The Madame Catches Her Duke

by Christina McKnight

  “If I am a whore, I am—was—only your whore, Your Grace.” She punctuated each word with a jab to his chest. “I came running when you summoned me. I pranced about in fancy garb, entertained your mother, took a title that was not mine to use, and forgot about every dream I had for my own life. For eight long, tiring years. I lied to my family. I became a woman burdened with secrets. And the worst part? In the end, I sold out on my principles. I did the impossible. I will actually gain more from our union than is proper. I have saved enough coin to purchase another home where I can live the life I should have all those years ago. But at what cost? A steep one for certain. And all of this while you, a high-and-mighty, arrogant duke, go on like nothing happened. No lingering remorse over the decisions you made.”

  “You are correct,” Rowan’s rage returned, but it was not focused on Marce—he was furious with himself. “Unlike you, and your family, I will walk away from this as I was before, but do not be so naive as to think everything that happened did not affect me. Our pasts are as entangled as those of our parents. Certainly, I had no right to command what I did of you. Without a doubt, it was unfair of me to force you to befriend my mother. Do you think I enjoyed being the only one to hold my mother’s hand while the midwife told me she’d not likely live but a year of two longer? Do you think I wanted to keep my father’s betrayal from my mother? His infidelities?”

  His lungs burned as he struggled to gain enough air to alleviate his physical aches—his emotional pain was certain to be with him until he drew his last breath.

  “I watched my mother suffer while my father found happiness—possibly love—in the arms of another woman. With another family. That is what I’ve lived with for all these years. Even when my father passed away, I was still the wounded boy I was the night I witnessed my father in this very room…reading a bloody book to a bunch of children who were not of his blood, while my mother and I suffered her loss…alone.” Her eyes widened in shock, and Rowan pushed himself to continue. “Question my actions and decisions all you like, Marce, but you can never despise me as much as I loathe myself”—He swallowed to keep his voice steady—“for everything I’ve put you through. For everything I demanded of you. Here I am, languishing on and on about how I suffered, yet it was you who gave up, who…sacrificed more than I ever did or will. I should be at your feet begging for your mercy, doing all in my power to give you what I took from you.”

  He fell into silence, his chest heaving as he attempted to calm his erratic pulse.

  Before him stood the most beautiful, confident woman he’d ever met. Her chin notched up in defiance—or perhaps acceptance of everything he’d laid before her. Only a hint of color stained her neck and cheeks as her bosom strained against her bodice.

  The single curl still hung over her shoulder with the rest cascading down her back.

  Without thinking, Rowan reached forward and brushed it behind her shoulder. They both froze when his fingers grazed her collarbone, their stares meeting.

  His eyes searching…for what, Rowan did not know.

  While her pensive gaze was one of somber sadness.

  He had made her this way. Rowan hadn’t been acquainted with Marce before entering Craven House eight years prior, but without question, he knew he was responsible for turning her into the guarded, skeptical woman who stood before him now. If he’d dealt with his anger and the hurt caused by his father differently, how would both of their lives be altered now?

  A light knock sounded on the door, and Rowan wanted to scream for the interloper to go away, to leave them to their private moment and never return.

  But when the latch released and the door swung open, Marce quickly stepped away from him.

  Their moment of honesty was gone as she receded to the far corner of the room, refusing to even so much as glance in his direction as a man entered.

  There was no doubt that he was Marce’s brother, his light hair and blue eyes were proof enough as he cleared his throat and looked between his sister and Rowan. “Our meal is growing cold, and Payton is anxious to return to the baron’s residence. Shall I have Darla delay—”

  “No, no,” Marce said, waving away the man’s words. “My guest was just departing.”

  “I can have another place setting laid out if he wishes to join us.” From the scowl marring the man’s face, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

  “As I said, he was just leaving.” With a quick smile, Marce gestured for Rowan to proceed her from the room. “This way, please. I will show you out. Garrett, I will join you momentarily.”

  With one final look at her, Rowan conceded. “I am staying at Tobias’s townhouse.”

  “You should be on your way to Scotland,” she retorted, low enough that her brother did not hear.”

  “I find I have things to attend to in London before it is possible for me to travel elsewhere, my lady.” He hadn’t come to cause her any trouble…quite the opposite, in fact. He hadn’t wanted her to fret about losing her home.

  Judging by the way the man eyed him as he passed, if Rowan took one step out of line or refused to depart, her brother would be there to set him straight.

  It did not escape his notice that Marce had made no attempt to introduce them. She had no plans to ever let him meet her siblings. She likely never expected to see him again.

  Defeat and rejection threatened to overtake him as he entered his coach and slumped into his seat. Mustering any outrage at being dismissed in such a fashion eluded him. How was it possible to feel utterly lost and denied what he wanted, when he’d never had any clear goal of what he hoped to attain in the first place? It wasn’t until Tobias rapped on the coach wall, signaling the driver to set off, that Rowan remembered his friend had accompanied him to Craven House. The last thing he wanted to do was leave Marce—and Craven House—without making things right with her.

