Chapter 3 #2
Rowan sat unfazed as he stretched his long legs toward her and crossed his ankles.
Never had she asked where he traveled from when they met at the Whisper Hook Inn; however, he was always garbed in a suit of the latest fashion with a proper neckcloth without a wrinkle to be found.
Perhaps he kept a room at the inn where he bathed and dressed before she arrived.
Or a home nearby where he stowed a well-cared-for mistress that he resided with while in the area.
That was how little she knew of the man.
Certainly, he’d taken a lover during their eight-year tenure. Marce was not proud to admit that she’d waited with bated breath for any news of Rowan taking a woman—either as a mistress or something more. Yet, her limited connections in society had turned up nothing.
The man was a societal unknown in many ways. Some even called him a reclusive saint.
Reclusive for his tendency to skirt society, and the saint as a play on words for his dark demeanor. At least that was what she’d gathered from the name.
She should tell him of her plans. Have his anger and threats aired before they arrived at Hadlow. However, the thought of him preventing her from seeing Leona kept her silent on the matter.
She was uncertain what Rowan would do once he learned of her decision, but hurting the duchess was something Marce would avoid at all costs.
The woman was blameless in everything and had been as much a mother to her over the years as Sasha had.
Repaying Leona’s kindness with cruelty was not part of Marce’s plan.
And so, Marce would wait until she’d visited with Leona and checked on the woman’s well-being before meeting with Rowan to end their association…
and relinquish Craven House to him. The key she’d tucked into her bodice before departing London hung heavily between her breasts, the metal heated to match her warm skin.
The thought of being homeless should incite fear, yet all she could muster was a sense of relief.
When Rowan convinced her to go along with this preposterous arrangement, he’d given the impression Leona was gravely ill—and likely to follow the same path as her husband before long.
It shouldn’t have mattered what he said or, furthermore, his motives.
Marce should have walked away from it all with her siblings in tow, despite the consequences they’d have faced.
They would have found a way to survive.
And her conscience would not have been torn to shreds by all the lies she’d been forced to tell to those who mattered most to her. All to protect a home and a man she had no obligation to.
“What?” he scoffed.
“Pardon, Your Grace?” She brought her stare back to his from where it had strayed to her hands, clenched tightly in her lap.
“You sighed…with much despair.”
“I most certainly did not,” she argued, though he could very well have spoken the truth. Her unbidden contrary attitude flared to life.
“Very well,” he countered.
His eyes drifted shut, and the hard line of his jaw softened as if he were preparing for a period of rest.
The interior of the coach grew uncharacteristically warm as she regarded him. “I did not sigh.”
“Very well,” he repeated without so much as opening his eyes. “As I said.”
Marce huffed, turning her body to face the window. It also helped her to focus on anything but the infuriating man across from her. He questioned her, yet did not believe her reply.
She would not allow him to bring her to anger over such a ridiculous matter.
“Is it your sigh, or my reply of ‘very well’ that upset you?”
She was upset; therefore, she’d sighed. Though her ire had naught to do with the actual sigh or his reply.
“Mayhap it is your very presence that exasperates me,” she hissed before clamping her mouth shut to halt any further argument on her part.
It would gain her nothing—as evidenced by Rowan’s continued repose across from her.
She crossed her arms but immediately regretted the decision. She may be angry and irritated, but appearing the petulant, sulking child did not suit her.
This time, it was Rowan who sighed as he drew his legs back to his side of the coach and shifted in his seat. “Is this how our visit is to proceed?”
The draw to be overly obtuse and deny acknowledging what he spoke of was overwhelming. Instead, she attempted to give an honest reply. “It is not my intent.”
“Just as you most certainly did not sigh.”
Her irritation flared anew. “Correct.”
Perhaps Marce should have ended the charade before departing the Whisper Hook Inn.
It seemed preferable to Rowan’s peculiar attitude at present.
She could have stopped by Hadlow to tell Leona farewell once the duke was safely back in Edinburgh—and she on her way to her new home.
If she had, she would not be trapped in this carriage with Rowan and dependent on him to see her to Hadlow without further incident.
“I do not have the patience nor the time to cater to your sensitive feminine sensibilities, Marce,” he chided as if she were a child still in the schoolroom. “We have one week—possibly ten days—to see ourselves through. After that, you are free to return to London…until I summon you again.”
In no way was Marce free.
She hadn’t been such for many, many years.
While Rowan had kept her hostage, in a sense, since his father’s death, there was always another who held the strings to her freedom, someone else that stepped forward to quash her independence.
First, it had been her brother who tossed Marce, her mother, and Garrett from their home.
Now, it was Rowan. Who was to be next? Her siblings were masters of their own fates now.
Marce had worked tirelessly to give them that small gift.
Perhaps Marce was never meant to steer her own path?
Maybe she would forevermore be at the mercy of another’s whims.
This time, Marce did nothing to disguise her dismayed sigh.
Rowan wasn’t foolish enough to mention her overt display of discontent again.
Marce folded her arms and sank into the velvet squab of her seat. If he thought to act the composed, untroubled lord, then she could do likewise and act the lady.
For the duration of their carriage ride, at least.
Unfortunately, appearing tranquil and unworried was exhausting. And after all these years, Marce was tired of putting forth a false facade—with both the duchess and Marce’s family.