Page 7 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Within, he spotted the neatly pinned coiffure favored by Miss Marce Davenport.

His driver spotted Rowan and climbed down from his perch, hurrying over to where he waited against the inn wall.

“Your Grace,” Charles called over the din of the stable yard, removing his hat and giving Rowan a curt bow. “The missus needed ta stop at a bookseller afore depart’n town.”

Rowan frowned at his servant’s choice of word: missus.

“It why we be late, Your Grace.” Charles focused on his boots, his head dipping with contrition. “She said it be fer the duchess. A gift.”

Rowan’s irritation waned at the mention of a gift for his mother. It was a peculiar practice Marce had begun on her second stay at Hadlow, as if she were making amends for their deception—begging his mother’s forgiveness, though the duchess would never know of their lies. Once the present had been a set of watercolor landscapes of Paris. The next trip, a dried bouquet of flowers from Holland. And just the past Christmas, a musical contraption from the Amazon.

Rowan had made the mistake of asking about the nature of the gifts only once. Marce’s answering glare had halted any future discussion on the topic. He did not ask about the token, for in quick order, Marce would present the wrapped trinket to his mother, and she’d display it in her private sitting chamber for all to admire.

With a dismissive nod, Rowan decided not to press the issue of his coach’s tardiness any further.

“Shall we be on our way?” Rowan pushed away from the wall and started for the carriage.

“I will collect ye mount, Your Grace,” Charles said. The servant moved to the post outside the inn and untied Rowan’s horse, leading it to the rear of the Harwich coach.

Rowan strode through the teeming yard to his waiting carriage and pulled the door wide.

Perched inside on the forward-facing seat, the blond, delicate woman stared impassively at the velvet bench across from her. His pulse spiked slightly at the sight of her—regal and indifferent.

The woman known as Lady Harwich—Rowan’s duchess during their infrequent time at Hadlow Estate.

No greeting passed either of their lips as Rowan situated himself on the rear-facing seat; however, her stare moved to the window to avoid his.

He watched her squirm on the bench, rearranging her skirts before picking at the cuff of her sleeve. Her forehead didn’t wrinkle with suppressed tension, nor did she fuss with her hair. She was uncomfortable, certainly, but not wary of him. Little had changed between them over the years. She continued to treat him as if he were a scoundrel to be ignored, and he continued to silently blame himself for the situation they were both trapped in—yet unwilling to put a stop to it.

Chapter 3

Marce resisted the urge to examine the Duke of Harwich; however, her body—and mind—betrayed her better instincts. Every time they traveled thusly, she wondered what it would be like if they hadn’t met under the circumstances they had. Would she relinquish her seat and take the place next to him? Brush her leg against his as their coach sped along the uneven roads? There were few occasions when he did not appear churlish and aloof, preferring to keep silent during their carriage rides to Hadlow. Normally, his pensive silence didn’t bother her; in fact, it suited her as much as it obviously suited him. However, with her decision now made and her nervousness getting the best of her, Marce would have been agreeable to a spot of conversation.

As a compromise to her treacherous thoughts, she kept her body positioned toward the side of the carriage but allowed herself to take in the man from the corner of her eye. His hair had grown in length since their last time together…and even now, she noted his skin had lost its summer glow from too many months spent indoors due to the inclement weather. His chartreuse eyes, the shade lingering unnaturally somewhere between yellow and green depending on the light, seemed less focused than usual. As did his despondent mood.

If Marce held any concern for Rowan, she might ask if all was as it should be.

Thankfully, despite their many years of acquaintance, she had suppressed all feelings for the man apart from pity. Or, at least, she reminded herself of this during the brief times they were alone together.

Her view of him and his demeanor should border on apathy, as his for her obviously did.

Though any man who needed to force a woman to act as his wife to appease his mother was certainly one to feel an immense amount of pity for—and no small amount of curiosity—not affection. However, Marce did not question his motives and, in turn, he did not delve into her life outside of their bargain.

“My apologies for my tardiness, Your Grace,” Marce said, breaking the silence that had settled since Rowan took his seat, and the coach started their hour-long journey to Hadlow Estate. An apology—or explanation—was not necessary; however, she felt driven to give one. Patting the brown-paper-wrapped book on the seat beside her, she continued, “A gift for the duchess. I was not expecting your summons for another few weeks, so I hadn’t yet picked up the purchase.”

“Very kind of you.” The duke eyed the package, and Marce suspected he wanted to inquire as to its contents. “I am certain my mother will enjoy whatever you present her with.”

Marce set her hand on the book—an illustrated exposé on the Swiss Alps—and allowed the discord that’d haunted her since she made the decision to end their arrangement settle heavily upon her. She would not miss the silent, brooding, arrogant lord who sat across from her, his dour demeanor overshadowing his strikingly handsome looks. How could she?

She and the duke had never grown an association or familiarity one would miss when gone.

The duchess, Lady Harwich—Leona—was another matter entirely. The older woman was kind, compassionate, and a superior listener, despite her illness-ridden body. Leona was tall and lean with silken black hair shot through with grey, and green eyes that, for some reason, suited her but were intense and a bit startling on Rowan. The duchess and Marce had gained a quick and companionable friendship following Marce’s first visit, though it had taken nearly two years for Marce to understand why.

Not that Rowan ever spoke of his mother’s ailment beyond what was socially acceptable. Nor did he talk about the nightmares that lay in their past.

With time, Leona had opened up to Marce, and in return, Marce did the same with the duchess…as much as was allowed by the duke. A shame the same occurrence hadn’t come to pass between Rowan and herself.

“How does the duchess fair?” she asked, not because it was necessary but because it was expected.