The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3) Page 7

  “I most certainly have not,” Rowan refuted. “We have a business arrangement, that is all. There is no romantic entanglement between us. Not now, and not in the future.”

  “Interesting.” Tobias had the gall to stroke his chin as if he thought of all the implications of Rowan’s proclamation. “Very interesting, indeed.”

  “How so?” Rowan asked.

  “Well, you see…” A huge smile pulled at Tobias’ mouth, revealing his pearly white teeth. “When all this crumbles around you, I will be there to console those left in the wake of your destruction.”

  “I enjoyed your company more when you respected which topics were not up for discussion.”

  “And I’ve never truly enjoyed your company. However, your mother and Marce are delightful conversationalists, though their association with you is—”

  The clock chimed seven times.

  The dinner hour at Hadlow Estate.

  “Ah, yes, our meal awaits.” Tobias pushed from his chair, not pausing to wait for Rowan to join him. “Hurry along, old chap.”

  Rowan pushed from his chair, his arms and legs heavy with unease as he hurried after Tobias. There was no denying that Rowan was happy to follow someone’s lead, at least for this one night. He would gladly play second fiddle to Tobias if it meant dinner progressed smoothly, and he escaped unscathed.

  Entering the dining hall, Rowan was first taken aback by the exorbitant amount of food spread out on the long table—from great pots of soup to roasted pheasant to steaming mounds of vegetables, and even three different sweets for after their meal. When in residence, Rowan favored a less formal meal, served buffet style. It lessened the chores for his servants and gave him the illusion of privacy in a brimming house. Tonight, the individual aromas mingled, causing Rowan’s mouth to water with anticipation of the fare to come. Every candle in the room was lit, and the chandelier overhead made every wine goblet shimmer. There were candelabras up and down the length of the table with strands of ivy woven between them. Bolts of silken fabric hung from every wall in varying shades of silver and plum, superbly complementing the green of the garlands.

  Rowan shook his head to clear the nonsense from his mind.

  The extravagance of the room irritated him. Theirs was to be a simple dinner for four, not a party of twenty celebrating some important holiday or tradition. His mother, Marce, Tobias, and him—with no need to mask their meal with societal niceties. The sheer extravagance of the uneaten food and burning candle wax would be enough to sustain one of his struggling businesses for days while feeding and providing light for the workers.

  The businesses were not stressed because of any decision Rowan made—but one would not know that by seeing the unnecessary excess surrounding him at that moment.

  Glancing toward the head of the table as Tobias took his seat next to Rowan’s mother, he was about to chastise everyone in the room. Heat crept up his neck and moved past his perfectly tied neckcloth to his ears. Servants lined the walls as if this were a daily occurrence at Hadlow Estate, their newly commissioned uniforms in perfect order.

  Everything was perfect, from the place settings to the food to the servants to the—

  Guests.

  Rowan turned his head to take in his mother and Marce, both seated near the head of the table to his left and right, as they chatted quietly with Tobias. The pair was each exquisite in their own way, and both smiled as they greeted Tobias. The look of utter happiness on his mother’s normally worn face brought a lightness to Rowan he hadn’t felt in months…perhaps years.

  His feet halted, refusing to take another step closer for fear of bringing an end to the merriment. Certainly, his mere presence was enough to cast a dark shadow over the entire group.

  Even now, his mother laughed—actually, giggled would be a more accurate term—and swatted at Tobias’ hand with her fan. His mother actually held a fan, flipping it open with a coy precision born to every woman of noble birth and began to fan her face as her cheeks blossomed with a delicate rose hue.

  Marce leaned in close, her arms folded on the table before her as she pushed her place setting aside, her long curls falling over her shoulder in a manner he was coming to think of as normal. The trio laughed again, and Rowan’s annoyance dissipated.

  For a brief moment, Rowan considered departing the room and leaving the three to enjoy their meal without his dark presence there to dampen their good cheer.

  But then, she turned her smile in his direction.

