The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3) Page 6

  If he’d worried she’d flee, the last several years should have diminished his concerns. Not once had she shirked the duties of the deal she’d agreed to.

  The stakes of doing so had been made abundantly clear that day, and until recently, the imaginings of their reality had been very real and frightening.

  Losing her home—her means to support her family—hadn’t been an option. Marce had willingly, knowingly, and with no reluctance, given up her freedom to make certain her family was not cast out onto the streets…again.

  “Ye be ready, Your Grace.” Daisy stepped back with a nod before turning and moving to tidy the bed. When Marce continued to stand before the dressing table, Daisy asked, “Will ye be need’n anythin’ else?”

  Marce straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch, refusing to dwell on anything but the day ahead of her. At the angle of her head, the shadows under her eyes were barely noticeable, and if she grinned in a perfect, precise manner, no one would note the worry lines marring her face.

  “No, that will be all.” Marce collected the wrapped and twine-bound package for the duchess from her side table. She’d put off speaking with Leona for long enough. If Marce delivered the gift now and spoke with the duke before midday, she could be on her way back to London by early afternoon…long before their arranged evening meal. “I think I will check on the duchess before seeking out my morning repast.”

  “Don’t be let’n Mrs. Giles catch ye.”

  “I promise, I will not allow that to happen,” Marce reassured the maid. “I will pop in, check on her well-being, and hurry on about my day.”

  “Very well, Your Grace.” Daisy continued with her chores.

  Marce slipped from the room and moved down the hall to where she could either continue down the main stairs or hurry past to the wing where the duchess’s rooms were located. It would be far simpler to continue downstairs, tell the duke she was leaving—for good—and be gone. As she drew closer, the notion began to take root, and her feet moved of their own accord. Before she’d realized how far she traveled, her slippered foot hit the first step.

  “Lady Harwich.” The name did not give her pause; however, the man behind the voice did. The honeyed tone had her chest seizing, and she had to force herself to continue breathing normally.

  Marce stopped with her foot in mid-step and turned to see Rowan coming from the direction of the duchess’s suites. It shouldn’t have struck her as peculiar in any way. Of course, Rowan would spend time with his ailing mother while at Hadlow. She’d just never truly pondered when he saw the duchess, only that it did not align with her own visits.

  The hair on the back of her neck prickled when Rowan halted before her, his extreme height made all the more daunting with her situated on the step below.

  “Your Grace,” Marce gulped. “Good morn.”

  His eyes narrowed on the package she’d nearly forgotten she carried. “Are you on your way to see my mother?”

  It was evident from her position that she was not on her way to the west wing; however, she did hold Leona’s gift. Did the duke attempt to bait her into lying?

  If he thought her incapable of honesty when asked a simple question, then he knew her not at all. “I was going to visit her, but Daisy informed me that Mrs. Giles was cautioning against disturbing her. I decided to break my fast first and check on her after speaking with Pearl. But if you think—”

  “I will not presume to order you about.”

  “Is that not exactly the parameters of our agreement, Your Grace?” It was now Marce’s turn to bait him. “I mean, that has been my understanding for the last…what has it been”—Marce glanced at the ceiling, making a show as if she were actually counting the days—“let us leave it as years, that you presumed to dictate my every move, whether it be here or in London.”

  Marce didn’t bother censoring her tone but managed to give him her most sincere, guileless smile. If a servant happened upon them in the corridor engaged in a very obvious argument then so be it. Her days hiding her true feelings were behind her.

  “Besides, after seeing the duchess, I was hoping for a private word with you,” Marce continued, leaving herself no opportunity to avoid Rowan any longer. “Hopefully around midday, if that is agreeable.”

  “I only just came from my mother’s rooms, and she is not up to receiving visitors this morning; however, she is stubborn as usual and will attend us—downstairs—at our evening meal. As for a private word with you, we are both here”—he glanced over his shoulder quickly and then past Marce down the stairs—“and it appears the moment is private…”

  Damnation. She couldn’t call off their arrangement without first seeing Leona. That was the one thing Marce was unwilling to alter regarding her plans.

