Chapter 7
Rowan leaned farther over his desk, peering at the assortment of Hadlow Estate paperwork in need of his attention as he attempted, for the twentieth time, to read—and comprehend—the detailed list his steward had made in reference to improvements needed about the estate.
Yet, his mind refused to cooperate as his vision blurred and his thoughts strayed to other matters.
Far less important subjects—or at least they should be far less imperative.
Instead of finalizing and signing land and crop agreements, tenant leases, and repair notices, Rowan found himself once again staring off at nothing, his mind returning to those brief moments on the head of the stairs.
Shoving the papers aside, he scrubbed at his face and blinked several times to clear his focus before retrieving his quill.
It had been hours since he happened upon Marce after his morning visit with his mother. And, still, he could think of nothing but their upcoming private conversation.
What could possibly be so pressing that the woman demanded an audience with him?
Hadn’t they traveled for nearly an hour in private the day before? They had been alone with no fear of being overheard, but Marce had broached no subject of a delicate nature.
Rowan reclined in his desk chair, his neck and back aching from his continued resolve to finish the task before him, even after several hours of making no progress.
Instead, his eyes drifted closed once more, and all his mind conjured was that bloody pink frock…
far too innocent and demure for Marce with its high neckline and simple waist. Not a speck of adornment accompanied the outfit—no jewels strung around her neck, or bobs hanging from her exposed earlobes.
Even her hair was secured, half up and half down, as was her chosen fashion in recent years, without a single ribbon, flower, or comb.
In his dreams…no, not his dreams. Rowan did not fantasize about Marce.
In his mind’s eye, when he envisioned Marce at Craven House, she wore gowns of the deepest scarlet or rich emerald green, accompanied by diamonds or rubies or sapphires.
Her hair would also flow freely down her back and curl over her bare shoulders to cascade across her supple, mounding breasts where they strained against the tight silk of her bodice.
Never did she bother with flounces or hoops, instead preferring skirts that hugged her body until they skimmed the floor at her feet.
Her lips were always a rose red, and her cheeks a healthy pink, but never from the paints and dyes that some women preferred.
No, everything about Marce was natural, from her long, fair, curling hair to her bright lips to the curve of her hips.
Bloody hell.
Thinking about Marce in such a way was only serving to distract his focus further.
There was little arguing that she was beautiful and poised, but desiring her in any true sense beyond their current arrangement was not something Rowan would allow himself.
Any need or longing to hold the woman, kiss the woman, fit their bodies perfectly together, was the precise thing Rowan had avoided since the first time they were alone together.
He’d covered his attraction with his fury that night, and he could do the same now. He had to.
Rowan shoved the mound of papers on his desk to the floor and threw his favored quill across the study, watching the driblets of ink that had clung to the tip spray about the room as it sailed through the air.
He noted where each drop of black stained the rug, a wingback chair, and the frame of a landscape portrait that hung on the wall.
Why could he focus on such a miniscule thing and not the mounding stacks of paperwork needing his attention?
The ink matched the thin, barely noticeable, black rings that outlined Marce’s crystal blue eyes, so light in hue many would mistake them for clear, holding no pigment at all if they did not look closely—and often.
The Devil take him…straight to the depths of hell the woman thought he’d crawled from.
The door closed with nary a sound, and a familiar voice of reason asked, “What is all this?”
Rowan brought his eyes from the now empty surface of his desk to see Tobias, Lord Cresthaven, standing just inside the study door, surveying the mess—papers strewn across the floor from where Rowan had pushed them away, his quill lying at Tobias’ feet, and the ink splatter here and there about the room.
Yes, Rowan was in serious need of Tobias’ words of wisdom; yet he knew they’d never speak of Marce or Rowan’s part in deceiving his mother.
Those topics were off-limits, even to Rowan’s closest friend.
Tobias leaned down and plucked the quill from the rug at his feet, sending it flying back toward Rowan. He made no move to catch it as it skidded across his desk and fell once more to the floor.
“Pelton will have your hide when he sees the disorder you’ve made for him,” Tobias said with a chuckle. “Should I assist you with straightening up, or allow you to face your butler’s wrath?”