  And nodded in greeting.

  Not his mother. No, she was still fanning her heated face and laughing at whatever inane story Tobias regaled her with.

  It was Marce’s wide grin that brought Rowan farther into the room. He moved under the shimmering glow from above and amidst the savory scents of the meal set before them until he reached his place at the head of the table.

  With her chin tilted slightly, Marce looked up at him, her smile never wavering. And in that moment, for no more than the blink of an eye, Rowan allowed himself to ponder what it would be like if Marce Davenport were truly his duchess. If she gazed at him in a similar fashion every day. If he could look forward to enjoy every meal with her by his side.

  Belatedly, he remembered her quick words of avoidance as she’d fled down the main stairs that morning, obviously looking to be in anyone’s company but his. No, Marce’s smile and good cheer was not meant for him, nor caused by his presence.

  That was far too much to hope for, even if, surprisingly, it was something Rowan longed to have.

  Chapter 8

  Appearances were difficult things to uphold in London, but far more challenging while at Hadlow. Expectations were ever-shifting, sometimes altering to the point where Marce wasn’t certain what was expected of her while in residence—apparent by the meal they now shared, something that had not come to pass during all her time visiting Hadlow. She had no idea how to proceed with Rowan staring down at her as if there were truly mutual affection between them. His stare was open and welcoming, and the smile that had settled on his lips was completely foreign to her. The way she felt the need to hold his stare was highly unsettling. If she maintained eye contact a moment longer, all their lies would come to light, and there would be no hiding what they’d done.

  And so, Marce did what any woman in her position would do, she averted her gaze…immediately, giving her attention to a far more deserving man: Lord Cresthaven.

  Despite the draw of the duke, Marce pleaded with herself to keep her attention elsewhere—specifically, far from Rowan.

  It was ludicrous to think that Rowan’s smile had been meant for her. It had been an unintentional meeting of eyes, as it were. Besides, Tobias, the duke’s lifelong friend and one of the few people—besides the Hadlow servants—who knew the secret of their arrangement, was always easy to read. He was the happy and light one of the pair. Between him and Rowan, he was the first to laughter and the last to anger.

  Marce had come to know what to expect from Tobias as she’d thought she knew what to anticipate with Rowan. Yet, something had changed with the duke since her last visit.

  Perhaps it was she who had changed.

  Never had she seen her arrangement with Rowan as a mutual agreement between them. Beneficial to both, yes. A distraction from Marce’s otherwise routine and chaotic life in London, most certainly. But beyond her retaining Craven House, Marce gained nothing from their association. She refused to think of her love and closeness with the duchess as having anything to do with the bargain she’d struck with Rowan. The woman deserved more care and compassion than to be a part of her son’s ill-fated notions for revenge.

  And, if there was one thing Marce knew, it was that Rowan had been seeking vengeance when he blackmailed Marce all those years ago.

  However, in this moment—surrounded by all of the finest things Hadlow had to offer—Marce didn’t feel trapped. She’d already reconciled that she would be giving up her home. She could tell Rowan where he could stick his arrangement
whenever she chose.

  So, what was stopping her from doing exactly as she’d planned to do?

  Certainly, she would miss Leona and Hadlow, as she’d never return to the estate, but there must have been something else that kept her from throwing Rowan’s bargain in his face when they met at the top of the stairs.

  She was procrastinating by convincing herself that Leona deserved a better farewell than Marce merely disappearing, never to be seen or heard from again. She realized it was not the only reason she hesitated to break away from Rowan. To keep from telling him to go to the Devil and take his bargain with him. If she did, a carriage could be summoned within moments, and she would have no need to witness Leona’s devastation and heartbreak. But something held her back. What exactly that was, she was afraid to look at too closely.

  “You appear peaked, my child,” Leona said, bringing Marce’s attention back to the room around her. “Should I send for your maid?”

  The servant behind the duchess stepped forward, ready to do Leona’s bidding, but Marce held up her hand to halt the man.

