The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3)

by Christina McKnight

  But…she’d wanted him to remain.

  And when he stepped forward and kissed her, her entire body had rejoiced, though she suspected a need already within her had been awoken by his touch.

  Though her body had betrayed her, her mind—and her heart—had not. No, her reason would never stray in such a manner.

  Pivoting, Marce stalked toward the hearth, its coals grown ashy, grey, and cold; however, if a chill had invaded her room, it hadn’t sunk through the long sleeves of her night shift yet.

  If she were wise, she’d gather her things, stuff them into her traveling trunk, and depart with all due haste. Return to London, arriving not long after midday, and remove her possessions from Craven House before Rowan arrived to banish her for good. Or would he send a magistrate with the appropriate paperwork?

  Rowan didn’t appear the type to muddy his hands with such trivial things. Peculiar that something as inconsequential as a house to Rowan, used to be the difference between life and certain death for Marce and her family. Blessedly, she’d seen to those issues and made certain the loss of her family home would not mean the end for her.

  If Rowan changed his mind and refused her transport to London, she would summon a carriage on her own. Certainly, the servants would not deny her request.

  There was nothing left for Marce at Hadlow—had never been anything lasting for her at the duke’s estate. Rowan thought her nothing but a common whore. Though she did not sell her body, he was correct in a way. She’d done far worse by selling her soul. Part of her wondered if she would have given herself to another to save her family if it had come down to it. Without a doubt, Marce would have given her entire being to protect and care for her siblings. She was not foolish enough to think otherwise.

  They’d had that brief time after her father’s death when it had only been her mother and her brother, Garrrett, and they’d been cast out of their home by her father’s heir, her half-brother. It was no secret that he’d always despised his father’s second wife and the two children who’d come from their union, but to throw his blooded siblings from their home with no recourse or funds was incomprehensible. Until her dying breath, Marce would never forgive Benton for it.

  Marce closed her eyes, begging the horrible memories to stay buried. It had been years since she’d been cut low by Benton’s cruel actions. Yet, visions from that fretful night smashed into her conscious mind. The horrid argument between her mother and half-brother—words such as strumpet, harlot, and nouveau riche flung about from her sibling while Sasha hurled her own insults in return: pompous ass, ungrateful swine, and unhinged, deranged lunatic.

  All things Marce’s seven-year-old self hadn’t understood; however, she’d been wise enough to know that with each word leveled, the divide between her mother and the new Lord Buckston grew.

  It hadn’t been until Benton accused Marce and Garrett of being bastards, born of an affair, Marce had turned into a wild-eyed madcap. She’d waited until her mother fled the room in tears before slipping in to give her brother—a man she’d thought highly of only a few days before—a piece of her mind and went at him, claws bared like a wild hellion cat. She yelled, berated, and mauled him.

  She remembered that night as if it were yesterday: the way the expensive wax candles adorned her father’s study, how her fingers had ached and her nails had bled after her unrelenting assault, and the manner in which her head had cracked against the wooden leg of the lounge when her half-brother had nearly thrown her across the room to escape to his own chambers.

  She’d felt a measure of satisfaction as she lay on the floor listening to Benton flee through the house—as only the innocent, misguided mind of a child could.

  The next morning, she’d been greeted by her mother and called to ready herself with all due haste, and told to collect only things she could carry in the pockets of her pinafore, essentials she deemed absolutely necessary.

  They’d been cast from their home at Buckston townhouse an hour later.

  The guilt and remorse from that night had stayed with Marce all these years. She’d been the reason her mother was thrown from her home—and that expulsion was not something she ever wanted her younger siblings to experience.

  The horror of that night was only overshadowed by the evening the Duke of Harwich had come to collect on the debt owed to his family.

  Both had altered Marce’s view of any man who sought her out. Motives and the means to control her…that was what Benton and Rowan had in common, though never had the duke so much as placed a hand on her or raised his voice at her, unlike her unscrupulous brother.

  Until the previous night.

  She was unsure if his actions were out of line with his normal behaviors because, beyond their infrequent trips to Hadlow, Marce did not know the man on a personal level. He could be an abuser of women for all she knew, but she’d never heard rumors to that effect. He could be accustomed to shouting to attain what he wanted, yet who would do business with a lord that acted as such? She shook her head, dispelling her naïve thoughts.

  Despite all that, or likely because of it, Marce had been adamant about never speaking of her past with Rowan.

  What if he were a cruel man and thought Benton’s actions justified—or worse yet, warranted?

  Marce had once been an ignorant, guileless child, but she hadn’t been that in many, many years.

  Chapter 16

  A draft traveled down the deserted hallway, sneaking past Rowan’s expertly tied cravat and sending goose pimples down his arms. The chilly, moist breeze could set further illness upon his mother, settle in her lungs, and cause even more coughing fits. He’d speak with Pelton about his grievance as soon as he had a moment to himself, and after the entire wing was checked for deficiencies that allowed the cold winter air in. Every windowpane and doorframe would need to be reinforced and sealed.

