Page 8 of The Madame Catches Her Duke

Rowan’s mother wrote Marce often by way of the Harwich solicitor in London, who forwarded all correspondence to the wedded couple wherever they happened to be traveling. It was the lark they presented to explain their absence from Hadlow for most of the year. Rowan traveled, meeting with gentlemen across England and Scotland to discuss investments. That was the knowledge Marce was aware of surrounding his daily endeavors anyway, and he’d never given her cause to question him—in that regard, at least. Marce, being the loving, devoted wife, was called on and expected to travel with him. Or so others were led to believe.

His stare snapped to hers as he drummed his fingers on the sill of the carriage window. “As well as can be expected, or so I’ve been informed.”

Expectations. There were many things expected of Marce…and those around her. What would it feel like to brush them all aside and do the unexpected?

“And where have we journeyed since we last visited Hadlow?” Again, their usual and expected conversation on the hour-long ride to his family estate, and Marce was glad for it. Rowan was far more pensive than usual, and that did not bode well for their stay. She was always careful not to speak of their travels in any of her letters to Leona for fear she’d detail something incorrectly, and the woman would question it. Truly, Marce had never journeyed farther from London than Hadlow. “Tell me we did not spend our time in Dorset again. I am fast running out of stories to regale the duchess with about that particular region of England.”

“Manchester during the fall, Sunderland for the holidays, and New Year’s in Edinburgh—where we will be returning directly after our visit.” His dry, disinterested tone irked Marce, and she had half a mind to tell him exactly that, but she needs must watch her tongue until their farce had officially come to an end. Allowing her temper to get the best of her was something she must avoid.

Leona never sought out Rowan for stories of their travels. It was Marce who was called upon to share all with the duchess. Over the years, she’d prepared by reading accounts of many cities around the country, and while she’d researched Manchester and Edinburgh before, she knew nothing of Sunderland or their holiday traditions. Did the local village have a festival she should be aware of? Perhaps they did not celebrate the season at all; instead, following folklore of old and keeping one’s joy and happiness within and close to the heart by forgoing town celebrations such as routs and musicales.

“The weather was cold in all three towns; however, it only snowed in Edinburgh over New Year’s. You remained in our lodging quarters while in Sunderland and Edinburgh but enjoyed a lovely shopping expedition with Lady Munston in Manchester while Lord Munston and I journeyed to his textile plant outside the city.” Rowan stopped drumming his fingers long enough to straighten his collar before turning his gaze to the window once more as the chilly landscape passed them by.

Cool. Calm. Collected.

His pensive and distracted air fleeing.

The only ounce of emotion he’d ever shown was that first night they met.

He’d been enraged, furious even, and hurt to the point of desperation. All things Marce understood in his situation. Everything she’d experienced since that night—with the addition of fear—due to his abrupt arrival and rightful possession of everything she held dear. After that night, her home was no longer hers, and her daily living depended on her ability to satisfy the duke’s demands.

But since then, he’d kept his entire façade impassive.

As if they were, in fact, a couple wedded going on eight years with nothing of relevance to speak of between them—no marital spats or misunderstandings.

A normal societal match to anyone looking on from the outside.

Many nights when she was at Craven House, and Rowan was off to places unknown, Marce had wondered which man he actually was—the young lord seething with anger and resentment, or the cool, composed man she’d witnessed since. Neither possibility should endear him to her…nonetheless, the question continued to prickle at the back of her mind. A query still unanswered.

Marce kept her stare trained on him, noting the color that edged up his neck at her scrutiny. “Textile plant in Manchester. What of Edinburgh and Sunderland?”

“My mother will not expect you to know any more about my business dealings, I assure you.”

Any more? Marce wondered if it were possible to know any less of her husband’s business dealings.

They were nothing more than strangers brought together by…she pondered what had actually drawn them together. It was most definitely not fate, for how cruel would that be?

Yet, their relationship was the way of things in the Delconti family—at least where Julian and Leona were concerned. Men were charged with taking care of their families, and how they chose to do so was not questioned.

The duchess was unaware of so many things her dearly departed husband had been embroiled in. Including, but not limited to, his long-time mistress.

The coach hit a bump in the road, and Marce held firmly to her wrapped package. A tumble to the floor could gravely damage the spine of the ancient book.

Rowan sat unfazed as he stretched his long legs toward her and crossed his ankles. Never had she asked where he traveled from when they met at the Whisper Hook Inn; however, he was always garbed in a suit of the latest fashion with a proper neckcloth without a wrinkle to be found. Perhaps he kept a room at the inn where he bathed and dressed before she arrived. Or a home nearby where he stowed a well-cared-for mistress that he resided with while in the area.

That was how little she knew of the man.

Certainly, he’d taken a lover during their eight-year tenure. Marce was not proud to admit that she’d waited with bated breath for any news of Rowan taking a woman—either as a mistress or something more. Yet, her limited connections in society had turned up nothing.

The man was a societal unknown in many ways. Some even called him a reclusive saint.

Reclusive for his tendency to skirt society, and the saint as a play on words for his dark demeanor. At least that was what she’d gathered from the name.

She should tell him of her plans. Have his anger and threats aired before they arrived at Hadlow. However, the thought of him preventing her from seeing Leona kept her silent on the matter.

She was uncertain what Rowan would do once he learned of her decision, but hurting the duchess was something Marce would avoid at all costs. The woman was blameless in everything and had been as much a mother to her over the years as Sasha had. Repaying Leona’s kindness with cruelty was not part of Marce’s plan.

And so, Marce would wait until she’d visited with Leona and checked on the woman’s well-being before meeting with Rowan to end their association…and relinquish Craven House to him. The key she’d tucked into her bodice before departing London hung heavily between her breasts, the metal heated to match her warm skin.