The Madame Catches Her Duke (Craven House Book 3)

by Christina McKnight

  “It was my doing, Mother.” Rowan’s head lowered in shame, unable to meet her eyes and see her disappointment written so clearly across her face. “Marce had naught to do with anything. I forced her to accept—”

  “You most certainly did not force me.” Marce stood, turning her glare on him. “I was well aware of my options. You forced me into nothing.”

  “That is my girl,” his mother thundered, slapping her palm onto the padded bed at her side. “It is an utter shame that it took so long for the two of you to wise up and see that you belong together.”

  “Mother, are you saying you knew Madame Sasha?” Rowan demanded.

  “Not exactly. I was acquainted with Lady Buckston before her husband died and that rascal of a son, Benton, threw Sasha and her children to the streets.”

  “Oh, dear,” Miss Pearl mumbled, exiting the room and pulling the door closed behind her.

  “Lovely woman with the cutest pair of fair-haired youngsters hanging on her skirts.” His mother looked at the hearth, a faraway look entering her eyes. “It was such a shame—and a scandal.”

  Rowan reached out for Marce’s hand when she fell back into her chair. “You knew my mother?”

  “I more than knew her. I sent my husband round to find her and set her up in a suitable house as soon as I heard what that stepson of hers did. Imagine, casting a widow and her children to the streets during her time of mourning.”

  The duchess sniffed, shaking her head in sorrow.

  “The duke knew my mother all those years?” Marce asked in a breathless whisper.

  Rowan was stunned into muted silence, unable to gather words, let alone his thoughts.

  “Yes, though they did not fall in love until many years later.”

  His mother’s words, spoken with such soft affection, were like a shocking punch to Rowan’s gut. Everything he’d believed the last nearly fifteen years, every torturous moment of vengeance he’d spent years imagining and seeking, every day he’d lived with the need to avenge his father’s betrayal of his family, every trip to Hadlow that he’d lied to his mother…it had all been for nothing.

  Chapter 29

  “Love?” Rowan tightened his grip on Marce’s hand until it fairly hurt from the pressure.

  “Do not be dense, Rowan,” the duchess scolded. “They would not have continued on for so many years had it not been for love.”

  Marce was torn between fleeing the room and remaining frozen in her seat, listening with rapt attention to every word Leona uttered. “You never breathed a word about knowing my mother.”

  It was the words that came from her mouth, but Marce dwelled on something entirely different. Her mother had been in love. True, unconditional love.

  Leona gave her a weak smile, then coughed several times before blotting her mouth with her kerchief and continuing. “We—Julian, Sasha, and I—thought it best to keep it between the three of us if you and Rowan were ever to meet. Misguidedly, we assumed that day would never come.”

  “Father’s infidelities,” Rowan seethed. “You knew of his betrayal? For how long?”

  “Come now, my son,” the duchess sighed. “It is not a secret that your father and I were an arranged pair and that my illness prevented me from being the wife I should have been to him. We loved one another, had an affection that most couples of our time did not know, but we were never in love. It was simply not our fate.”

  “And so Father abandoned you and found another.”

  “Nothing is that simple or uncomplicated, as you well know.” Leona admonished her son and glanced back at Marce. She was startled to see the kindness hadn’t left the duchess’s eyes. “After you were born—and we lost several other babes—Julian was distraught. He feared losing me and having to raise you alone. And so, with an heir begotten, I gave him his freedom. You were a strong, sensible lad, and we had no need for a spare.”

  “You allowed him to abandon us?” Fury laced Rowan’s tone, aimed at whom exactly, Marce was uncertain.

  “No.” The duchess shook her head vehemently. “No, I gave him leave to find true love. That it was with Sasha, a woman I admired greatly, was favorable…and preferred. I knew if I passed, she would be kind and loving to you, Rowan; however, I am here, and they are both gone.”

  Marce concentrated on every word, the memories of those long-ago times when the duke arrived at Craven House with sweet treats for her and her siblings and a kiss for her mother coming to the forefront of her mind. They’d been in love. It was different than it was with any man Sasha had taken up with prior.

  In some deep place within, Marce had known.

  “Just because we were not in love with each other, did not mean Julian was destined to live a life without.”

  “But what of you, Mother?” Rowan’s voice broke.

  “What about me?” Leona demanded.

  “What did you gain by allowing him to stray?”

  “I had everything I ever wanted here at Hadlow. A healthy, handsome, attentive son, and a husband who was happy, even if I wasn’t the one to give him that.”

  “He wasn’t here when you nearly died…when the twins came.”

  “Neither your father nor I could have predicted that the babes would come that night.” A hooded, sorrowful darkness passed across the duchess’s face. “The little girls would have been another gift for me, from a man I could never bring complete happiness to. However, even after all our years together, he still wanted me to find my own contentment.”

  Marce couldn’t help but think that she was privy to a conversation that was meant to be private between a mother and her son. “I should allow you two to converse privately.”

  She made to stand, but Rowan held fast to her hand.

  “Don’t go.” He didn’t take his eyes off his mother as he spoke.

  There was much she knew he didn’t say, though the words hung heavily in the air all the same.

