Page 63 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Rowan should retreat, turn and face the flames in the hearth, or perhaps flee the room altogether.

He wanted so much to agree to the new terms, if only to keep her in his life. If she left London, he would likely never hear from her again.

“I insist on repaying my debt.”

“I cannot accept—will not accept—any future funds from you,” he said with a firm shake of his head.

When her hands came to rest on her hips, and her chest pushed out slightly in determination, Rowan suspected he’d lost the battle…a war he hadn’t realized raged between them.

“And if I abandon the house?” Her brow rose. “What then?”

Rowan lifted his chin, meeting her intense stare with his own sense of surety. “It will remain empty and fall into disrepair.”

It was a lie.

He would make certain the house remained in proper condition…awaiting Marce’s return.

“It is only a house, no longer a home.” She took a step forward, his chest now mere inches from hers. Though she was petite, Marce was a formidable opponent while negotiating.

Rowan refused to back down. “Be that as it may, I do not want it.”

In any other moment, he’d find their tit for tat comical. Craven House had been the one thing they both coveted. Rowan wanted it to remain in control and ensure her continued visits to Hadlow. Marce desired it to have a home for her family and a way to solidify income.

Now, they were both willing to walk away from it, if only to give the other what they wanted.

How fast their desires had changed.

“I only want you to be happy,” Rowan sighed.

“And being done with Craven House, my family’s scandalous past, and away from London is what will make me happy.”

Away from London…and him.

There was no need to say it, they both knew what she meant.

“How will you support yourself?”

“I have been frugal and will find a way.”

They were so close, Rowan smelled the sweet aroma of sherry on her breath, and the hint of lavender soap on her skin—subtle yet undeniably Marce. Unable to stop, Rowan reached out and touched one silky curl, playing with its length, to distract them both. Allowing her hair to fall back to its place on her shoulder, his fingers trailed across the exposed skin of her neck. It was ablaze with heat, and the mere touch sent his pulse into an erratic beat.

Rowan should walk away, allow Marce to abandon the house and depart London if that was what she desired, but the moment his gaze left the delicate skin of her shoulder and met her aquamarine eyes, he was lost.

And she was the only one to save him—from himself, from his fears, from making the same mistakes over again.

He’d hurt her, taken advantage of her—and he didn’t deserve saving, especially at her hands.

Her clear blue stare darkened—her eyes turning steely as she stared up at him.

Rowan longed to ask what she saw when she gazed upon him.

A man who’d made horrible mistakes in his life? A gentleman not worthy of her company? A son who’d deceived his mother in such a horrific manner that she’d likely never forgive him? A lord who would go back—turn back time, if he could—and do it all differently?

Yes, his fury and need for vengeance should have been aimed at his father, not the woman before him.

“You deserve so much more than the life I’ve made you live,” he muttered, refusing to look away, even for a moment. “Imagine where you would be today if our paths hadn’t crossed.”

She stared up at him. “I would like to believe we’d be right here—just as we are.”