The Madame Catches Her Duke

by Christina McKnight

  This time, Marce did nothing to disguise her dismayed sigh.

  Rowan wasn’t foolish enough to mention her overt display of discontent again.

  Marce folded her arms and sank into the velvet squab of her seat. If he thought to act the composed, untroubled lord, then she could do likewise and act the lady.

  For the duration of their carriage ride, at least.

  Unfortunately, appearing tranquil and unworried was exhausting. And after all these years, Marce was tired of putting forth a false façade—with both the duchess and Marce’s family.

  Chapter 4

  It took every ounce of Rowan’s willpower not to issue an apology for his brash behavior as the uncomfortable silence descended on them once more. Bloody hell. If there was one thing he’d learned from his father, it was that a duke was above apologizing—for anything, be it a catastrophic mistake or a simple misunderstanding.

  There was no need for his sire to instruct him in this matter. Rowan had grown up witnessing Julian Delconti heaping heartache after heartache upon his mother—a woman who’d dedicated her entire life to the Harwich dukedom—with little regard for all she’d sacrificed and the pain that plagued her each day.

  Rowan’s own mistakes were nothing like his father’s, though.

  Rowan would never be like the previous Duke of Harwich.

  No, he made decisions—viewed in a negative light by others or not—that saved those around him from hurt and loss.

  Like Rowan’s decision to not tell his mother about the duke’s affair, or his arrangement with Marce, which allowed the woman and her family to remain in their home. The consequences of telling his mother or collecting straight away on the debt Marce owed him would have been far worse than their current situation.

  Rowan was confident in that fact.

  He had no other choice.

  He was nothing like Julian Delconti. His decision had saved his mother from years of sorrow. And his proposition had kept a family together, though Rowan often wondered why Marce and her siblings deserved that gift. Why were they worthy of happiness while he was not? If their contentment hadn’t been the direct cause of his hurt and anguish, it wouldn’t have mattered overmuch to him. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

  But now, there was little Rowan could do to change his path without damaging someone—namely, his mother. She’d quickly fallen prey to her illness when his father died suddenly, and she’d only worsened in the months after. All she spoke of was her wish that Rowan not be left alone when she passed; yet, he’d been too overwhelmed by his fury—at his father, his sire’s mistress, and life’s hardships and cruel turns—that he hadn’t actually listened to her pleas. He’d wanted nothing more than to make his mother happy and content in her final days…and that meant the reassurance that he would not be alone after she succumbed to the sickness that had ravished her for most of her life.

  Rowan cracked one eye and chanced a glance at Marce, ignoring the pull to be near her that spread through him. Was it affection? Lust? A need to know her inner-most workings and thoughts?

  The woman had always been on edge when in his company, as if waiting for the day he turned into the monster she claimed him to be. Something was different this day, however. She was far more pensive yet…settled. He was hard-pressed to ignore how lovely she looked in her demure, midnight-blue dress, her hair half pinned up with some peculiar bauble secured atop her head to hold the coiffure in place. The style was much preferred to the way she’d worn it all down her back when they first met. She’d matured during their acquaintance, though Rowan could claim no responsibility for her growth. With her long curls gathered, he was afforded an ample view of the soft, creamy skin at her neck, though the high collar of her gown stopped just short of covering the delicate place at her throat where her pulse thrummed. Despite her peaceful pose, the erratic tic at her neck betrayed her.

  She was not at ease. More like a woman resigned to stillness, ready to take action when the moment presented itself.

  He’d learned the meaning of the rhythmic pulse when he was just a boy, and the Hadlow physician had educated him on how to check his mother’s heartbeat without disturbing her slumber. At that time, it had been a gravely important task to be measured a dozen times throughout the day. It had turned out to be a wise skill to possess, and had proven valuable in many situations from making certain his mother was well, to observing and investigating potential business partners—their desire for and worthiness regarding the funds Rowan would offer them. Never had he needed to use the trick with Marce. The woman’s feelings were normally written plain as day on her face and in her demeanor, though the reasons behind them had always eluded him.

