“Well, I—“ Rowan began, his stared trained on Tobias.
“Precisely what I already deduced. You love him.” He pointed from Marce to Rowan. “And you love her,” Tobias said, reversing the action. “It is settled. And now I think it is time for a drink to celebrate. Rowan, will you be having sherry or something a bit stronger as the occasion calls for?”
“Tobias.” Rowan pushed to his feet and took two steps to cut Tobias off as he moved toward the decanters lined up on the sideboard. “You cannot come in here and order us about. This is a matter between Marce and me, not us, you, and my mother.”
“The facts remain the same, my friend.” Tobias pushed Rowan from his path and continued to the sideboard. “Drinks?”
It was her turn to speak. “Tobias, I must say I agree with Rowan on this.”
Tobias spun around, a smile pulling his lips wide. “See, already joining forces against a common foe. This marriage will be blessed—very blessed indeed. Now, sherry or scotch?” He paused for only a brief moment before collecting a goblet and two tumblers. “I say I pour us refreshments and we head upstairs to impart the good news to the duchess.”
“What makes you think I will agree to wed the duke?” Marce asked, taking the goblet Tobias offered. She stood at Rowan’s side, her arm brushing his as they both faced down Tobias.
“Simple, you already agreed to wed the scoundrel on one occasion, and I dare say the offer was not as appealing as it is this day.” Tobias shoved a tumbler into Rowan’s hand and tapped his cheek in thought, his eyes rolling to stare at the ceiling. “I suppose the two of you can deny your attraction for one another, refuse to accept your mutual affection for Lord knows how long, and in the end—after months, possibly years of denying your hearts’ desire—come to finally wed. However, you’ve both wasted nearly eight years on this charade. If we know anything, it is that life is too short to wait for tomorrow.”
Marce felt Rowan’s heated stare on her as she focused on the sherry in her hands. Odd that neither had been startled to hear the other confirm their love.
“Perhaps Tobias is correct,” Marce mused.
“Of course, I am,” the earl scoffed.
“You truly love me?” Rowan asked, his voice deepening.
How was it easy for him to accept his love for her but not fathom that she could return the sentiment? Marce didn’t need to think on his question; however, a simple yes would not do. Rowan was a man who spoke only when he was certain of his words, arranging them in the perfect way as to embody his exact meaning.
Marce owed him the same.
When he shifted away from her, their arms no longer touching, Marce knew she needed to speak—and now, before Rowan receded once more, taking his heart and hiding it again.
“A part of me believes we have continued in this indeterminate state for so many years because I was fearful of lifting the mask you wore to keep me at arm’s length. I wanted to continue in my hatred of you, which kept my resolve strong, and allowed my need for survival to prevail. But in turn, I robbed us both of so many years of happiness—either together or finding love with another.”
“Together,” Tobias cut in. “Obviously, the correct answer here is together.”
“Not another word.” Rowan’s severe tone put an end to his friend’s commentary, and Tobias slunk from the room, gently closing the door behind him.
Setting her goblet aside, she reached forward, clasping Rowan’s hands, his fingers finding their new natural way of entwining.
“I was content to allow our continued association to fuel my hatred for my father.”
“But we must let the past go,” Marce sighed, “if we ever hope to find even a speck of the happiness we deserve.” Rowan shook his head, and Marce knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth to speak. “You deserve happiness, Rowan, of that I am certain.”
His stare searched hers for some magical answer that had eluded him all these years. “How can you look past all the hurt I’ve caused you?”
“It isn’t about looking past it—or forgetting—it is about assigning it a shade of grey, understanding why it happened, and moving forward.” With a small smile, she stepped closer to him and stared up into his green eyes. “I understand the many reasons you did what you did, and I can forgive you so I can move forward and discover the man beneath the pain…a man free of suffering.”
“How can you forgive me when I haven’t offered any apology?” He flinched slightly, but he held her stare. “I cannot forgive myself for everything I’ve put you through.”
“There are more ways to make amends beyond the spoken word,” Marce confided. “You followed me to London when you could have put me in your past and moved on. You allowed me to remain in my home when you had every right to toss me to the streets. You could have denied me the chance to return to Hadlow when word came about Leona, but you brought me with you without a second thought. All this says more than any string of apologies could.
“I know you love me, just as I am certain I love you.” Her heart shuddered when she spoke the word, fearful he would turn away, pull from her hold, and flee the room. “I cannot tell you when it happened—yesterday, a year ago, eight years ago—but it did, and if I know anything, it is that love is a precious thing.”
“A fleeting thing,” he continued.
“No matter how fleeting it may be, or capable of crippling a man, that does not mean we should allow it to pass us by.”
“What if I cannot stop from hurting you again?” he said on a breathless exhale. “What if my love fails—what if I fail? What if I cannot give you everything you desire and deserve?”
“If we do not try, we will never know.” It was she who released him and turned to walk toward the hearth. “The burden of regret at not seeing where our love will take us would be far more crushing than accepting and embracing our connection, knowing that one day it might lead us in different directions.”