  This involves both of us.

  I cannot listen to this alone.

  Remain at my side, even though I don’t deserve you.

  Marce settled back in her seat, prepared to listen to the rest of the story—her mother’s love story. She’d been present for it all, but she hadn’t realized what was happening around her. Perhaps it was her young age, or the fact that her mother hid it from her children out of fear that it would end like the rest of her relationships had—Marce’s father, Sam and Jude’s father, and Payton’s father. In one way or another, they’d all abandoned Sasha. One to death, one to marriage to a more suitable lady, and one to his own demons. But Julian had remained by Sasha’s side until her passing.

  “When Rowan arrived shortly after Julian died—with you in tow, Marce—I could not fathom how the pair of you knew one another. I held my breath, waiting for you to confront me about the past. But, instead, you announced that you were a wedded couple.” Leona paused, scrutinizing Marce’s every feature. “My dear, you looked just like your mother did all those years ago when we were both young. And so, I decided it was my duty to love you as if you were my own. I truly wanted to accept you as family—the woman my dear, beloved son had chosen to spend his life with.”

  Blinking rapidly, Marce pleaded with her vision to clear and the tears to remain unshed.

  “But if you knew we were lying about our marriage, why did you not speak of it?” Marce asked.

  “I wasn’t certain what the pair of you were up to; however, I was sure that you could be a true love match if you were only given time to discover it for yourselves. And I was correct.”

  The duchess grinned smugly as if she were privy to a secret that Rowan and Marce hadn’t yet uncovered.

  Rowan shook his head. “But we are not suited at all, as evidenced by the fight you overheard.”

  Marce’s stomach twisted in pain at Rowan’s refusal of their connection, newly discovered or not.

  “Oh, my boy. And here I thought you were a bright man.” Leona chuckled. “I can see I was mistaken.”

  His chest p
uffed at this mother’s slight, seemingly affronted.

  Perhaps Marce had also misinterpreted the mutual affection and passion they’d discovered together at Tobias’s townhouse the night before. Tugging her hand from his hold, their fingers unwound, and she folded her arms across her chest.

  “So, you did not spend last night in one another’s arms at Lord Cresthaven’s townhouse?”

  “How do you know—?”

  “What is the meaning of all this, Mother?”

  Marce’s cheeks flamed with heat at Leona’s question.

  “Tobias couldn’t ride for Hadlow fast enough after witnessing Rowan carrying you up the stairs, dear girl.” The duchess’s eyes were alight with mischief. “Tobias and I have been scheming for years to try and get the two of you to realize how perfect you are together. Did you think our dinner party, or Tobias’s afternoon ride with Marce, was all my doing? After our plan to incite my son’s jealous streak went horribly wrong, we knew we needed to re-work our course of action.”

  “I accused Tobias—my best friend—of carrying on with my wife…and that was your plan?”

  “We were out of options, and my illness has grown progressively worse. If I planned to see the pair of you truly wed before I succumbed, it had to be now,” Leona retorted, shrugging her shoulders in her defense. “Tobias suspected that Marce was past ready to end your arrangement, and then she would be gone, out of reach. And what if her funds ran out? My dear girl, you help too many women to give up Craven House.”

  “Help women?” Rowan turned to her, the shock evident in his wide-eyed stare.

  “Boy, you are as dense as your father once was,” Leona sighed. “Marce uses her home as a sanctuary for battered women.”

  “No.” Rowan ran his fingers through his hair. “Everyone in London knows Craven House is a brothel. My father, and countless other gentlemen of the ton, have sought those hallowed halls for all sorts of sordid pleasures.”

  It was a punch to Marce’s pride that she hadn’t expected. His callous words stung, though they were no more than many had spoken in the past.

  “Can you name one man—of your acquaintance—who visits Craven House for illicit dealings?” Leona inquired.

  Rowan remained silent, likely pondering the question.

  “Have you noted any men coming and going from the house during your nighttime escapades in London?” the duchess prodded. “Hmmm? I thought not.”

  “Nighttime escapades?” Marce wasn’t certain she wanted to know what Leona spoke of.

  “I was worried about you,” Rowan grunted. “But what is a far more pertinent question is why my mother has been keeping such close tabs on me—us? With Tobias’ help, no less.”

  They were five simple words—I was worried about you.

  “No one has worried over me…ever.” Marce swallowed to keep her voice from cracking. “What were you worried about? I have had many years of experience caring for myself and my family.”

  “You said you were leaving London, that I shouldn’t fret about you any longer.” He stared at her across the mere inches that separated them, the dim lighting causing his green eyes to glow in the low light. “All I’ve done over the last eight years is fret over you. Not always for the same reasons”—He sighed—“but not a day has passed where I wasn’t worried.”

  “Yet, you’ve kept your distance?” she asked.

  “That is what you wanted…what our arrangement entailed.”

  After their night together, it was unlikely that Marce would ever view their arrangement in such a manner, nor could she fathom how they had gone so many years without discovering the passion that lay between them. He’d started a flame within her that Marce never dreamed could be sparked, let alone stoked to a burning, uncontrollable need.

