Chapter 14 #2
As he stood there in his silent stupor, Marce bustled to her wardrobe and removed her traveling case.
With nary a look in his direction, she darted around him and plopped it onto the disheveled bedding before collecting her meager possessions spread about the room—brushes, ribbons, stockings, and boots, still muddy from her ride.
He eyed her when she leaned into the wardrobe, arms wide, and wrapped them around her hanging gowns, pulling them out in one large heap.
Effortlessly, she bent and grabbed her cloak that had been thrown over a chair and walked back to the trunk.
Without a care for creases or order, Marce stuffed the gowns into the waiting case and set her brush and other small possessions on top before snapping it shut with a huff.
“You are serious about leaving?” Rowan hadn’t meant to speak aloud, and the unease in his tone only solidified his position of weakness. “It will be long past nightfall by the time you return to London.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes narrowed, and her shoulders stooped. “If your accusations are correct, I will be safely ensconced within Lord Cresthaven’s home within the hour.”
Her words stung, and Rowan realized just how wrong he’d been to accuse her of such an outlandish thing.
His fists clenched and unclenched as every nerve ending screamed for him to do something—anything—to stop her from leaving. If she fled Hadlow, the house would be abuzz with the gossip, and Rowan would be called to his mother’s private suite to explain.
How would he explain the situation? Simply…“my wife has been carrying on with another right under my nose and has left Hadlow Estate to be with him. But don’t worry overmuch, she’s only relocated to the neighboring estate.”
The story of a husband cuckolded did not suit him well at all.
Marce held her trunk at her side and stopped before him as she rounded the bed on her way to the door. “Where shall I deposit the key to Craven House?”
He wanted to command her to keep it or cast it into the murky Thames if that would satisfy her.
There was nothing he wanted less than to possess the house his father had absconded to when he abandoned his family.
Never had the thought crossed Rowan’s mind that he’d one day be forced to take possession of the property.
With his mother’s imminent death, he’d give Marce the deed to the property, as promised.
His mind was a muddled mess. His decisions and plans, at one time understandable, were now unfolding in ways he hadn’t thought possible.
When they’d struck their bargain, Rowan had despised the woman for what she stood for, he’d spent countless nights cursing the Davenport name.
But now, suddenly, he could not imagine his life without her.
His rash arrogance had come crashing down upon him.
To hide his own insecurities, he’d levied her with his regrets about the past.
She was leaving, never to return.
“Perhaps your solicitor will accept it,” she sighed, transferring the trunk to her other hand. “Good day, Your—“
Without thinking, Rowan stepped toward her and grasped her arms, fearing that she’d flee his closeness as he looked into her clear blue eyes.
They were deeper than the deepest ocean, yet as rich as a cloudless sky.
His fingers inched up to her shoulder, and he gently captured a wayward curl, wrapping it loosely around his hand.
Her shoulders were elfin but possessed a strength of resolve he could only marvel at.
Many a man had cowered before Rowan. Many a lord had hurried out of his path.
Many a woman had sent coy smiles in his direction, though lacked the fortitude to seek an introduction.
But not Marce Davenport.
She’d never been scared or hesitant in his company.
Even now, after he’d entered her private chamber without an invite, she didn’t pull away—or balk at his closeness. His fury should have been enough to send her running for protection.
Yet, she stood before him, her chin notched high with determination, and her shoulders thrown back in confidence. Why had he never noticed her quiet tenacity?
He’d held the belief that Marce was a woman who possessed a large measure of cunning and smarts. A shrewd lady who could turn misfortune to her benefit. A proprietress supremely learned in her art.
The way she stood before him, not backing down or begging for his forgiveness, spoke of a woman with a much deeper sense of self. Something Rowan lacked.
Rowan reached down and pried the trunk from her grasp. The handle was slick with perspiration as he set it on the floor beside them. There was no denying that she was nervous. Her eyes held questions Rowan wasn’t prepared to answer as he considered the unthinkable.
In that brief moment, however, it wasn’t unimaginable at all. It was inevitable.
