Chapter 7 #2
“I would be honored to accompany you, my dear Rowan, but whatever shall we tell the duchess?” He pressed his hand to his chest and widened his eyes—even his chin trembled slightly.
Perhaps it was past time to stop overlooking Tobias’ quirks and demanded his friend act the part of a gentleman and not a court jester.
“You do not think people will gossip overmuch about all the time we spend together?”
Tobias’ dramatics had never rankled Rowan’s nerves in such a manner before.
“My mother never asks after my business affairs, as you well know.”
“And what of your other duchess?”
“There is no reason for her to inquire as it does not pertain to her,” Rowan huffed. “And she is not—”
“Your duchess, I know.” Tobias sobered, all jesting and joking fleeing as his lips pulled into a firm line. “What of the woman? You cannot think to keep at this ruse forever. Your mother spoke of grandchildren last month. Grandchildren, born of Harwich blood.”
The truth of the matter was that the duchess had been speaking of grandchildren for many years. First in whispers to only Miss Pearl, but recently, openly asking Rowan of his future plans for the dukedom. He’d never dared ask Marce if his mother had questioned her on the topic, as well.
It was a discussion that would be uncomfortable for both of them.
It would be ludicrous to think Marce would go so far as to birth Rowan’s child, or any child, to keep up with the pretense of their sham of a marriage. But thinking on the subject brought to mind the wayward longing that invaded him when he allowed his guard to slip.
There was little doubt that Marce would one day have children; however, they would not be his or of Harwich blood.
“So…”
“So, what?” Rowan asked, wishing he hadn’t pushed the stacks of papers from his desk.
He needed something to look at besides Tobias.
And something to think about other than Marce as the mother of his children.
The man was incredibly shrewd at the most inopportune moments.
Rowan would not admit that the duchess had written him about just that subject the previous month after Tobias, the lout, had brought his sister and her children to visit Hadlow.
“Children…you and Marce…don’t play me for a fool and act as if you’ve never considered it.”
“I most certainly have not,” Rowan refuted. “We have a business arrangement, that is all. There is no romantic entanglement between us. Not now, and not in the future.”
“Interesting.” Tobias had the gall to stroke his chin as if he thought of all the implications of Rowan’s proclamation. “Very interesting, indeed.”
“How so?” Rowan asked.
“Well, you see…” A huge smile pulled at Tobias’ mouth, revealing his pearly white teeth. “When all this crumbles around you, I will be there to console those left in the wake of your destruction.”
“I enjoyed your company more when you respected which topics were not up for discussion.”
“And I’ve never truly enjoyed your company. However, your mother and Marce are delightful conversationalists, though their association with you is—”
The clock chimed seven times.
The dinner hour at Hadlow Estate.
“Ah, yes, our meal awaits.” Tobias pushed from his chair, not pausing to wait for Rowan to join him. “Hurry along, old chap.”
Rowan pushed from his chair, his arms and legs heavy with unease as he hurried after Tobias.
There was no denying that Rowan was happy to follow someone’s lead, at least for this one night.
He would gladly play second fiddle to Tobias if it meant dinner progressed smoothly, and he escaped unscathed.
Entering the dining hall, Rowan was first taken aback by the exorbitant amount of food spread out on the long table—from great pots of soup to roasted pheasant to steaming mounds of vegetables, and even three different sweets for after their meal.
When in residence, Rowan favored a less formal meal, served buffet style.
It lessened the chores for his servants and gave him the illusion of privacy in a brimming house.
Tonight, the individual aromas mingled, causing Rowan’s mouth to water with anticipation of the fare to come.
Every candle in the room was lit, and the chandelier overhead made every wine goblet shimmer.
There were candelabras up and down the length of the table with strands of ivy woven between them.
Bolts of silken fabric hung from every wall in varying shades of silver and plum, superbly complementing the green of the garlands.
Rowan shook his head to clear the nonsense from his mind.
The extravagance of the room irritated him.
Theirs was to be a simple dinner for four, not a party of twenty celebrating some important holiday or tradition.
His mother, Marce, Tobias, and him—with no need to mask their meal with societal niceties.
The sheer extravagance of the uneaten food and burning candle wax would be enough to sustain one of his struggling businesses for days while feeding and providing light for the workers.
The businesses were not stressed because of any decision Rowan made—but one would not know that by seeing the unnecessary excess surrounding him at that moment.
Glancing toward the head of the table as Tobias took his seat next to Rowan’s mother, he was about to chastise everyone in the room.
Heat crept up his neck and moved past his perfectly tied neckcloth to his ears.
Servants lined the walls as if this were a daily occurrence at Hadlow Estate, their newly commissioned uniforms in perfect order.
Everything was perfect, from the place settings to the food to the servants to the—
Guests.
Rowan turned his head to take in his mother and Marce, both seated near the head of the table to his left and right, as they chatted quietly with Tobias.
The pair was each exquisite in their own way, and both smiled as they greeted Tobias.
The look of utter happiness on his mother’s normally worn face brought a lightness to Rowan he hadn’t felt in months… perhaps years.
His feet halted, refusing to take another step closer for fear of bringing an end to the merriment. Certainly, his mere presence was enough to cast a dark shadow over the entire group.
Even now, his mother laughed—actually, giggled would be a more accurate term—and swatted at Tobias’ hand with her fan. His mother actually held a fan, flipping it open with a coy precision born to every woman of noble birth and began to fan her face as her cheeks blossomed with a delicate rose hue.
Marce leaned in close, her arms folded on the table before her as she pushed her place setting aside, her long curls falling over her shoulder in a manner he was coming to think of as normal. The trio laughed again, and Rowan’s annoyance dissipated.
For a brief moment, Rowan considered departing the room and leaving the three to enjoy their meal without his dark presence there to dampen their good cheer.
But then, she turned her smile in his direction.
And nodded in greeting.
Not his mother. No, she was still fanning her heated face and laughing at whatever inane story Tobias regaled her with.
It was Marce’s wide grin that brought Rowan farther into the room. He moved under the shimmering glow from above and amidst the savory scents of the meal set before them until he reached his place at the head of the table.
With her chin tilted slightly, Marce looked up at him, her smile never wavering.
And in that moment, for no more than the blink of an eye, Rowan allowed himself to ponder what it would be like if Marce Davenport were truly his duchess.
If she gazed at him in a similar fashion every day.
If he could look forward to enjoy every meal with her by his side.
Belatedly, he remembered her quick words of avoidance as she’d fled down the main stairs that morning, obviously looking to be in anyone’s company but his. No, Marce’s smile and good cheer was not meant for him, nor caused by his presence.
That was far too much to hope for, even if, surprisingly, it was something Rowan longed to have.