  Damnation. He shouldn’t have anything more troubling to tend to than his mother’s health and well-being; yet, here he was, loitering outside her private chambers and waiting for Marce to appear. He could have waited downstairs or outside her quarters, but Rowan was terrified of what the women spoke of. There was no doubt that Marce was saying her goodbyes, making an excuse to depart Hadlow; however, he also feared she’d let slip mention of their farce.

  He needed to be close at hand when it happened to soften the blow for his mother.

  Rowan had never wanted to lie to the duchess. He cared for her more than he cared for his own well-being. That was not true…he’d lied by omission when he discovered his father’s infidelities. And he’d outright lied when he introduced Marce as his wife and duchess.

  Ever since that day, he’d feared this moment. Even though a part of him never thought it would come to this—the time when his deceptions would be brought to light and his mother would no longer cherish him.

  The duchess had been ill for so many years…

  He’d wanted his charade with Marce to be over years prior, but not at the expense of losing his mother’s love. Her disappointment would crush him.

  Rowan stepped closer to the door and listened for any sound that suggested their meeting was coming to an end. What did he expect to hear? Sobbing? Laughter? Raised voices?

  Anything would be welcome after his extensive wait in the hall without anything to occupy him but his thoughts.

  Only during the dark hours of night had he come to the realization that his mother discovering his deception was a good thing. And when he made the discovery, he’d instantly felt an immense burden lift from his stooped shoulders. No more would he be an actor in his home and around his own mother. He could just…be.

  That would mean letting Marce go while he remained to pick up the pieces and reassemble the splintered remnants of his life. With surety, Rowan would let her go. No man owned a woman so wholly as to keep her against her will. Not even he could be so cruel, despite all the harsh words he’d hurled at her the previous day.

  Had his father felt similarly? Had he lived in
fear every day that his betrayals would be discovered by his wife and son? How had it weighed so little on him as it dragged Rowan so low? While Rowan prided himself on not being his father’s son, he had perpetuated his father’s sins. An outsider would have a difficult time distinguishing between the two men.

  Rowan had a difficult time believing his father would have felt any remorse for injuring his family and tarnishing their good name. Not that the Harwich dukedom was even remotely as important to Rowan as his mother.

  Finally, Rowan heard the door between his mother’s drawing room and her bedchamber open. Two voices mingled together as Marce and the duchess moved closer to him, though the solid, closed door kept his presence hidden.

  “…you will tell them I send my kindest regards?” his mother’s raspy tone said.

  “Of course, Your Grace. And I will certainly write while away,” Marce’s melodic voice chimed in. “But you must promise me you will rest—” His mother must have nodded agreement, but Marce continued. “Very good. And do not venture into the garden until the weather has warmed considerably. Oh, and make sure Pearl accompanies you.”

  “Of course, my child, of course.”

  Remorse pulled at his stomach upon hearing his mother’s affectionate, playful tone.

  “I cannot apologize enough for having to hurry off before the duke and I had planned to depart; however, Payton’s letter said it was urgent, and I must not tarry. I needs must return home immediately.” Marce paused, and Rowan imagined the two women embracing. “Rowan will remain here until it is time for us to leave for another business venture.”

  “Are you certain his presence is not also needed in London?”

  “Oh, I can handle matters with my siblings, Your Grace,” Marce countered.

  Yes, Marce would certainly offer any reason for him to remain at Hadlow and not follow her back to town.

  Following her to London was certainly not something Rowan wanted to do, but lingering at his estate seemed a fate worse than the aforementioned journey. To grovel at Marce’s feet, to cast himself on her mercy would only hurt more when she denied him even a speck of forgiveness. Clemency Rowan had done nothing to earn.

  “Again, I am exceedingly sorry for cutting my stay short.”

  “Mayhap I can journey to London with you during the warmer months,” his mother prodded as the women’s footsteps came closer to the door. The duchess’s steps were punctuated by the thump of her cane. “It has been years, and I have yet to make the acquaintance of any of your family, dear.”

  Rowan leaned closer, placing his ear against the door, enthralled by the conversation. His mother had never questioned him about Marce’s family or stated her desire to meet them. It was most peculiar. He’d thought she wasn’t interested in them, or that Marce had spoken of them being away at boarding school or some such nonsense. Yet, that did not answer the question of why they never visited around the holidays or spent their summers at Hadlow.

  “I think Rowan and I would adore your presence in London, though we need to gain the physician’s approval before we even so much as think of arranging the trip.”

  Rowan leapt back when the latch groaned as someone—likely Marce—grasped the handle to open the door. Nervously, he glanced up and down the empty corridor. Waiting outside his mother’s room had been a mistake, a folly of epic proportions.

  He would either look the desperate fool or like a perverse stalker.

  Neither would reflect well on him.

  Perhaps he could pretend as if he weren’t arriving at his mother’s room and only using the hall on his way to a different location within Hadlow.

  Utter rubbish.

  Anyone who resided at the estate knew the hall led to one of two places—the duchess’s private chambers or the room of her companion, Miss Pearl.

  He certainly was not seeking out the elderly woman who’d chosen a life of servitude to his mother over marriage and a family of her own.

  His decision was clear—as crystalline as the blue of Marce’s eyes.

