Chapter 3
Marce resisted the urge to examine the Duke of Harwich; however, her body—and mind—betrayed her better instincts.
Every time they traveled thusly, she wondered what it would be like if they hadn’t met under the circumstances they had.
Would she relinquish her seat and take the place next to him?
Brush her leg against his as their coach sped along the uneven roads?
There were few occasions when he did not appear churlish and aloof, preferring to keep silent during their carriage rides to Hadlow.
Normally, his pensive silence didn’t bother her; in fact, it suited her as much as it obviously suited him.
However, with her decision now made and her nervousness getting the best of her, Marce would have been agreeable to a spot of conversation.
As a compromise to her treacherous thoughts, she kept her body positioned toward the side of the carriage but allowed herself to take in the man from the corner of her eye.
His hair had grown in length since their last time together…
and even now, she noted his skin had lost its summer glow from too many months spent indoors due to the inclement weather.
His chartreuse eyes, the shade lingering unnaturally somewhere between yellow and green depending on the light, seemed less focused than usual. As did his despondent mood.
If Marce held any concern for Rowan, she might ask if all was as it should be.
Thankfully, despite their many years of acquaintance, she had suppressed all feelings for the man apart from pity. Or, at least, she reminded herself of this during the brief times they were alone together.
Her view of him and his demeanor should border on apathy, as his for her obviously did.
Though any man who needed to force a woman to act as his wife to appease his mother was certainly one to feel an immense amount of pity for—and no small amount of curiosity—not affection.
However, Marce did not question his motives and, in turn, he did not delve into her life outside of their bargain.
“My apologies for my tardiness, Your Grace,” Marce said, breaking the silence that had settled since Rowan took his seat, and the coach started their hour-long journey to Hadlow Estate.
An apology—or explanation—was not necessary; however, she felt driven to give one.
Patting the brown-paper-wrapped book on the seat beside her, she continued, “A gift for the duchess. I was not expecting your summons for another few weeks, so I hadn’t yet picked up the purchase. ”
“Very kind of you.” The duke eyed the package, and Marce suspected he wanted to inquire as to its contents. “I am certain my mother will enjoy whatever you present her with.”
Marce set her hand on the book—an illustrated exposé on the Swiss Alps—and allowed the discord that’d haunted her since she made the decision to end their arrangement settle heavily upon her.
She would not miss the silent, brooding, arrogant lord who sat across from her, his dour demeanor overshadowing his strikingly handsome looks. How could she?
She and the duke had never grown an association or familiarity one would miss when gone.
The duchess, Lady Harwich—Leona—was another matter entirely.
The older woman was kind, compassionate, and a superior listener, despite her illness-ridden body.
Leona was tall and lean with silken black hair shot through with grey, and green eyes that, for some reason, suited her but were intense and a bit startling on Rowan.
The duchess and Marce had gained a quick and companionable friendship following Marce’s first visit, though it had taken nearly two years for Marce to understand why.
Not that Rowan ever spoke of his mother’s ailment beyond what was socially acceptable. Nor did he talk about the nightmares that lay in their past.
With time, Leona had opened up to Marce, and in return, Marce did the same with the duchess…as much as was allowed by the duke. A shame the same occurrence hadn’t come to pass between Rowan and herself.
“How does the duchess fair?” she asked, not because it was necessary but because it was expected.
Rowan’s mother wrote Marce often by way of the Harwich solicitor in London, who forwarded all correspondence to the wedded couple wherever they happened to be traveling.
It was the lark they presented to explain their absence from Hadlow for most of the year.
Rowan traveled, meeting with gentlemen across England and Scotland to discuss investments.
That was the knowledge Marce was aware of surrounding his daily endeavors anyway, and he’d never given her cause to question him—in that regard, at least. Marce, being the loving, devoted wife, was called on and expected to travel with him. Or so others were led to believe.
His stare snapped to hers as he drummed his fingers on the sill of the carriage window. “As well as can be expected, or so I’ve been informed.”
Expectations. There were many things expected of Marce…and those around her. What would it feel like to brush them all aside and do the unexpected?
“And where have we journeyed since we last visited Hadlow?” Again, their usual and expected conversation on the hour-long ride to his family estate, and Marce was glad for it.
Rowan was far more pensive than usual, and that did not bode well for their stay.
She was always careful not to speak of their travels in any of her letters to Leona for fear she’d detail something incorrectly, and the woman would question it.
Truly, Marce had never journeyed farther from London than Hadlow.
“Tell me we did not spend our time in Dorset again. I am fast running out of stories to regale the duchess with about that particular region of England.”
“Manchester during the fall, Sunderland for the holidays, and New Year’s in Edinburgh—where we will be returning directly after our visit.
” His dry, disinterested tone irked Marce, and she had half a mind to tell him exactly that, but she needs must watch her tongue until their farce had officially come to an end.
Allowing her temper to get the best of her was something she must avoid.
Leona never sought out Rowan for stories of their travels.
It was Marce who was called upon to share all with the duchess.
Over the years, she’d prepared by reading accounts of many cities around the country, and while she’d researched Manchester and Edinburgh before, she knew nothing of Sunderland or their holiday traditions.
Did the local village have a festival she should be aware of?
Perhaps they did not celebrate the season at all; instead, following folklore of old and keeping one’s joy and happiness within and close to the heart by forgoing town celebrations such as routs and musicales.
“The weather was cold in all three towns; however, it only snowed in Edinburgh over New Year’s.
You remained in our lodging quarters while in Sunderland and Edinburgh but enjoyed a lovely shopping expedition with Lady Munston in Manchester while Lord Munston and I journeyed to his textile plant outside the city.
” Rowan stopped drumming his fingers long enough to straighten his collar before turning his gaze to the window once more as the chilly landscape passed them by.
Cool. Calm. Collected.
His pensive and distracted air fleeing.
The only ounce of emotion he’d ever shown was that first night they met.
He’d been enraged, furious even, and hurt to the point of desperation.
All things Marce understood in his situation.
Everything she’d experienced since that night—with the addition of fear—due to his abrupt arrival and rightful possession of everything she held dear.
After that night, her home was no longer hers, and her daily living depended on her ability to satisfy the duke’s demands.
But since then, he’d kept his entire facade impassive.
As if they were, in fact, a couple wedded going on eight years with nothing of relevance to speak of between them—no marital spats or misunderstandings.
A normal societal match to anyone looking on from the outside.
Many nights when she was at Craven House, and Rowan was off to places unknown, Marce had wondered which man he actually was—the young lord seething with anger and resentment, or the cool, composed man she’d witnessed since.
Neither possibility should endear him to her…
nonetheless, the question continued to prickle at the back of her mind. A query still unanswered.
Marce kept her stare trained on him, noting the color that edged up his neck at her scrutiny. “Textile plant in Manchester. What of Edinburgh and Sunderland?”
“My mother will not expect you to know any more about my business dealings, I assure you.”
Any more? Marce wondered if it were possible to know any less of her husband’s business dealings.
They were nothing more than strangers brought together by…she pondered what had actually drawn them together. It was most definitely not fate, for how cruel would that be?
Yet, their relationship was the way of things in the Delconti family—at least where Julian and Leona were concerned. Men were charged with taking care of their families, and how they chose to do so was not questioned.
The duchess was unaware of so many things her dearly departed husband had been embroiled in. Including, but not limited to, his long-time mistress.
The coach hit a bump in the road, and Marce held firmly to her wrapped package. A tumble to the floor could gravely damage the spine of the ancient book.