Rowan stepped close to her back, his hands settling on her shoulders, squeezing gently as he caressed the tension away, his breath at her ear, the warmth of the fire on her face. For the briefest of moments, Marce allowed herself to believe that this was her future, that they could put the past behind them and find the happiness that had eluded them for so many years.
But she could not risk her own desperation overshadowing her judgment, turning Rowan’s words into something they weren’t, or hearing a promise he didn’t pledge.
“It appears there is only one thing left to say.” She heard anticipation and need in his tone and steeled herself for what was to come as she gazed into the fire. A single tear slipped down her cheek. “Lady Marce Davenport, will you do me the esteemed honor of becoming the Duchess of Harwich?”
She pivoted to face him, her bosom pressing against his chest as she gazed up at him, his green eyes deep pools of warmth as he held his breath, awaiting her reply. He brushed away the wayward tear.
“Are you certain?” Her heart stopped, refusing to beat even once more until she heard him speak.
“I’ve never been so certain of anything,” he replied.
“Yes, yes, I will wed you.” She threw her arms around his neck as his hands encircled her waist, drawing her ever closer.
When a loud burst of applause sounded from the far side of the closed study door, they both laughed.
But they quickly sobered as a seriousness descended.
Marce stared up at Rowan, suspecting that he saw the hesitancy in her eyes.
“My dearest Marce, I cannot promise that every moment to come will be happy, lighthearted and joyful, but I can pledge to love you every day we continue to draw breath. I will make mistakes, likely disappoint you in ways we cannot imagine, but I will not give up. I will keep making amends each day to prove my love for you, and to show you that there’s more to me than my resentment and hurt and that they do not consume me still.”
She made no attempt to staunch the flow of tears that cascaded down her cheeks. His vo
w—and her tears—washed away the past as if it had never happened. She’d lied when she said that she would never forget their transgressions because, in that moment, their slate was wiped clean.
No grey, no white, no black.
“Rowan Delconti, I love you with all my heart.” She rubbed at her eyes, clearing her blurred vision. “I love you in a way that scares me, which makes this all the more right.”
“You have always been a fierce woman,” he sighed, pressing his lips to her chin. “A strong, independent woman”—He kissed her nose—“a woman I should have recognized long ago was perfect for me.”
Marce couldn’t resist a moment longer as need coiled in her stomach, as heat pooled in her most sensitive areas.
Yes, they would tell the duchess what she’d longed to hear for many years, but first, Marce would show Rowan how much she loved him.
Epilogue
Rowan stood before his childhood home, staring up at its ancient Tudor facade and far-reaching wings as if seeing the structure for the first time—through the eyes of another. In this case, his betrothed’s four siblings and the twins’ spouses. Their delight and enchantment with Hadlow Estate was evident from the moment they turned onto the long drive leading from the main road to halt before the massive double doors.
“You could run a carriage and four through that door,” the tall, dark-haired, young woman—Payton—gushed, making Rowan smile in agreement. “You wouldn’t even scratch the edges, I dare say.”
“I can tell you that I have yet to try that, though I suppose my stable master would have my hide if I tried, not to mention what a grievous offense my butler would take to the action,” Rowan replied.
“I cannot imagine living in a place as grand as this,” one of the auburn-haired twins sighed.
Rowan could not, as yet, tell the pair—Jude and Sam—apart, except for when their husbands stood at their sides. Jude’s husband, Lord Cartwright, was a peculiar gentleman indeed, while Samantha’s husband was eccentric yet not beyond normal conversation.
“I was certain you would overlook missing the Stratford Academia gathering in Warwickshire for Marce’s nuptials.” There was no teasing tone in Lady Cartwright’s voice.
“You are correct, my dear wife,” Cartwright stepped next to the woman and wrapped his arm around her waist, answering Rowan’s question as to whom the sister was. “I relish the chance to examine the structural integrity of this monstrosity.”
“Thankfully, I was in need of a stay away from London,” Miss Payton chimed in again.
“Managed to amass another mound of gaming debts?” Lord Garrett poked at his youngest sibling. “I told Marce we should have confined you to a nunnery long ago.”
“Oh, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Miss Payton said, leaping away from her brother. “Because you cannot win a single hand when I am at the table.”
“A duchess,” Lady Ridgefield muttered. “I can hardly believe it.”
“That Marce is finally to wed, or that her title will outrank yours?” Lady Cartwright shot back with a grin.
“Girls!” The warning in Marce’s tone had the trio of women snapping their mouths shut. “I expect all of you to act accordingly, be polite, and do not, I repeat, do not cause even a breath of trouble. No horses in the house, no spouting ridiculous things about titles, and, by all that’s holy, no card games.”
“We promise,” the women said in unison; however, Rowan noted at least two of them had fingers crossed behind their backs.
The coming fortnight would prove eventful for more than just his marriage to Marce.
Rowan had spent the last several weeks acclimating to the new Marce he’d discovered. She was resilient beyond what he believed, and firm and in control when it came to her family, yet she was also the voice of reason amongst the group. Her siblings did more than obey her, they actually listened and heeded her advice.