  Nevertheless, she would not allow herself to believe that their night together meant anything more than what it had been: one night of passion to see her through the many lonely years ahead.

  “Perhaps it is I who should give you two a bit of privacy.” When they both turned toward the duchess as she began to fuss with her blankets, a coy smile drew her lips upward.

  “No,” they protested in unison, both fearing she’d attempt to rise from her sickbed.

  A knock sounded on the door, and Marce leaned forward to rearrange the duchess’s coverings.

  “That must be the physician.” Rowan stood, nodding to Marce to do the same.

  “Enter,” Leona called, her tone stronger than Marce had heard it in some time.

  The door opened, and Pearl shuffled into the room with the Hadlow physician a step behind.

  “We will allow the doctor to attend to you.” Rowan gave the duchess a curt bow before pivoting and stalking from the room.

  “I will have a meal prepared and delivered.” Marce smiled, needing time alone to think through everything she’d learned—about her mother, Julian, Rowan, the duchess…and especially, herself. “Duck soup and fresh bread.”

  “That would be delightful, my girl.” Leona settled against the pillows at her back and slipped her hands under the covers. “If you will do me a favor.”

  Marce glanced over her shoulder when Leona motioned for her to lean close. Pearl and the physician were nearly upon them now.

  “Yes, anything.”

  “Take care of Rowan,” Leona whispered hoarsely. “He does not understand what happened all those years ago. I fear life is very black and white to him. We both know that in the varying shades of grey is where a person truly finds who they are and what they want from this life.”

  Marce nodded several times before turning and fleeing from the room, without so much as a simple greeting for Pearl. Did she know what Leona spoke of? Never had Marce’s life been black and white. No decision she’d ever made had been clear and unquestionable. How had she never realized she lived in that grey area, and Rowan saw things as black and white? Not right and wrong, certainly, because what had transpired in their past hadn’t been so easy for either of them to accept.

  Once in the deserted corridor, the door to Leona’s private chambers closed at her back, Marce leaned her head against the cold wood. The duchess was correct. She’d always lived her life in the sliver of grey—that space between black and white. Nothing was ever as it appeared with her family. Hardly anyone made the connection between Marce and who she truly was, the daughter of a marquess. No one suspected that her younger sister, Judith, was a reformed thief. It had been impossible for Rowan to consider that Craven House was not what it appeared.

  All these years, and Marce had never taken steps to correct anyone’s thinking either.

  Yes, Leona was correct. She thrived in those varying shades of grey, while Rowan lived his life believing only in black and white.

  He’d witnessed his father with another woman, therefore assumed his father guilty of the most awful betrayal.

  He’d heard rumors of Craven House’s famed legacy as a notorious London brothel and sought no further information, just condemned the house as such.

  He’d made assumptions based on what he thought to be true without discovering the varying shades of reality firsthand.

  …and Leona assumed she could show him his misguided views?

  Marce hadn’t had time to discover the multitude of grey coloring her life, how was she ever to explain it all to Rowan?

  Chapter 30

  Rowan halted near his desk in the study when he heard Marce’s footsteps approach and pause outside the door he’d left open, waiting for her arrival. He knew with a certainty he felt to his very bones that Marce would come to him—be it several hours or mere minutes after she left the duchess’s private chamber.

  Even he could not have imagined it would be less than the time it took to pace the room several times and decide on pouring a drink while he waited.

  There were many questions left unanswered, for both of them.

  Diving into the abyss surrounding his father’s love affair with Sasha Davenport—with his mother’s blessi
ng—was something Rowan was not ready to do at this point. Perhaps he would never be ready, and his need to continue nurturing his fury was something he’d simply need accept. It was his fate…to hold a candle of resentment for his father. Even if he discovered that wasn’t true, he would need time to change, time to accept everything his mother had confessed. He wanted to believe that he was capable of more than simple fury and resentment, that the old wound could be healed with the correct amount of time and the right person by his side.

  He glanced at the sideboard and then back at the open door. Marce was just out of sight, but he could hear her heavy breathing, could nearly feel the beat of her heart racing as she hesitated. He knew she probably wondered if she should enter the room and face Rowan or continue on to her chambers. Perhaps she pondered departing Hadlow altogether.

  She’d done it once, and Rowan suspected she was likely to do so again.

  He’d treated her horribly and thought the worst of her on many occasions.

  Everything he’d lived his life believing for the last fifteen years was false. Not just untrue, but blatantly wrong.

  His animosity toward his father. His protectiveness of his mother. His horrid transgressions against Marce.

  Everything he’d based his life around was a lie.

  He’d deceived because he thought he’d been deceived.

  He treated others with careless regard for their feelings because he thought they had done the same to him.

  Possibly his worst transgression was allowing himself to think one way without question. He’d never figured himself for a sheep, easily misguided in his beliefs. Yet, here he was, discovering only now how so many things in his life were not as they appeared. Why had it taken his mother being on her deathbed—and a passion-filled night in Marce’s arms—to realize he lived with a blindfold blocking his sight?

  His breath hitched in his throat at the thought of everything he’d missed. He’d set his mind against a proper marriage and family because he feared following the same path as his treacherous father.