Tobias’ brown brow rose in question when Rowan only sent a frown his way before collecting the quill.
“Ah, things are far more dire than I suspected.” Tobias made his way to the sideboard and retrieved two tumblers. “Scotch?” He didn’t bother waiting for Rowan’s reply before pouring two healthy portions from a decanter and turning to hand one to his friend.
They drank in silence, and Tobias moved to refill the glasses.
“No, thank you,” Rowan said, covering his tumbler with his hand. “Dinner with Mother and Marce…I must have my wits about me if I am to survive.”
Tobias shrugged before filling his own glass once more and throwing himself into the ink-stained wingback chair across from Rowan, his scotch splashing over the edge of his tumbler and threatening to drip down the chair.
Tobias wiped at the liquid before it could make its way down the side of the glass.
“Suit yourself; however, I will endeavor to enjoy my evening.”
Rowan ran his fingers through his hair, likely mussing it more than it already was.
“Enjoy an evening at Hadlow? Dining with both my mother and Marce…at the same time?” He shook his head, fearing Tobias had at some point jarred his head so severely he’d forgotten how difficult it was to monitor one’s words when in the company of Lady Harwich—both Lady Harwichs, as it were.
“Whatever are you so concerned about?” Tobias took a long sip before continuing, “Leona is a—”
“Lady Harwich or the duchess,” Rowan corrected with another scowl.
“Lady Harwich, though you know I was given liberty to address her by her given name years ago—“
“I did not agree to such.”
Tobias shrugged again, obviously unconcerned with his own well-being.
“As you wish, Your Majesty. Lady Harwich is a delight, and Mar—err, Lady Harwich part deux is captivating, even though she cannot take her stare from you most days. However”—Tobias raised his hand to stop Rowan’s protest—“I have it on good authority that she favors—”
“Stop!” Rowan’s deep voice thundered, fairly rattling the windowpanes, yet Tobias was undeterred by his friend’s outburst.
“Okay, I will share who my source is, but you must agree never to reveal their name to anyone,” Tobias joked; however, Rowan sensed that somewhere behind his words and jest, there was more than a morsel of truth.
“It was Constance, the milliner’s daughter’s husband’s third cousin… once removed. From over in Swanscombe.”
“What in the bloody hell does some chit from Swanscombe know of any of this?” Rowan massaged his neck as his left eye began to twitch.
“Obviously more than you and I, Your Grace.” Tobias shot up straight in his seat, his empty tumbler forgotten by his side.
“I am certain I can gather her directions for you if you need further evidence. Though you cannot, under any circumstances, tell her that you heard the information from me. Swear to it, Ro!”
“Enough, Tobias.” Rowan narrowed his eyes at his friend, wondering what had drawn the two men together all these years and continued their friendship despite the distance that normally separated them.
“I do not give a bloody damned whit if my mother allows you to call her Leona, nor does it interest me if Marce favors you over me.”
The continued twitch in his eye spoke to the contrary, and Rowan only prayed Tobias hadn’t noticed the tell.
“But she favors me,” Tobias sighed as if mortally wounded by Rowan’s lack of interest in the topic. “Either way, I am greatly looking forward to our meal. When news arrived you’d be at Hadlow and the duchess was requesting my presence for a dinner party—”
“It is not a party.” Rowan was done trying to hide his exasperation.
“Come now, allow us lowly Kent simpletons the delight of an intimate dinner party now and again,” Tobias said, standing to refill his tumbler for a third time. “It is not often that fine London dwellers such as you grace us lowly country folk with your presence…”
“Lowly country folk?” Rowan scoffed. “Did you not just recently return from across the Channel?”
“That is neither here nor there.”
“It most certainly is, and just six months ago, you traveled with me to Scotland,” Rowan said with a chuckle. Blast it all, but the man knew how to banish his dour moods. “And next month, we travel to Liverpool to meet with the Marquess of Huntly.”
Tobias was incorrigible but worth the hassle on every level. A good friend and business companion whose trustworthy nature was never called into question was certainly a rare commodity—especially among the ton.
There were more words to describe his friend, as well: loyal, understanding, and steadfast.
And so, Rowan overlooked the frequent melodramatic tendencies that afflicted Tobias.