  “It can wait until the morrow if your time is already allotted.”

  His brows drew low over his glowing green glare as he assessed her quick change in tone. “I can certainly find a few moments—before our evening meal—to speak privately.”

  Marce wracked her mind for any excuse to put off the conversation she’d requested. Her anxious nerves were threatening to shake her resolve now that she’d finally managed to solicit an audience with Rowan. “The duchess said Tobias—Lord Cresthaven—would be joining us for supper.”

  The duke rubbed the back of his neck, and his jaw tightened. “Yes, yes, it escaped my memory that Mother insisted he visit while we are in residence. A private conversation may have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Rowan quieted as a maid walked down the hall toward the servant’s stairwell, her arms loaded with soiled linens.

  At any other home, it would be oddly peculiar a duchess would need schedule an audience with her own husband, yet the relationship between Marce and Rowan was far from normal.

  While most of the servants were aware they were not truly wed, none suspected the true aversion and dislike they held for one another. Even when they’d stumbled across one another at a ball the previous Season, each had gone about their business as if they didn’t know one another.

  It was the way of things, and how they would forever continue—at least, if Marce had anything to say about it.

  Despite her errant—and somewhat disconcerting—thoughts.

  Chapter 7

  Rowan leaned farther over his desk, peering at the assortment of Hadlow Estate paperwork in need of his attention as he attempted, for the twentieth time, to read—and comprehend—the detailed list his steward had made in reference to improvements needed about the estate. Yet, his mind refused to cooperate as his vision blurred and his thoughts strayed to other matters. Far less important subjects—or at least they should be far less imperative. Instead of finalizing and signing land and crop agreements, tenant leases, and repair notices, Rowan found himself once again staring off at nothing, his mind returning to those brief moments on the head of the stairs.

  Shoving the papers aside, he scrubbed at his face and blinked several times to clear his focus before retrieving his quill.

  It had been hours since he happened upon Marce after his morning visit with his mother. And, still, he could think of nothing but their upcoming private conversation.

  What could possibly be so pressing that the woman demanded an audience with him?

  Hadn’t they traveled for nearly an hour in private the day before? They had been alone with no fear of being overheard, but Marce had broached no subject of a delicate nature.

  Rowan reclined in his desk chair, his neck and back aching from his continued resolve to finish the task before him, even after several hours of making no progress. Instead, his eyes drifted closed once more, and all his mind conjured was that bloody pink frock…far too innocent and demure for Marce with its high neckline and simple waist. Not a speck of adornment accompanied the outfit—no jewels strung around her neck, or bobs hanging from her exposed earlobes. Even her hair was secured, half up and half down, as was her chosen fashion in recent years, without a single ribbon, flower, or comb
.

  In his dreams…no, not his dreams. Rowan did not fantasize about Marce. In his mind’s eye, when he envisioned Marce at Craven House, she wore gowns of the deepest scarlet or rich emerald green, accompanied by diamonds or rubies or sapphires. Her hair would also flow freely down her back and curl over her bare shoulders to cascade across her supple, mounding breasts where they strained against the tight silk of her bodice. Never did she bother with flounces or hoops, instead preferring skirts that hugged her body until they skimmed the floor at her feet. Her lips were always a rose red, and her cheeks a healthy pink, but never from the paints and dyes that some women preferred. No, everything about Marce was natural, from her long, fair, curling hair to her bright lips to the curve of her hips.

  Bloody hell.

  Thinking about Marce in such a way was only serving to distract his focus further.

  There was little arguing that she was beautiful and poised, but desiring her in any true sense beyond their current arrangement was not something Rowan would allow himself. Any need or longing to hold the woman, kiss the woman, fit their bodies perfectly together, was the precise thing Rowan had avoided since the first time they were alone together. He’d covered his attraction with his fury that night, and he could do the same now. He had to.

