain my mother lived with the burden, as well; however, she is far too much of a lady to admit the hurt she suffered at the duke’s hands.”

He had nothing left to hide from Marce. Every insecurity, every misdeed, every wrong decision he’d made in his life lay between them.

The weight should be overwhelming; however, Rowan had a sense of freedom about him he’d never felt before.

“It was mostly for your mother, though also to assuage your own fears,” Marce sighed, slumping onto the chair beside him. “It is not so different than what I’ve done for my siblings.”

It was far different, but Rowan wasn’t prepared to admit that—at least not aloud.

“I love my mother.”

“I know,” she conceded. “Just as I love my siblings.”

“I did not want to disappoint her,” he admitted. “It is one thing to fail. It is a completely different thing to admit it.”

“But that is what it has come to, has it not?” She peered at him from the corner of her eye, and Rowan nodded.

“Some say fate is a cruel master. With everything that happened, I cannot rightly blame fate for any of it.” It was an outcome he had caused when he chose to force Marce into their bargain. He’d cursed her just as he had himself. “I must face my faults and suffer the consequences of my actions.”

“That is what men are raised to do,” Marce agreed.

If there were any hint of satisfaction in her tone, Rowan didn’t hear it. She appeared as downcast as he. “You love my mother, too.”

It wasn’t a question. There had been no doubt about Marce’s affection for the duchess—not since the first moment he witnessed them together.

“When I first met her, it was like having my mother back.” It was Marce’s turn to stare into the red liquid of her sherry. “I had spent a couple of years at that point caring for my siblings. I was tired, exhausted really, and at my wits’ end trying to make everyone happy while keeping the pantry stocked and the servants paid. Leona was a kind ear for me. She listened but did not push advice on me. She empathized with my situation but did not try to solve my problems. She asked no difficult questions about my past, only accepted me for who I was in my present.”

“That is something even her illness never changed about her,” Rowan said. “My mother has always been that person in my life. Her heart was always open, and never did she order me around. I wanted to travel England and Scotland to continue my father’s business ventures, and she never once complained about my absences. I told her of my plans to invest in small businesses about the country, and she never feared me squandering our family’s fortune on unwise investments. Sometimes, I wonder if she knew about my father’s infidelities and understood why he strayed…possibly even accepted it as common practice.”

“It is not so uncommon, that is something I know well.”

Rowan had no interest in listening to Marce’s stories of Craven House, the men she’d entertained over the years, or their reasons for seeking out a brothel over their families.

Had she ever fancied herself in love with any of the men who frequented her home?

Rowan pushed up straight in his chair. It was not his place to think on such matters. Lady Marce Davenport was not his, was never meant to be his, and they’d soon say goodbye to one another—forever.

Pushing to his feet, Rowan turned to face her where she slumped in her seat, staring into her sherry. “I truly did mean what I said.”

When her eyes met his, Rowan noticed a flicker of unease. “About what, Your Grace?”

“Craven House. It is yours. I would prefer never to set foot in that house again,” he growled. Fearing he’d offended her, he softened his tone. “I am certain you can understand why I have no designs on the property.”

“I—my family and I—am not in need of your charity.” She stood, making it necessary for him to retreat or they’d be too close, something that had clouded his mind before and was threatening to do so again. “If we remain at Craven House, I demand to know how much I owe the dukedom, and I will continue to pay our debt.”

He wanted to accept her terms; however, that would mean they would continue to be connected. Neither of them moving on.

“It is I who am indebted to you.”

She took a step forward, setting her glass on the table beside his and straightened.