Page 70 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

I cannot listen to this alone.

Remain at my side, even though I don’t deserve you.

Marce settled back in her seat, prepared to listen to the rest of the story—her mother’s love story. She’d been present for it all, but she hadn’t realized what was happening around her. Perhaps it was her young age, or the fact that her mother hid it from her children out of fear that it would end like the rest of her relationships had—Marce’s father, Sam and Jude’s father, and Payton’s father. In one way or another, they’d all abandoned Sasha. One to death, one to marriage to a more suitable lady, and one to his own demons. But Julian had remained by Sasha’s side until her passing.

“When Rowan arrived shortly after Julian died—with you in tow, Marce—I could not fathom how the pair of you knew one another. I held my breath, waiting for you to confront me about the past. But, instead, you announced that you were a wedded couple.” Leona paused, scrutinizing Marce’s every feature. “My dear, you looked just like your mother did all those years ago when we were both young. And so, I decided it was my duty to love you as if you were my own. I truly wanted to accept you as family—the woman my dear, beloved son had chosen to spend his life with.”

Blinking rapidly, Marce pleaded with her vision to clear and the tears to remain unshed.

“But if you knew we were lying about our marriage, why did you not speak of it?” Marce asked.

“I wasn’t certain what the pair of you were up to; however, I was sure that you could be a true love match if you were only given time to discover it for yourselves. And I was correct.”

The duchess grinned smugly as if she were privy to a secret that Rowan and Marce hadn’t yet uncovered.

Rowan shook his head. “But we are not suited at all, as evidenced by the fight you overheard.”

Marce’s stomach twisted in pain at Rowan’s refusal of their connection, newly discovered or not.

“Oh, my boy. And here I thought you were a bright man.” Leona chuckled. “I can see I was mistaken.”

His chest puffed at this mother’s slight, seemingly affronted.

Perhaps Marce had also misinterpreted the mutual affection and passion they’d discovered together at Tobias’s townhouse the night before. Tugging her hand from his hold, their fingers unwound, and she folded her arms across her chest.

“So, you did not spend last night in one another’s arms at Lord Cresthaven’s townhouse?”

“How do you know—?”

“What is the meaning of all this, Mother?”

Marce’s cheeks flamed with heat at Leona’s question.

“Tobias couldn’t ride for Hadlow fast enough after witnessing Rowan carrying you up the stairs, dear girl.” The duchess’s eyes were alight with mischief. “Tobias and I have been scheming for years to try and get the two of you to realize how perfect you are together. Did you think our dinner party, or Tobias’s afternoon ride with Marce, was all my doing? After our plan to incite my son’s jealous streak went horribly wrong, we knew we needed to re-work our course of action.”

“I accused Tobias—my best friend—of carrying on with my wife…and that was your plan?”

“We were out of options, and my illness has grown progressively worse. If I planned to see the pair of you truly wed before I succumbed, it had to be now,” Leona retorted, shrugging her shoulders in her defense. “Tobias suspected that Marce was past ready to end your arrangement, and then she would be gone, out of reach. And what if her funds ran out? My dear girl, you help too many women to give up Craven House.”

“Help women?” Rowan turned to her, the shock evident in his wide-eyed stare.

“Boy, you are as dense as your father once was,” Leona sighed. “Marce uses her home as a sanctuary for battered women.”

“No.” Rowan ran his fingers through his hair. “Everyone in London knows Craven House is a brothel. My father, and countless other gentlemen of the ton, have sought those hallowed halls for all sorts of sordid pleasures.”

It was a punch to Marce’s pride that she hadn’t expected. His callous words stung, though they were no more than many had spoken in the past.

“Can you name one man—of your acquaintance—who visits Craven House for illicit dealings?” Leona inquired.

Rowan remained silent, likely pondering the question.

“Have you noted any men coming and going from the house during your nighttime escapades in London?” the duchess prodded. “Hmmm? I thought not.”

“Nighttime escapades?” Marce wasn’t certain she wanted to know what Leona spoke of.

“I was worried about you,” Rowan grunted. “But what is a far more pertinent question is why my mother has been keeping such close tabs on me—us? With Tobias’ help, no less.”

They were five simple words—I was worried about you.