  Marce shifted, and Rowan clamped his eyes shut once more, breathing deeply in hopes she would think he’d drifted off to sleep.

  Even after all these years, she continued to be an utter mystery to him.

  He’d been a stranger when he entered Craven House, but Marce hadn’t been a complete unknown to him. No, he’d done his research after stumbling upon his father ensconced in his mistress’s home. So many things had become apparent to his fifteen-year-old self as he stood in the rain and watched the street-facing front window and his father—the man he adored, the man whom he’d sought to emulate when he finished University, the man who’d become more and more distant over the previous years. His sire had reclined on a plush, cream lounge and smiled at a gathering of children seated on the floor before him as he read from a book and told them a story. They all stared up at him…completely enthralled. At his side was Sasha Davenport—the woman responsible for stealing his father’s affection and alienating him from his family.

  Julian Delconti had flaunted his infidelity with brazen disregard for his own kin. Sitting before an open window, outwardly proclaiming the happiness he’d found in the arms of another woman…it had been a knife to Rowan’s heart. His father hadn’t feared being discovered. He hadn’t seen his second family as a compromising situation that would lead to scandal.

  Julian had seen to his own needs and wants above all others.

  Making that mistake would not be Rowan’s downfall.

  He clenched his fist in his lap and attempted to keep his body lax with feigned slumber.

  His entire world had changed that fateful day. Crashed and burned.

  His mother was in labor—far too early—and he’d been sent from their London townhouse to collect his father so he could hurry home to be at this wife’s side during the birth.

  But Rowan had returned to the Harwich townhouse alone, soaking wet, and freezing.

  His mother had lost the twin babes that night…a pair of girls.

  And nothing had been the same since. His mother had been sent to Hadlow to regain her strength and heal. Yet, that hadn’t happened. She still remained in her sick room, never returning to town.

  After that day, Rowan knew, without a doubt, he’d hate his father forevermore.

  Time and distance had done nothing to diminish his fury or dampen the guilt of keeping the secret and never confronting his sire.

  He’d thought gaining a small amount of retribution would ease the blame, reduce his personal burden; however, his plan hadn’t gone as expected. At least where Marce Davenport was concerned. She’d turned into the bane of his existence. A woman he shouldn’t be drawn to. But, each day, he realized how his dependence on her grew.

  Whenever they arrived at Hadlow, Marce would hurry to his mother’s private sitting room, and the two would visit for most of Marce’s stay. She would take up care for Rowan’s ailing mother; providing her with companionship and delicate attention. Unquestionably, it was the most difficult obstacle standing in Rowan’s way, making it impossible to end their farce. How was he to admit his deception to his mother and rip Marce from the duchess’s life? There was no doubt that once freed from their arrangement, Rowan would never see the woman again. He deserved nothing less, but his mother was worthy of more.

  And so, the years
had passed. Rowan and Marce remained bound, tied by unseen ropes that coiled as tightly around him as they did her.

  Lady Leona Harwich was kind, compassionate, and had given Rowan everything in his life, especially after his father betrayed and abandoned them.

  Marce had been a simple way to repay his mother for her sacrifices. Though he’d never imagined the sheer happiness his mother would gain from his marriage to Marce.

  At least with Marce close, Rowan could suppress his guilt over keeping such a damning secret from his mother.

  “We’ve arrived, Your Grace.” Something knocked his boot, and he slowly opened his eyes to note that Marce had kicked him…actually kicked him to rouse him from slumber.

  Rowan straightened as their carriage pulled to a halt before his family home. The estate never ceased to amaze him with its expansive stone façade and looming towers that hadn’t been inhabited for generations, though had, in no way, succumbed to deterioration. The sweeping land around Hadlow rolled like waves in every direction—farmland for the local townsfolk, and his mother’s treasured gardens at the rear of the main house. In the distance, the gamesman’s cottage could be seen nestled in a thicket. A glimpse in the other direction revealed Cresthaven Park, the estate of his longtime friend, Tobias. Lord Cresthaven.

