Chapter 9 #2
If she hurried, there would be time to ascertain why Rowan was flitting about like a madman and be prepared for when Tobias arrived to collect her.
There was something amiss with Rowan, though what could have sent him to the garden in such a frenzy remained a mystery.
Much about Rowan was ambiguous to her, even after all these years.
The man journeyed all over England and Scotland under the guise of business dealings, yet she’d never fully understood what exactly his business ventures entailed.
When in London, he never caused a commotion or so much as a speck of gossip.
Marce was aware because she always kept abreast of the gossip mills, if only to make certain her family was not fodder for the ton.
Besides Leona and Tobias, she knew of no other friends or even acquaintances of the duke.
Why he’d perpetrated the arrangement between them was the one thing that wasn’t a mystery to her.
Rowan blamed Marce’s mother for destroying his family.
And, largely, Sasha had done just that by taking a married lover who dedicated more time to her than his own wife and child.
What Marce had never understood was why, after both Sasha’s and Julian’s deaths, the blame had been laid upon her shoulders.
Now, both her family and Rowan’s lived under a cloud of deception.
One that could destroy many lives if it ever came to light.
They’d been unwitting players in a game designed by others until the moment Rowan threatened to take her family’s home.
It was then that the pair of them had started an entirely new charade of their own design.
As the years passed, it was almost as if Julian and Sasha’s scandalous entanglement had become hers, yet for far different reasons.
Marce depended on Rowan in a fashion similar to how her mother had been beholden to Julian.
But her mother had been happy in her dependence—in love.
That was not to be for her and Rowan. There had never been any hint that Rowan held even a candle of affection for her, and Marce could never allow herself to ponder her attraction to him.
Making her way to the duke’s study, Marce didn’t pause to knock; instead, she pushed open the door and continued to the terrace beyond.
The late-morning breeze was anything but warm, yet it did not find its way through her heavy garb to cool her skin.
Marce made her way down the wide steps and into the Hadlow gardens below, as the groundskeeper nodded vigorously at the duke before turning and running off toward the stables and the gardening shed beyond.
Rowan fell to his knees, grasping the stump of a gardenia bush as he began to pull the plant from the soil. The roots were likely deep, and the removal would need more than the brute strength of one man.
When Rowan grunted, his cheeks puffing outward as he strained to rip the shrub from its place, Marce stepped forward and called out to him.
Her words went unheard and unanswered as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
“Your Grace?” Marce called again, hoping to be heard over the duke’s strenuous groans.
Rowan pushed to his feet, his gaze darting here and there as if sensing that someone had spoken his name but uncertain where the voice had come from. When his stare finally landed on her, Marce was shocked at what she saw.
The duke’s normally focused and intense glare was anything but in that moment.
His green eyes were nearly unnoticeable as the blacks of his pupils almost swallowed the irises’ color completely. The forceful stare she’d become accustomed to was now vague and fleeting.
“Rowan.” She spoke his given name—something she was also unfamiliar with—and the simple word nearly stuck in her throat. “What are you doing out here?”
Throwing his hands wide, casting clumps of dirt in every direction, he moved toward her.
“My servants had one task. One simple, easily manageable task,” he hissed.
“To make certain my mother was happy, content, and cared for.” He swung around, gesturing to the garden behind him.
She stared past him where someone had taken pruning shears to a strand of ferns, cutting them nearly to the soil.
Still farther, a lovely ivy arbor was now lying strewn on the ground, its long vines limp and mangled.
“Does this horrendous garden appear pleasing in any way?”
Marce stood frozen in her place, frightened to utter a single word as Rowan advanced on her once more.
“Well?” he demanded, stopping only a foot from her as he put his hands on his hips and widened his stance, his large frame blocking the sun and casting a shadow over her.
“Would you sit in your room, up there”—He pointed up toward Leona’s window—“and look down on these gardens with anything resembling happiness and contentment?”
She took a step back as her heart thundered in her chest, her breathing coming in strangled gasps.
It was as if she’d invaded a private moment—a brief period of time when Rowan had allowed his guard, his usual mask of arrogance and aloofness, to slip.
Marce was certain she wasn’t supposed to witness the duke in such a state; however, with him towering over her, his eyes unfocused with fury, she only prayed he did not misplace his aggression and set upon her to assuage his anger.