  Rowan shoved the mound of papers on his desk to the floor and threw his favored quill across the study, watching the driblets of ink that had clung to the tip spray about the room as it sailed through the air. He noted where each drop of black stained the rug, a wingback chair, and the frame of a landscape portrait that hung on the wall. Why could he focus on such a miniscule thing and not the mounding stacks of paperwork needing his attention?

  The ink matched the thin, barely noticeable, black rings that outlined Marce’s crystal blue eyes, so light in hue many would mistake them for clear, holding no pigment at all if they did not look closely—and often.

  The Devil take him…straight to the depths of hell the woman thought he’d crawled from.

  The door closed with nary a sound, and a familiar voice of reason asked, “What is all this?”

  Rowan brought his eyes from the now empty surface of his desk to see Tobias, Lord Cresthaven, standing just inside the study door, surveying the mess—papers strewn across the floor from where Rowan had pushed them away, his quill lying at Tobias’ feet, and the ink splatter here and there about the room.

  Yes, Rowan was in serious need of Tobias’ words of wisdom; yet he knew they’d never speak of Marce or Rowan’s part in deceiving his mother.

  Those topics were off-limits, even to Rowan’s closest friend.

  Tobias leaned down and plucked the quill from the rug at his feet, sending it flying back toward Rowan. He made no move to catch it as it skidded across his desk and fell once more to the floor.

  “Pelton will have your hide when he sees the disorder you’ve made for him,” Tobias said with a chuckle. “Should I assist you with straightening up, or allow you to face your butler’s wrath?”

  Tobias’ brown brow rose in question when Rowan only sent a frown his way before collecting the quill.

  “Ah, things are far more dire than I suspected.” Tobias made his way to the sideboard and retrieved two tumblers. “Scotch?” He didn’t bother waiting for Rowan’s reply before pouring two healthy portions from a decanter and turning to hand one to his friend.

  They drank in silence, and Tobias moved to refill the glasses.

  “No, thank you,” Rowan said, covering his tumbler with his hand. “Dinner with Mother and Marce…I must have my wits about me if I am to survive.”

  Tobias shrugged before filling his own glass once more and throwing himself into the ink-stained wingback chair across from Rowan, his scotch splashing over the edge of his tumbler and threatening to drip down the chair. Tobias wiped at the liquid before it could make its way down the side of the glass. “Suit yourself; however, I will endeavor to enjoy my evening.”

  Rowan ran his fingers through his hair, likely mussing it more than it already was. “Enjoy an evening at Hadlow? Dining with both my mother and Marce…at the same time?” He shook his head, fearing Tobias had at some point jarred his head so severely he’d forgotten how difficult it was to monitor one’s words when in the company of Lady Harwich—both Lady Harwichs, as it were.

  “Whatever are you so concerned about?” Tobias took a long sip before continuing, “Leona is a—”

  “Lady Harwich or the duchess,” Rowan corrected with another scowl.

  “Lady Harwich, though you know I was given liberty to address her by her given name years ago—“

  “I did not agree to such.”

  Tobias shrugged again, obviously unconcerned with his own well-being. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Lady Harwich is a delight, and Mar—err, Lady Harwich part deux is captivating, even though she cannot take her stare from you most days. However”—Tobias raised his hand to stop Rowan’s protest—“I have it on good authority that she favors—”

  “Stop!” Rowan’s deep voice thundered, fairly rattling the windowpanes, yet Tobias was undeterred by his friend’s outburst.

  “Okay, I will share who my source is, but you must agree never to reveal their name to anyone,” Tobias joked; however, Rowan sensed that somewhere behind his words and jest, there was more than a morsel of truth. “It was Constance, the milliner’s daughter’s husband’s third cousin…once removed. From over in Swanscombe.”

  “What in the bloody hell does some chit from Swanscombe know of any of this?” Rowan massaged his neck as his left eye began to twitch.