  If anything, he’d made it worse.

  And had been banished from her life—all in under an hour’s time.

  Rowan was used to securing favorable business ventures in that timeframe, but the situation with Marce—and the way his entire chest ached at what they’d spoken of, both what she’d shared with him and what he’d confessed to her—was unthinkable. He hadn’t breathed a word of his past to anyone but Tobias, and even with his dear friend, the accusations leveled against his father were done with rage and fury…not the remorse, relief, and pain he’d felt sharing the story with Marce.

  To find that they’d lived similar lives all these years… She’d kept him and their arrangement a secret from her siblings and shouldered the burden of it all, and he’d made certain his mother never learned of his father’s infidelities and Rowan’s deceptions.

  But, what now?

  Should they go their separate ways, put the past behind them, and simply learn to live with everything that had transpired between them?

  Leaning his head back against the coach wall, he closed his eyes. The gentle sway of the conveyance on the maintained London streets soothed his aching head but did naught for his frayed nerves. “Have I been gravely wrong all these years, Tobias?”

  Tobias chuckled, and Rowan squinted at him across the dim interior.

  “This is important,” Rowan sighed. “Do you think my father meant for Marce and her family to have Craven House upon his death?”

  Saying the words aloud was much the same as admitting his entire life had been an utter failure. He’d despised his father for so long before his death that they’d never discussed things that were important. Marce retaining the deed to Craven House could have been one of those things. He’d been too stubborn and absorbed with his own feelings of hurt that he had no inkling of his father’s wishes.

  “As you know, I didn’t know your father well; however, I can attest to the fact that Lady Marce thought it was so.”

  “If anything, I am more confused now than before.” Rowan shut his eyes tightly again, not wanting to witness Tobias’s reaction to his musings.

  “Ma
yhap there is more you should speak to your wif—Marce—about.”

  Rowan sat up straight, pinning Tobias with a questioning glare. “How am I to do that? I have been banished from Craven House.”

  “She said that?”

  “Of course not,” Rowan scoffed. “She would never speak such a thing, but I was curtly dismissed and shown to the door without a backwards glance.”

  “She is angry, Ro,” Tobias said, crossing his arms. “And rightly so.”

  “I cannot argue with that.”

  “And likely hurt.”

  “Hurt?” Rowan sputtered. “Are we not both reeling with pain? I told her she could keep the bloody house. I don’t want it…I never wanted it.”

  “A threat going on for nearly eight years is not something one forgets overnight.”

  “Her life would have been completely different if I hadn’t sought her out—”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Tobias said on an exhale. “However, at least it would’ve been her own.”

  It was true…he’d made the decision for her. She hadn’t had a genuine choice at the time when he proposed their arrangement. And Rowan had been master of his life since he was a mere boy. Making decisions and choosing his course with a mind clouded by anger or resentment. And he’d forced Marce to make her decisions based on her fear and his threats.

  He’d sought to give his mother happiness, even for a brief time, but he’d only succeeded in causing Marce harm. It would crush his mother to know that her son was a liar—a deceitful man not above his father’s sins.

  All the time he’d spent dedicated to protecting Leona had done nothing but cause everyone pain. In the end, Rowan realized he’d decided what was best for his mother without asking her, as well. The duchess would never have chosen to love a woman as if she were her own daughter only to have her stripped away.

  Rowan had not given Marce the option where Leona was concerned either.

  He had done what was best for Rowan—and Rowan alone. And had deceived those around him to assuage his own guilt from the past.

  Chapter 23

  “Very good, Mr. Adams.” Marce stood, walking around her desk to stand before the wiry solicitor as he pushed his round glasses up his nose. “Thank you for meeting with me again, and for all your hard work securing a property for me. I know my funds didn’t offer many options.”

  He shook his head, his brown hair flopping into his face. “My lady, I have endeavored to find and acquire a suitable home with land that will fit your needs explicitly. Do not worry yourself. The three properties I laid out for you are all within your means, and the home you chose, in Kent, will do nicely.”

  “Your assistance is very much appreciated,” Marce said, her smile genuine for the first time in quite a while. She’d been pleased to find properties in Northumberland, Kent, and a grand house outside Bristol. She’d chosen the home near Kent without a second thought—or perhaps she’d known that being close to Hadlow, even if an hour’s coach ride away, would give her the possibility to visit Leona at some point in the future. “I will call on Miles at the Bank of England on Threadneedle tomorrow and have the funds readied.”

  “And I will have the papers drawn up by midday.” Collecting his satchel, Adams gave her a quick bow and hurried out of her office and into the hall beyond, where Darla waited to show him out.

  Marce dared a glance at the clock behind her—nearly seven o’clock.

  The last two days had passed quickly after Rowan departed Craven House, and she’d pushed her siblings out the door, claiming that she had much business to attend to—which, in fact, she did. She’d met with Adams thrice, and Miles at the bank once in less than thirty-six hours.