  Not a thing was out of place or altered from his previous trip during the late summer months of the year before; yet, he sensed that something had indeed changed. The air was as fresh and brisk as it always was this time of year. The herons squawked from their perch in the grove at the side of his manor near the pond. The sun was not high for the time of day, but there were no clouds to keep the sparse warmth from reaching the ground below. Glancing out the window, Rowan spotted a stable hand walking a mare, and a maid lugging a pail toward the kitchens. Nothing was amiss. Perhaps it was Rowan who had undergone some unknown change during his time away from Hadlow.

  The coach shifted when Charles climbed down from his perch to open the door and set down the steps, his hand appearing in the opening to assist Marce down as the cold, February air invaded the warmth of the confined space.

  “Shall we?” Rowan swept his arm toward the coach exit.

  Her brow rose, and he could swear she worked hard to hide a smirk. “By all means, Your Grace, let us embark on another round of our charade.”

  With that, she gathered her package and took Charles’ hand to depart, leaving Rowan with a grin of his own; however, he was uncertain why he found her words comical. Perhaps it was the irony of their situation, or a return to normalcy Rowan hadn’t fully realized was missing since she’d arrived in Welling. Could it be that she had been the one to change since their last visit to Hadlow?

  Normalcy meant safety, a return to what was expected with no chance for surprises. They would spend their brief few days at Hadlow, and after that, they would go their separate ways as was expected. As had been their routine for years.

  Rowan’s secret would hold for at least a few more months until the opportunity for his lies to be exposed once again arose during their next visit.

  Yes, another round of their charade was exactly what Rowan needed.

  “Good day, Mr. Pelton,” Marce’s voice drifted to him inside the carriage. “Mrs. Giles, the new uniforms are superb. Constance has superior skill with a needle, wouldn’t you say, Charles?”

  Rowan remained out of sight as he listened to her greet his servants as if she were truly the Duchess of Harwich.

  His duchess.

  She’d even baited Charles, his driver, who took great care not to address Marce in any manner for fear he’d speak out of turn and anger Rowan.

  “How is the duchess this day?” It was always Marce’s first question upon arrival.

  Rowan could picture the way she expectantly gazed at his servants as she awaited their answer, not so much as drawing breath until it was confirmed that his mother was well.

  It was his housekeeper, Mrs. Giles, who offered a reply. “She is doing well today. Her chest is quiet, and no coughing fits have plagued her as yet, though she refused to rest until you arrived, Lady Harwich.”

  “I think I shall hurry up to see her then. If that pleases Your Grace,” she said, pausing for Rowan to answer.

  Rowan departed the carriage to see the trio awaiting his reply as Charles moved to collect their traveling bags from where they’d been stowed. Why had she thought it would not please him? In all these years, he’d never discouraged her from visiting his mother despite the devastation he knew would come when the truth eventually came to light.

  “Very good,” Rowan said with a nod. “I will settle into my study and join you both for our meal later.”

  “That is a splendid idea, dear husband.”

  “I knew you’d agree, my lovely.”

  Rowan noted her strained smile as she pivoted and entered Hadlow, her chin notched up.

  Mr. Pelton cleared his throat and hurried to assist Charles, while a groom rounded the main house and collected Rowan’s horse. Mrs. Giles rubbed her hands down her white apron and turned to follow in Mr. Pelton’s wake.

  As had been the custom, everyone played his or her parts in the charade that was Rowan and Marce’s marriage. For all intents and purposes, Marce was the Duchess of Harwich, though every person at Hadlow knew the lie for what it was.

  Everyone except Rowan’s mother.

  Who mustn’t ever discover the depth of her son’s deception.

  Thankfully, the servants at Hadlow Estate adored Lady Leona and valued their employment far more than they disapproved of Rowan’s decision to exploit Marce and risk hurting the duchess.