Was this the self-assured woman his mother had known all these years? A woman he’d been blind to?
“Apologize to your sister, Garrett.” When Jude giggled at Marce’s admonishment, his betrothed turned her stern frown on her. “And you, Judith, apologize to Samantha.”
“I am having some financial troubles in town,” Payton admitted when Garrett offered his apology.
“And I am a mere marchioness, and Jude was correct, I am envious, dear sister,” Lady Ridgefield admitted.
“You are incorrigible, the lot of you,” Marce said with an exasperated exhale. “But you are mine, and so, I will forgive you all almost anything. However, I will not easily forget if you embarrass me before the duchess.”
“Go on inside and select your rooms. You have your choice of any suite in the west wing,” Rowan called as he pulled Marce to his side. Her siblings rushed past them and up the stairs, entering Hadlow with the excited nature of a group half their ages. “I truly cannot believe you are responsible for raising that lot.”
“How so?” Marce smiled up at him, and all he could think about was settling his lips on hers, carrying her up the stairs of Hadlow to the east wing free of guests, and laying her upon his bed. “Because they are a mismatched, wayward group?”
“No.” Rowan shook his head, for a moment thinking he had offended her. “Despite the hardships your family faced, they have all kept a certain innocence about them.”
“Perhaps I kept them from witnessing the cruelty of the world—” She paused, her smile broadening, making his heart twist. “Though that means they missed some of the best of things, as well.”
“Like what?” He couldn’t help but ask, his breath hitching in his chest as he awaited her answer, though he knew what she would say. She’d been repeating it for many months now, as if he’d ever forget what she tried every day to make him believe.
That he deserved happiness.
“You.” She rose to her tiptoes and kissed him, her mouth leaving his far too soon.
“I think I was solidly on the cruel side of things,” he mumbled, leaning close to claim her lips once more, but when she pulled away he asked, “You cannot disagree with that?”
“Shades of grey, Rowan,” she chastised.
“The only shade of grey I long to see is the dove-colored gown my mother had made for the wedding. You know what I speak of”—He wagged his brows—“the dress with the white lace trim and flowing skirt.”
“You saw my dress? I haven’t even seen it yet!” She swatted at his chest as the sound of laughter floated from the manor. Marce’s siblings burst back into the afternoon sunlight before rushing around the side of the house. “My heavens. What are they doing?”
When she made to turn and stalk after her siblings, Rowan placed a light hand on her elbow to halt her. She glanced back at him, and he nodded toward the doors. Crossing the threshold was Tobias with Rowan’s mother on his arm.
“My son,” the duchess called with a wave, her smile beaming brighter than the sun above. “And my dear, dear Marce. You have finally arrived. I fear I sent the children round back to find their gifts.”
“They aren’t children, Mother,” Rowan said with a deep chuckle, offering his arm to Marce before starting toward the door. “Lady Cartwright and Lady Ridgefeld are long married.”
“Do not even attempt to spoil my fun, Rowan,” the duchess chastised. “There were only so many gifts I could give you when you were young. But now, I find I have many more children to bestow gifts upon. Besides, it is only one horse.”
“Per sibling,” Tobias said, assisting Leona down the steps.
“Oh, Your Grace, that is far too generous,” Marce gushed. “Whatever will we do with all of them?”
“They can be brought to London, or perhaps your new home on the neighboring estate; however, I would be delighted if they remained at Hadlow. It will bring your family here often to help care for them.”
His mother’s triumphant grin had them all laughing, and Rowan would not be the one to correct his mother’s thinking. The wayward bunch he’d first spied through the
front window of Craven House was all grown up, adults in their own right.
“It is good to have you home,” the duchess said as Marce stepped forward to embrace her, Rowan following suit.
“It is wonderful to be home.” It had been many years since Rowan felt at peace anywhere, especially at Haldow. “That Lady Marce will soon be my wife only makes this day and every one to follow very special.”
“Lord Cresthaven, my dear, I think I should return inside and see to tea.” His mother patted Tobias’s arm, and the pair turned back toward the house, leaving Rowan and Marce alone.
“Horses, Rowan.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes wide. “Did you know anything about this?”
He shook his head, though he expected nothing less of his mother. “She once procured a true magician for my birthday surprise. Oh, and one year, at Christmastide, she had the entire house transformed into a winter wonderland, all because the year was unseasonably warm and she wanted to wake up to a white Christmas morning. Unfortunately, the paper she had brought in from London had a certain grey hue to it.”
“Shades of grey!” They both laughed in unison.
“There is one thing that is not grey, Rowan,” Marce said, her laughter falling away. “My love for you. It will not vary or waver. That much I can promise you.”
Without another thought, Rowan drew her into his arms, lifting her from the ground and swinging her in a wide circle. As she threw back her head and giggled with utter abandon, Rowan knew, without a doubt, that he would dedicate the rest of his life to seeing Marce smile. She deserved more than mere contentment. She merited a life brimming with joy, happiness, and absolute pleasure.
The Madame Catches Her Duke Page 25
