Chapter 25
Marce stood on Lord Cresthaven’s stoop, her hands clenched so tightly, pain spiked through her fingers as she stared up at Rowan.
His black hair was tousled, and his eyes were rimmed with red.
Heavy, dark circles were evident under each eye, as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Was it the same for him as it was for her?
His wrinkled trousers and white linen shirt spoke of a restlessness Marce could certainly identify with.
Mud clung to his Hessians, and she wondered if he’d been out walking the dark London streets to clear his mind.
The tension in his shoulders eased when he stepped back to allow her entrance.
He reached around her, his exhale caressing her exposed neck as he closed the door and reset the latch. It not only blocked the chilly night air from invading the foyer but also barred her from fleeing.
Not that she wanted to leave.
At least, not until she’d spoken her piece and was ready to depart—her chin held high, and her resolve as stiff as a freshly laundered and pressed cravat.
She would not cower before Rowan nor allow him the satisfaction of believing she’d be destitute without his charity.
Never had she needed someone else to provide for her or her family.
Even if Rowan had stripped her of Craven House all those years ago, Marce would have never allowed her siblings to suffer or go without.
She would have found a way to support them all and give them the lives they rightly deserved, even if she’d had to seek employment in a workhouse or darn gowns morning, noon, and night.
They would have survived.
No matter the obstacles thrown into her path, Marce would have done exactly as her mother had—she would have found a way. She’d never given up, and she wasn’t about to start now.
She’d come to give him a minuscule taste of how he’d treated her all these years.
To let him feel the helplessness she’d endured.
The unrelenting oppression living with secrets she could speak of to no one.
The last eight years had been the loneliest of her existence.
Even after her father’s death and her family’s banishment from their home, Marce hadn’t been alone.
With four younger siblings and a house to care for after her mother passed, the days and nights had never brought her so low she found it hard to breathe.
However, lying to her family—and herself—had taken its toll on her.
And she was done with it all.
If that meant walking away from the only home that had ever truly felt like her own, the house that had seen so many happy times, the dwelling that had kept her family together all these years, then so be it. She would give Rowan the bloody thing.
Craven House was not who she was.
Craven House was not worth her future happiness.
Craven House was not her prison any longer.
“Lady Marce Davenport.” He bowed stiffly, looking ridiculous in his wrinkled clothes with his mussed hair. “Do join me in the study?”
His appearance reminded her of his frantic work in the gardens at Hadlow; however, his demeanor was poised and composed—the Rowan she’d known all these years. He was at odds with himself, something Marce could understand well.
“Lady Marce?” she asked, her brow rising high in question.
“Yes, well—”
She held up her hand, the sleeve of her cloak falling down to reveal her black glove.
“It is of no concern.” She didn’t have any interest in knowing why, after all this time, he thought it necessary to address her properly.
Her connection to her family name was something she’d worked tirelessly to escape… including the scandal tied to it.
“My apologies for calling at such a late hour.”
“Is it late?”
“However, this could not wait.” She didn’t acknowledge his remark, nor dwell on whether he meant it as a jest or if he honestly hadn’t any notion how late the hour was. “Do lead the way to the study. I haven’t any urge to wake the entire household.”
He stalled for only a moment, and Marce wondered if he thought she’d visited Tobias’s townhouse on other occasions.
“I had to consult Debrett’s directory for Lord Cresthaven’s directions.” She made a show of glancing about the foyer. “Is he in?”
Rowan cleared his throat, snapping him out of whatever trance he’d fallen into—or she’d disturbed him from. “Ah, no…well, yes, but he retired earlier.”
The nervous tendrils released her, and she followed Rowan out of the foyer and deeper into the house. The last thing she’d wanted was to confront Rowan with Tobias as a witness, further entangling the earl in their spat.
The lingering scent of rum—or was it scotch?
—trailed behind the duke; however, his steps were steady, measured, and in no way seemed negatively impacted.