Time drew to a halt, affording Rowan precious seconds to ponder why this had yet to happen. Would he regret it come the morning?
When Marce glanced over his shoulder toward the door, Rowan decided there wasn’t time to scrutinize anything further. If she walked out the door—which he did not doubt she would do—his chance would disappear along with her. They would never know what lay beneath their disdain for one another.
He leaned close, securely connecting them, and touched his lips to hers. It was a kiss born of repressed passion and the aftermath of their argument. Not demanding and insistent—slightly frantic yet gentle and searching.
Her lips were softer, more welcoming than the feather pillow he nestled against each night. He ignored the shiver of need that coursed through him, but the way she trembled in his arms was undeniable.
To Rowan’s astonishment, it was Marce who pushed herself closer to him as their kiss deepened, her tongue tracing his lower lips and demanding they part for her. It was her hands that dug into his shoulders as a throaty moan escaped her parted lips. Or had it been his moan that filled the room?
Her hands fled his shoulders, and Marce ran her fingers through his hair, lightly tugging at the same time she drew herself closer.
The urge to close his eyes and simply relish the sensation of Marce’s touch was nearly more than he could control.
He should rein himself in, steer his need, and step away, forgetting the feel of her in his arms.
He’d been cruel and heartless only moments before—he in no way deserved any part of her.
A tiny, breathless whisper escaped her parted lips as her hands fell from his hair to clasp his shoulders once more. They massaged and caressed, matching the rhythm he’d set as he kneaded her backside.
Rowan released her mouth and trailed light kisses across her cheek until he reached the spot just below her earlobe.
He longed to whisper sweet nothings to her and beg to hear where she would have his kisses next.
But he would not risk bringing her back to her sanity.
His passion flared when her body undulated against him.
If it were up to him, this moment would never end.
Rowan tensed at the same instant Marce pulled away, her hands slipping from his shoulders to his chest as she pushed, not with great force but enough to create space between them.
Their embrace was the closest he’d been to another person in many years—likely his entire life.
Not necessarily physically, but the underlying connection between them.
They’d fought relentlessly, but it had only served to prove how wrong Rowan had been all these years.
“Your Grace, I must—” She pressed her fingers against her plump, reddened lips.
“Do not depart today,” he whispered, his voice weak and pleading. “Go on the morrow if you must. I will have a carriage prepared, and you can arrive in London before nightfall.”
“Then you must go.” It was a soft demand.
“But you will remain at Hadlow for the night?” He searched for any way to convince her to stay. “It is not safe to travel after dark.”
She nodded but turned toward her wardrobe—away from him.
He was uncertain whether she nodded because she intended to stay one more night, or if it was a way of hastening Rowan’s departure from her private quarters.
Pressing her more would only push her farther from him.
When Marce disappeared behind her dressing screen, Rowan turned and fled the room.
Once in the hall with the door closed soundly behind him, he leaned back against the hard, smooth surface and pressed his fingers to his mouth that had, for a brief moment, joined with hers.
Certainly, there had been other women in his life—several to be sure—yet none had left him desiring more, nor threw his mind into turmoil.
None had left him wanting because he’d never taken any true interest in them. How could he when Marce awaited him? Rowan had desired no long-lasting attachment with any woman since he met Marce.
He and Marce had been in this constant tug of war for eight years.
How was it possible that he felt not only a physical connection to her but also a mental and emotional draw, especially after everything they’d been through? She despised him; it was evident in her glare.
Yet, Rowan was absolutely certain she’d never embraced another with such passion.
Sounds emitted from the room as Marce unpacked her trunk. The thump of her muddy riding boots hitting the hardwood floor, the clank of her brushes being set on the dressing table, the slam of her wardrobe door after she’d rehung her gowns.
Marce would not be departing today, which meant that Rowan had at least the next twelve hours to make good on his promise to have a carriage readied to transport her back to London.
He had until first light tomorrow to figure out what in the bloody hell had come over the pair of them in her chambers.
It was either that or watch her leave him for good.