  He was in the west wing to see his mother. That Marce was departing her room—and that he and Marce had argued and kissed recently—was merely an unfortunate coincidence. As the lord of the manor, Rowan had every right to be where he stood and to visit the woman within the quarters beyond.

  Whether that meant Marce or the duchess…it was better if no one asked.

  Chapter 17

  Marce backed out of the duchess’s private drawing room, her smiling gaze never leaving Leona as she pulled the door closed. If this were to be the final memory between them, Marce wanted the duchess to remember her in a happy light—smiles and waves with laughter not far below the surface. And Marce’s memories of the matronly mother figure would include fond moments of cherished conversation, something about important goings-on in the world, and other more frivolous topics such as the village butcher’s plan to expand to baking.

  Her hand remained on the latch for several moments. Attempting to compose herself before traveling back to her own room, Marce swiped a tear from her cheek.

  The last hour had been the hardest of her life—far more gut-wrenching than putting her mother to rest. Certainly more arduous than raising four siblings. More difficult even than controlling a room brimming with London lords in the midst of a heated game of vingt-et-un.

  They sat and talked, enjoyed Leona’s favored orange-spiced tea, and discussed the future.

  A future Marce would not be a part of.

  Leona would not come to London come warmer weather and spend hot summer nights at Covent Gardens. Come Christmastide, Marce would not travel to Hadlow Estate with her siblings and their spouses. There would be no sleigh rides in the open field between Cresthaven and the Harwich property. No days spent in the kitchen baking pies and making custards to be taken to the villagers for the new year.

  What hurt most, was that Marce desperately longed to be a part of everything they’d spoken of. In her heart, she knew her siblings would be better for knowing the duchess. But how did one explain their connection? She’d been careful all these years to never mention Rowan or his mother to her family. Garrett suspected there was a debt Marce owed, but she’d been able to keep him unaware of the depth of the deception by blaming Payton’s gambling. It was wrong to cast fault on their youngest sibling, but what choice did she have? Besides, the girl had amounted a sizeable gaming debt, thought it was nowhere near the grand total she owed Rowan.

  There wasn’t time to dwell on any of this now, however. Perhaps in a few months, when she’d found her new home and sat alone before her hearth or in her garden, Marce would examine all her flaws, scrutinize what alternate course would have better served her, and determine if she would ever speak of it to anyone, including her siblings.

  For now, enough with the pity.

  Marce wasn’t deserving of the emotion, even her own.

  There was much to do if she hoped to reach London before nightfall, though the task of departing Hadlow without a commotion might prove problematic.

  A draft cascaded down the hall, bringing with it the aroma of vetiver, earthy and virile. It was the favored cologne about town, yet Marce hadn’t remembered the scent at Hadlow. The shuffling of muted footsteps had Marce turning toward the shadows farther down the abandoned corridor.

  The hall was not as deserted as she’d thought.

  She’d expected to see Pearl or possibly another servant lurking in the darkened recesses, but the sheer width of the man’s shoulders and extreme height left only one option as to who was silently observing her.

  Rowan.

  Standing in the hall outside Leona’s private chambers was not the ideal location for another of their arguments. And Marce was not prepared to remain frozen as he hurled more insults at her. Their arrangement was over. She owed him nothing, for she had nothing left to give. He’d single-handedly stripped her of not only her home and livelihood but also her dignity when he insinuated that she was nothing but a whore—a trollop who wa
s not above conducting business at Hadlow.

  Marce tensed as he continued to stare at her from the shadows but made no move to speak. Standing in the glow of the single wall sconce, she felt completely naked to his glare.

  Their silent standoff could not last long for Pearl would return to her mistress at any moment. Finding Rowan and Marce in a heated battle in the hall would cause no small amount of gossip, even though the woman was privy to their deception. Would Pearl speak out, if only to cast blame on Marce after she’d departed Hadlow? Would anyone remember her come next spring, or would she fade from memory with only murmurs of forgotten times—a period when Rowan passed a brothel proprietress off as his duchess?

  For what seemed like the millionth time, Marce told herself she did not care. She was not responsible for the mess they were embroiled in. That lay at Rowan’s feet. If they remembered her with fondness didn’t matter either, for she’d be long gone and far away from any gossip that might traverse the many halls of Hadlow Estate. She also reminded herself that these people didn’t truly know her. They knew nothing of her struggles or her fears.

  No one—besides Leona and Tobias—had ever sought to learn anything about her.

  She would be leaving Hadlow as she’d arrived all those years ago: an unknown.

  Rowan hadn’t known her the day he arrived at Craven House, and he still did not. Perhaps that was favorable. If he knew her deep longings, her unbidden desires, and her unending need to prevail over her past, leaving Kent would be far more difficult.

  Lifting her chin, Marce pushed a stray curl back over her shoulder as she turned and headed toward her room—away from Rowan.

  There was nothing left for him to hold over her. He could not convince her to stay and play the part of his wife any longer. Her home was gone, her means for supporting her family along with it, and her willingness to be ordered about by this man was at an end.

  She was free—or she would be as soon as she escaped through the front doors of the duke’s estate.