  Chapter 5

  Marce breathed in deeply the moment she crossed Hadlow’s threshold, her lungs filling with all the smells that had at some point over the years become familiar—and even comforting—to her. The scent of the lemon used to polish the floors and wooden stair rails. The delightful, tangy aroma of baked goods emanating from the kitchen at the rear of the house, somehow making its way across the manor. Not only to the foyer but also all the way to the east wing where she and Rowan resided, and the west wing where Lady Leona’s private suite overlooked the Hadlow gardens. There was yet another sweet scent that carried through every square inch of the estate, and it reminded Marce how far removed Rowan and his mother were from her way of living at Craven House.

  The honeyed fragrance of beeswax candles.

  Marce was fortunate to possess enough coin to light their home with tallow in their private chambers and rush-lights in the most frequented rooms below. Only on the few nights per week that she invited men into her home for card games were proper beeswax candles brought out—and they were blown out and whisked away immediately after the games concluded, burning not a second longer than necessary.

  Oh, the airs one put on for the benefit of others.

  Closing her eyes, Marce threaded her fingers together before her, holding the duchess’s gift to her chest and inhaling one last time…her exhale achingly slow as the tension from the carriage ride drained from her.

  She would miss the smells of Hadlow—among other things.

  To her, these were the scents of a true home, a place where a family resided—lived, laughed, loved, and cherished one another. There had been many firsts and lasts within these ancient walls. Leona had wedded Julian in Hadlow’s gardens. Rowan had been born in the very room Lady Leona still kept as her own. And Julian, the previous duke, had died here…along with their many babes who did not survive. Despite the hardships the Harwich family had endured over the generations, these walls still provided a treasured sanctuary for the occupants.

  One day, Marce would possess a place like Hadlow. Not equal in size or to its grandiose nature, but a house that was more than a mere dwelling, more than four walls and a roof that afforded shelter as long as she abided by the terms of an agreement.

  A home.

  A place her siblings would come to for short respites from their hectic lives in London.

 
A place with a small garden where Marce could tend to the herbs and vegetables. The satisfaction of feeding her guests with crops tended by her own hands would surely be fulfilling.

  Situated a short distance from a small village where the townsfolk would greet her by name, and she would invite them to visit her for tea or an afternoon of lawn activities…perhaps even a dinner party every few months.

  There would always be a feast to share, sweets to enjoy, and festivities to plan.

  A home that her children would enjoy—not her children, but those of Garrett, Sam, Judith, and Payton. They would come and visit every holiday season, and she’d demand they remain until after the new year dawned. There would be a yuletide log with plenty of holly decorating every table and railing.

  Yes, that was what Marce longed for.

  A small slice of Heaven that was hers, and hers alone.

  Never would a man take from her. Marce would not allow it.

  Never would a man own her. She would perish before agreeing to such a thing again.

  “Lady Harwich.” The soft, familiar voice drifted through the foyer. It had taken many years for Marce to halt herself from glancing about for Leona, Rowan’s mother, when someone uttered the greeting. “I wish you a good afternoon, Your Grace.”

  She opened her eyes with a smile upon her lips to see Pearl, the duchess’s maid, at the bottom of the stairs.

  Lady Harwich, or Your Grace, were difficult titles to assume when Marce knew the depth of the deception she and Rowan were embroiled in. The name and title were not hers, not in truth; however, that did not alter the greeting she received each time she arrived at Hadlow.

  “My mistress has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. I fear she will not rest until she has set eyes on you.” Pearl was nearly the same age as Rowan’s mother, but for some reason, she hadn’t seemed to age in over two decades, at least if the painted portraits in the duchess’s sitting room were to be believed. With her mousy brown hair, milky skin, and delicate frame, many would think the duchess’s companion no older than Marce. “She spotted Johnathon leading the duke’s horse round to the stables, and I rushed to collect you.”