  “No, no,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips once more. If Leona noticed it was not the genuine grin from moments before, she didn’t mention it as she eased back into her chair. “It is just a bit warm in here.”

  “Likely because of all these senseless candles,” Rowan murmured as he sat. “Enough wicks to illuminate an entire factory.”

  Tobias caught Marce’s eye across the table, his brow rising in question.

  If Lord Cresthaven thought Marce held any answers to the mystery that was the Duke of Harwich, he was gravely mistaken and likely to be disappointed.

  “I think it is that Lady Harwich is in need of fresh air,” Tobias proclaimed, thumping the table with his open palm. “I will come ‘round tomorrow and collect her for a ride about Hadlow and my estate.” The earl paused, shifting slightly to face Rowan. “That is if your husband does not have any objections.”

  “Why would I have any objections?” Rowan croaked. “I am not her keeper.”

  Oh, but wasn’t he? Marce longed to say just that, but she held her tongue and smiled, even as her jaw clenched and her eyes narrowed a bit.

  “I think a horseback ride about the countryside sounds positively delightful,” Leona gushed. “If only my physician would allow me out of the manor every once in a while.”

  “That is not happening anytime soon, Mother,” Rowan cut in, his tone severe. “And do not think to convince Miss Pearl—or your physician—any differently.”

  Suddenly, three sets of eyes turned toward her, two of the purest green and one of light brown. And they waited. For what, Marce wasn’t certain. Had she missed something?

  “Tell me you are not rejecting my offer, Lady Harwich.” Tobias laid his palm against his forehead as if he couldn’t bear to be turned away. “I will flee Kent in embarrassment, Your Grace.”

  “Do not be ridiculous, my lord.” Marce shifted slightly, nodding to the waiting servants to serve their soup portions. “Of course, I will accompany you tomorrow; however”—She glanced at the duchess at Tobias’ elbow—“it would be grand if you could venture out with us, as well.”

  “Do not worry over me, my child.” Leona turned and placed a quick kiss to Tobias’ cheek. “My dearest Tobias will be all the company you need. These old, aching bones would never make it even as far as the apple trees behind my garden.”

  For not the first time, Marce cursed fate for saddling Leona with a frail body despite her healthy mind. If she’d been given both a fragile mind and body, perhaps it would not be such a burden. As it was, her mind was well aware of all the things her body was incapable of.

  “Mayhap Rowan will accompany you to the garden if the weather warms by midday.” Tobias winked at her across the table. “It is in no way fair that only Lady Harwich and I will be enjoying the outdoors.”

  The duke scoffed, but when Leona turned to her son, her eyes pleading, Marce suspected that Rowan would not deny the woman.

  “That would be lovely,” Leona said. “With your assistance, Pearl and I could spend a bit of time in the garden. I can meet with the groundskeeper and instruct him on how things should be cared for before spring is upon us.”

  Rowan’s brow furrowed. “The garden is not being taken care of in a manner that suits? You should have spoken of this to Pelton or me earlier. Dictate a list to Miss Pearl, and I will have everything corrected immediately.”

  “That is not necessary—”

  “I insist,” Rowan thundered before picking up his spoon and staring into his bowl of duck soup.

  Silence fell over the room as each followed Rowan’s lead, turning their attention to their meals. The only sound was the clinking of silverware against the bowls, giving Marce ample time to think through what was to come. On the morrow, she would have her final visit with Leona, say her goodbyes to Tobias on their ride, and finally, speak with the duke. After that, she was uncertain what would ensue. Would Rowan cast her out immediately? Would he deny her transport back to London?

  She could ask Tobias for assistance if Rowan turned cruel. The men were friends, but the earl was ever the gentleman, and after so many years, Marce had come to think of him as her friend, as well.