  “Obviously more than you and I, Your Grace.” Tobias shot up straight in his seat, his empty tumbler forgotten by his side. “I am certain I can gather her directions for you if you need further evidence. Though you cannot, under any circumstances, tell her that you heard the information from me. Swear to it, Ro!”

  “Enough, Tobias.” Rowan narrowed his eyes at his friend, wondering what had drawn the two men together all these years and continued their friendship despite the distance that normally separated them. “I do not give a bloody damned whit if my mother allows you to call her Leona, nor does it interest me if Marce favors you over me.”

  The continued twitch in his eye spoke to the contrary, and Rowan only prayed Tobias hadn’t noticed the tell.

  “But she favors me,” Tobias sighed as if mortally wounded by Rowan’s lack of interest in the topic. “Either way, I am greatly looking forward to our meal. When news arrived you’d be at Hadlow and the duchess was requesting my presence for a dinner party—”

  “It is not a party.” Rowan was done trying to hide his exasperation.

  “Come now, allow us lowly Kent simpletons the delight of an intimate dinner party now and again,” Tobias said, standing to refill his tumbler for a third time. “It is not often that fine London dwellers such as you grace us lowly country folk with your presence…”

  “Lowly country folk?” Rowan scoffed. “Did you not just recently return from across the Channel?”

  “That is neither here nor there.”

  “It most certainly is, and just six months ago, you traveled with me to Scotland,” Rowan said with a chuckle. Blast it all, but the man knew how to banish his dour moods. “And next month, we travel to Liverpool to meet with the Marquess of Huntly.”

  Tobias was incorrigible but worth the hassle on every level. A good friend and business companion whose trustworthy nature was never called into question was certainly a rare commodity—especially among the ton.

  There were more words to describe his friend, as well: loyal, understanding, and steadfast.

  And so, Rowan overlooked the frequent melodramatic tendencies that afflicted Tobias.

  “I would be honored to accompany you, my dear Rowan, but whatever shall we tell the duchess?” He pressed his hand to his chest and widened his eyes—even his chin trembled slightly. Perhaps it was past time to stop overlooking Tobias’ quirks and demanded his friend act the part of a gentleman and n
ot a court jester. “You do not think people will gossip overmuch about all the time we spend together?”

  Tobias’ dramatics had never rankled Rowan’s nerves in such a manner before.

  “My mother never asks after my business affairs, as you well know.”

  “And what of your other duchess?”

  “There is no reason for her to inquire as it does not pertain to her,” Rowan huffed. “And she is not—”

  “Your duchess, I know.” Tobias sobered, all jesting and joking fleeing as his lips pulled into a firm line. “What of the woman? You cannot think to keep at this ruse forever. Your mother spoke of grandchildren last month. Grandchildren, born of Harwich blood.”

  The truth of the matter was that the duchess had been speaking of grandchildren for many years. First in whispers to only Miss Pearl, but recently, openly asking Rowan of his future plans for the dukedom. He’d never dared ask Marce if his mother had questioned her on the topic, as well.

  It was a discussion that would be uncomfortable for both of them.

  It would be ludicrous to think Marce would go so far as to birth Rowan’s child, or any child, to keep up with the pretense of their sham of a marriage. But thinking on the subject brought to mind the wayward longing that invaded him when he allowed his guard to slip.

  There was little doubt that Marce would one day have children; however, they would not be his or of Harwich blood.

  “So…”

  “So, what?” Rowan asked, wishing he hadn’t pushed the stacks of papers from his desk. He needed something to look at besides Tobias. And something to think about other than Marce as the mother of his children. The man was incredibly shrewd at the most inopportune moments. Rowan would not admit that the duchess had written him about just that subject the previous month after Tobias, the lout, had brought his sister and her children to visit Hadlow.

  “Children…you and Marce…don’t play me for a fool and act as if you’ve never considered it.”