  And now, with the important matter of acquiring a new house well in hand, her siblings would be arriving for their evening meal within moments. It was not unusual for them to dine together for a meal after Payton had finished her day’s work at the baron’s residence, and before Garrett started his night out about town. But being summoned was peculiar…even for them. However, when she’d asked them to come, they’d readily agreed.

  Perhaps it was solely to learn more about the gentleman visitor both of them had witnessed arrive and depart without Marce speaking of the nature of their acquaintance. Marce would be fooling herself if she didn’t admit that she’d left the pair salivating for more information simply to make certain they both arrived punctually when the time came.

  It was past time she was honest with Payton and Garrett—at least as truthful as she was prepared to be on this night. Maybe sometime in the future, she’d be ready to share the whole and complete story, but not tonight.

  No sooner had the door shut behind Adams than it again opened, and she heard the bickering voices of her siblings.

  Part of her was relieved that Sam and Jude—along with their husbands—were still away from London. They would learn of everything soon enough. And this way, neither could attempt to be the heroine and concoct a scheme to keep Craven House. With all honesty, Marce would be happy and content to leave the house behind. Certainly, it held many fond memories, but it also represented the ghosts of her family’s past. The scandal after her father’s death, her mother’s fall from grace, and her own sordid association with Rowan. It would be best for all if she moved on and left her past where it belonged…behind her, and one day forgotten.

  Not that everything with Rowan had been horrible.

  Her time at Hadlow hadn’t been completely miserable. She’d discovered her love for country life, met Leona and Tobias…and had her first true kiss.

  Her first taste of how bright and hot passion could burn. She’d thought herself past the age of finding a man who stoked the flames of desire within her. There were days, especially when she saw the happiness and love shared between her sisters and their husbands, that Marce doubted she was capable of closeness or adoration for any man. Yet, when she least expected it—and with a man no one would ever guess—the embers of her long-repressed passion had flamed. She’d discovered things about herself that stunned even her. Despite their jaded past, or perhaps because of it, her longing to be near Rowan, and her need to feel him against her, was enough to send her running back to him.

  Allowing herself that wish would only cause her more hurt in the future. The time would come when she was alone at her new home before a roaring hearth, without the risk or luxury of running back to Rowan, when she could think on it. And she’d have years of lonely nights to relive that moment with Rowan. His touch, skin-to-skin. His strong yet yielding lips pressed to hers. The rigid length of his arousal pressed between their bodies.

  Not now. It was all too new. Too raw.

  Running her hand along the edge of her desk and glancing about the room that had somehow come to represent her, Marce departed the office and made for the dining hall. It would not do to allow Cook’s meal to grow cold and stale. The woman would likely rebuff Marce’s plea for her to move to Kent with her.

  Both of her siblings were seated when she entered—Garrett in his normal chair, and Payton forgoing her usual place for Jude’s next to Marce at the head of the table.

  “Good evening.”

  The pair turned perplexed stares in her direction at her cheerful greeting. Payton blinked several times as if not recognizing her sister, while Garrett’s eyes narrowed on her before he shook his head.

  “What has you in such fine spirits?” Garrett prodded, standing to pull Marce’s seat out for her to sit. “You were quite dour when last we spoke.”

  Marce retrieved her napkin and draped it across her lap, signaling for Darla to serve their meal—a light fare of duck soup, roasted pheasant, and fresh bread—before turning her full attention to the matter at hand.

  “I am never in a dour mood,” she corrected Garrett. “My place as head of this family is one of great responsibility.”

  England was a patriarchal nation—men led their families, provided safe haven for their wives and children, and attended to business. It w
as not that way with her family. They’d had no male to care for them since before her father died. Even her mother’s lovers hadn’t stepped into the role of provider for Sasha and her children…and so, her mother—and Marce after—had taken the reins to support them all. Garrett hadn’t the proper upbringing and teaching to push him into the role as head of their family.

  Perhaps that blame lay on Marce’s shoulders. She’d never trusted anyone to care for her siblings as she could.

  And, in turn, Garrett had seen twenty-seven summers living as a carefree man with no hint of responsibility or obligation. He was unwed, never so much as connected to any woman, proper or otherwise, and living in bachelor quarters at the Albany. Thankfully, he took on the responsibility of paying for his own lavish accommodations, as the funds from Craven House would never stretch that far.

  “Go on,” Payton whined, wilting in her chair. “Do not keep us in suspense. Who is the mystery man, and why have you been strange of late?”

  “The man is of no consequence.” It seemed she’d made up her mind about how much to tell her siblings, and it didn’t include Rowan and his role in her past. “I wanted to share with you both that I am in the process of purchasing property near Kent. I will require your assistance packing up Craven House before it is time for the women and me to relocate with the servants.”

  “Moving?” Garett sat forward, knocking his water goblet over to flood his plate. “You cannot.”

  “Outside London? Where will I go when I need to get away from the baron’s hellions?”