Chapter 13
Marce stared into the looking glass long after she’d dismissed her maid.
Peculiar, but she wasn’t one to spend her precious time taking in her appearance.
That had always been Samantha’s crutch: vanity.
Her younger sister had spent so many hours perfecting the turn of a coy smile or arranging her auburn hair in just the right fashion that Marce had feared the woman would fall in love with a man as haughty as herself.
Blessedly, that had not come to pass, and Elijah, Lord Ridgefeld, was the perfect lord for Sam.
He was solid, steadfast, and thought through every action and decision before moving forward.
He countered Sam’s tendency for impulsiveness far better than even Jude, her twin, could.
And Jude—Marce’s heart swelled at the thought of her quiet, pensive sister—had found Simon.
Their love and devotion had been apparent from the moment they entered the same room.
It filled Marce with pride to see the way Jude had taken Simon’s younger sister, Lady Theo, under her wing.
She would be a fine mother when the time arrived.
There was no doubt Marce was thrilled by the happiness her sisters had found, yet it did not stop the spark of jealousy from slamming into her every once in a while when she allowed her guard to slip and her mind to wander—despite her best efforts to control it.
Resentment was never a rewarding way to spend one’s emotional energy.
Marce was overjoyed for her siblings, and she took great pride in knowing she’d raised them all as best she could.
Even Payton had settled into her post as a governess for Lord Ashford, a widowed baron in good standing among the ton.
The man had sought out Marce to fill the position of tutor and caregiver for his two young children.
Word had spread among the Londoners that Craven House was no longer what it once was.
She—and her sisters—helped many women in need find homes and positions of employment, or make the journey back to their families.
It just so happened that Payton had intercepted the missive from Ashford stating his need for a governess and the requirements for the position.
The girl had begged to be granted permission to apply for the job, and Marce could find no reasonable objection to deny her.
Perhaps caring for two children would keep Payton from the gambling tables… at least for the time being.
Yes, her siblings were a varied lot. Sam had once been suspected of being a mistress. Jude, a thief. And Payton was always drawn by the allure of a rousing card game. It was beyond comprehension that Garrett, their brother, seemed the least scandalous of the bunch.
Marce smiled at her reflection, noting the facial similarities between her and her siblings.
Not many people saw what Marce did—her heart-shaped face matching that of Sam’s and Jude’s; her hair color and eyes matching Garrett’s; and her long, curling hair, though a different color, matching Payton’s.
Beyond the minute similarities in physical appearance, they all possessed sharp minds, which could only be attributed to their mother.
Marce had a right to feel a certain measure of pride in everything her sisters had accomplished over the last year.
That she had yet to find her own happiness was neither here nor there.
If there was one thing Sasha had taught her eldest daughter, it was that things were rarely about her.
Life was unpredictable and could never be trusted to justly provide for those who thought themselves deserving.
Perhaps her due was exactly what she’d garnered in the last two years: happiness for her siblings.
Deserving.
Such a misleading word.
She was no more worthy of a blessed future than her siblings.
As the daughter of a marquess, she should have been afforded a proper Season.
She should have been raised above reproach without a hint of scandal attached to her name.
She should have been given a suitable education and the chance to meet girls of her own station.
Instead, her mother had worked tirelessly just to feed and clothe her children.
Each day, until Julian entered her mother’s life, had been spent keeping Craven House from the debt collectors.
There had been no time or money for fancy clothes or proper tutors.
And hadn’t Marce been operating in the same fashion since Julian Delconti passed away, and Rowan had come to call in her family’s debts?
She could not begrudge her mother’s actions nor condemn her own.
However, Marce was in a position to change her life’s path. And it started this day.
With time, she might find a miniscule amount of what Sam and Jude had found. At her advanced age, it was not as likely for her, but contentment and a life based on her own decisions and stalwart nature was still wholly appealing.
An image of Rowan, filthy from toiling in the garden, sprang to her mind, except it wasn’t how it’d been that morning.
No, his soiled shirt lay open to his waist, and his trousers clung tightly to his muscular thighs.
His sable hair was not combed to perfection in that way only Rowan could attain, but instead wild from his labors.
No longer did his green stare hold the frantic look of a man possessed; rather, his eyes were slightly hooded as if he focused on something far more enticing than pruning garden shrubs.
And he smiled…as he had when he entered the dining hall the previous night before he realized his misstep and his demeanor reverted to his usual fortified manner.
Marce closed her eyes, hoping to clear Rowan from her mind—shirtless or otherwise.
Her mistake was apparent immediately when wiping his grin from her memory didn’t happen.
Instead, she remembered the way he’d ridden up on her and Tobias in the meadow.
The way he’d leapt from his horse and joined them, his guarded nature at the forefront, but he’d willingly assisted her to her saddle.
A piece of her heart had soared at his appearance, unknowingly longing to be near him.
Was it because Tobias’s confession regarding Rowan’s past was already clouding her good sense?
Undermining the resentment she’d harbored for the man since he convinced her to agree to his proposition?
She should be thinking through what she planned to say to Rowan after she shared her evening meal with the duchess in her private chambers.
The duke needed to know that things were over—officially.
There would be no negotiations or alternative options for continuing their original agreement.
Craven House was his to do with as he pleased.
His decision to take her home away no longer affected her as it once had.
It no longer meant certain ruin for her family.
His threat to evict her had lost its edge. His control over her and her life was coming to an end. No, it was at an end.
Staring into the mirror once more, Marce noted the way the circles under her eyes had diminished, how her shoulders were back a bit more, and even her skin glowed, though that was certainly due to her ride in the bright Kent sun.
Her chin lifted an inch, and she studied the smooth column of her neck, the noble set of her jaw, and her perfectly pinned blond curls.
In another life, she would have been considered a stunning beauty, a debutante of the first waters, and a woman sought after by London’s most charming men—rogues and gentlemen alike.
Instead, she was an unwed spinster who’d lived her life for others.
Surprisingly, however, she wouldn’t have changed that for anything.
She’d kept her family whole all these years.
Yes, so many years had been wasted at the behest of the Duke of Harwich; however, there were still many decades laid out before her.
A new excitement overtook her at the sheer amount of possibilities for her future.
Certainly, she would make a few mistakes.
Yet, they would not stop her from living.
Truly living. Finding and securing a new home.
Beginning with nothing and turning that into something she and her family would be proud of—much as her mother had done years before.
The tall, mahogany clock in the foyer began to chime…one, two, three, four, five, six, seven times.
“Enough with the self-indulgence, Marce,” she chastised her image in the looking glass.
It was time to meet the duchess for their meal, and she would not be the cause of their food growing stale and cold.
It was important that she try her best to appear serene and at peace when in Leona’s presence, or the woman would sense that something was amiss.
Honestly, Marce wouldn’t doubt if the duchess were already aware that something was off.
Leona was free to ask all the questions she wanted, but by then, Marce would be gone, and it would be Rowan’s responsibility to explain what they’d done.
Remorse flared within her, burning a hole directly into her chest where her heart resided.
Saying goodbye to the duchess without actually uttering the words would be the most difficult chore thus far.
Perhaps she could convince Pearl to hold a letter for her that could be given to the duchess at a later time.
Marce was on the verge of pitying Rowan for the disaster she’d leave in her wake after departing Hadlow and shedding her title as the Duchess of Harwich.