  As time passed, their soup dishes were whisked away, and cheese with fresh bread was served, followed by roasted pheasant and vegetables from the Hadlow hothouse. Each dish tasted better than the one before, but Marce found herself barely able to take more than a few bites of each. Her stomach churned, and her head began to ache with trepidation, making the final plate set before her taste like sawdust and not the sweet raspberry tartness she’d come to enjoy from Mrs. Pelton’s pies.

  If other conversation was made, Marce did not hear it or participate.

  If Leona noticed her reserved nature, the woman did not comment.

  If Tobias teased the duke or lavished further attention on the duchess, Marce remained withdrawn and unaware.

  If Rowan suspected that something was amiss, he made no mention of it. As the evening progressed, the stiffness in his shoulders receded, and the hard set of his jaw relaxed. Tension usually went hand in hand with their interactions, as both were always on guard when in one another’s company. Few occasions presented themselves for Marce to witness Rowan while surrounded by trusted friends and family.

  Unrestrained ease sat well on his broad shoulders, brightened his eyes, and even diminished the air of arrogance that normally clung to him tighter than his evening coat. How would their past have progressed had Rowan presented himself as this man instead of the arrogant, entitled son of Julian Delconti, hell-bent on taking everything from her family?

  It was something Marce would never know, and she had resigned herself to that fact long ago. They were who they were. She was the daughter of a notorious brothel proprietress despite her father being a marquess, and he was the son of a wealthy, influential duke. Their paths had never been destined to cross. Unfortunately, they had.

  And what resulted displayed their true natures.

  Marce would do all in her power to care for her family, even at the expense of her own future.

  While Rowan thought only of himself…and punishing the only person left he could seek retribution from.

  Marce stared at her plate. There was little to be gained by dwelling on their past. For now, she need think of her future. For the first time in her entire life, she was free to make a decision that would benefit her without thinking of the well-being of those she loved.

  Yes, her decision was a selfish one. Handing over Craven House to the duke would be a relief. No more would she live under the control of another only to maintain a life barely worth living. Her siblings were taken care of, and she needn’t fear harm coming to them. It was her turn to take care of herself.

  Marce didn’t attempt to hide her satisfied smile as she brought a spoonful of raspberry pie to her lips, setting the morsel of tart sweetness on her tongue.

  Soon enough, her fina
l meal at Hadlow Estate would conclude, Leona would return to her room, and the men would retire to the study, leaving Marce free to seek out the privacy of her own chambers…and the sleepless night certain to follow.

  But by nightfall the next day, she would be free to be who she truly was.

  Not Lady Harwich. Not Rowan’s pretend duchess, but Marce Davenport.

  Chapter 9

  The morning had dawned clear with nary a cloud in the sky or a heavy breeze in the air. Perfect for a midday ride about the estate—also, an impeccable day for travel, Marce thought as she hurried across the duchess’s sitting room to her private chambers beyond. The hearth blazed with a heat far more suited to a dark, frozen winter night than a day soon to be warm enough to coax even the most hesitant flower to bloom.

  She’d donned her sage green riding habit in anticipation of the ride with Lord Cresthaven; however, the constricting velvet jacket was enough to cause a sheen of perspiration to bead on the back of her neck, and the tips of her ears to burn from the warmth of the room.

  Marce drew a chair close to the window as Pearl closed the door, leaving only her and Leona in the duchess’s sleeping chamber. Leona did not draw attention to the package on Marce’s lap or the deepening shadows under her eyes. And in return, Marce did not mention the hollow, vacant stare Leona’s eyes possessed or the way three heavy blankets were tucked in around the duchess as she alternated between gazing out the window at her garden below and dozing fitfully in her upright position.

  The evening had been taxing on the duchess, and Marce blamed herself for allowing the woman to convince her that the dinner party was a grand notion. The excitement of having Rowan home was enough to tire Leona so much that she’d be unable to leave her bed for days after they departed Hadlow.

  The duchess’s smile was not as wide as the previous day. “My dear, sweet girl. I was wondering when you’d come to see me.”