Drunken carousing had never appeared a thing Rowan would enjoy.
On many occasions, she’d witnessed him in the Whisper Hook Inn when she arrived to meet him, an empty pint glass before him, but she’d never seen him drunk.
Perhaps he was not like the men she’d observed in her childhood at Craven House—so deep in their cups, they saw nothing wrong with hitting a woman, stealing from another man, or cheating at cards. Could it be that Rowan was a man who kept his wits about him even after several tumblers?
In all the time that’d passed since she agreed to his proposition, she’d never witnessed any violent tendencies from him.
No, Rowan was adept at destroying his foe with only words—and sometimes his wealth.
He hadn’t the need for physical violence.
Not like the men who’d come to Craven House during its famed years as a brothel.
Those lords needed validation, and to be among men whom they could best at cards and other sports in order to prove their worth and prestige.
The man stalking down the hall in front of her knew his power. He had no illusions about his worth or the command he held over others.
In a way, Marce envied his confidence.
That did not mean she sought to emulate him in any way or give him the upper hand.
This was to be the final time she spoke to him. After this night, she was resigned to never see him again. The final attachment between them would be severed. Craven House would return to its rightful owner, and Marce would make the move to her new home in Kent.
Entering the study, the silence that descended on the room was deafening.
Broken only by the tick-tock of the clock.
Instead of taking a moment to glance about the room, she kept her stare trained on the duke.
She sensed that they would both grapple for the upper hand in the coming confrontation, and whoever broke eye contact first would surely be deemed defeated.
Rowan had held the advantage in the past.
Now, Marce had nothing left to lose by taking control of the situation.
Her siblings, while shocked and disappointed by her choice to hand over their home so readily, were aware of her decision.
Her solicitor was acquiring a new home for her with the small amount of funds she’d managed to collect over the years.
There was nothing Rowan could take from her that she would not survive.
There was a definite freedom in knowing she could have her present taken from her but still have the courage to go on and create a new future.
“May I take your cloak?” he asked.
She was uncertain what she’d expected him to say, but acting the gentleman was not it.
When she only stared in disbelief, he continued, “The Cresthaven butler is abed, and as such, it falls upon me as your host to offer.”
Marce unclenched her fists and reached for the row of buttons keeping her cloak secured.
She begged her hands not to betray her by trembling.
This Rowan was not the man she’d come to know—or thought she’d come to know.
Something had changed as surely as something within her had altered and transformed her over the last week.
Slowly, she released each button.
His eyes followed her progress with a level of interest she’d never before gained from him.
It had always seemed to her that she was an afterthought, an interloper forced into his daily existence while in Kent but easily overlooked and ignored.
For years, Marce hadn’t minded it. His perusal was intimidating, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the final button, her cloak opening to show her light green gown beneath.
The scooping neckline and high waist were crafted for a woman ten years her junior, but the color suited her golden curls.
And matched Rowan’s eyes.
How had she not noticed that coincidence before now?
She turned, allowing him to take her cloak as it fell from her shoulders.
Next, she removed her gloves, tugging each finger free before pulling the long, satin length from her hands.
They were her finest set, purchased in black to minimize the chance of staining and, therefore, certain to last longer.
That they drastically contrasted with her creamy white skin was only another boon.
Now, from the intense scrutiny gained, Marce questioned her every decision… including coming to face Rowan at all.
Perhaps it would have been wiser to send a letter…after she’d removed herself from Craven House and settled in her new home.
Her bare arms tingled, and her stomach fluttered, only settling when Rowan stepped away to lay her cloak on a table and close the door.
“Your father was a marquess,” Rowan said, turning to face her once more. “Why did you not tell me this?”
“My lineage is not a well-kept secret, Your Grace.” Marce glanced at the hearth, longing to step closer and accept its warmth. “Besides, it would have changed nothing between us.”
“Perhaps not…” He hung his head and clenched his hands behind his back as he made his way toward the open fire, his arm brushing hers as he passed.