The morning had dawned clear with nary a cloud in the sky or a heavy breeze in the air. Perfect for a midday ride about the estate—also, an impeccable day for travel, Marce thought as she hurried across the duchess’s sitting room to her private chambers beyond. The hearth blazed with a heat far more suited to a dark, frozen winter night than a day soon to be warm enough to coax even the most hesitant flower to bloom.

She’d donned her sage green riding habit in anticipation of the ride with Lord Cresthaven; however, the constricting velvet jacket was enough to cause a sheen of perspiration to bead on the back of her neck, and the tips of her ears to burn from the warmth of the room.

Marce drew a chair close to the window as Pearl closed the door, leaving only her and Leona in the duchess’s sleeping chamber. Leona did not draw attention to the package on Marce’s lap or the deepening shadows under her eyes. And in return, Marce did not mention the hollow, vacant stare Leona’s eyes possessed or the way three heavy blankets were tucked in around the duchess as she alternated between gazing out the window at her garden below and dozing fitfully in her upright position.

The evening had been taxing on the duchess, and Marce blamed herself for allowing the woman to convince her that the dinner party was a grand notion. The excitement of having Rowan home was enough to tire Leona so much that she’d be unable to leave her bed for days after they departed Hadlow.

The duchess’s smile was not as wide as the previous day. “My dear, sweet girl. I was wondering when you’d come to see me.”

“I did not want to interrupt your sleep.” Marce had tarried in her chambers for nearly an hour after preparing for the day in hopes that Rowan would be busy in his study or have departed the house before she broke her fast. “And, truth be told, I slept later than usual.”

“That makes two of us,” Leona said with a light laugh that caused her to cough several times.

Marce collected a glass of water and pressed it to the woman’s lips when the coughing subsided. “Here, drink this.”

The duchess drank deeply, her trembling hands coming to rest on Marce’s where she held the glass before drawing away. “Thank you, my child. I assume this sickness-riddled body cannot get any worse, but each day it does. Much to my disappointment. I suppose I should be grateful to have lasted as long as I have on this Earth.”

“Don’t say that, Leona.” Marce halted, afraid her sorrow for the woman would show if she said any more.

Leona stared into Marce’s eyes—her green orbs taking on a yellow hue—and smiled. “Oh, do not think to lavish pity on me, Lady Harwich.” The duchess took the glass from Marce and set it aside before clasping Marce’s hands with more force than she’d thought possible. “I have lived a life far grander than any woman deserves. I wed a most dedicated and handsome man, bore him an equally handsome and formidable son, saw my child wed to a fine lady, and have done it all by living in the most beautiful estate imaginable. Never have I wanted for a thing. Your pity is misplaced if you lay it at my feet.”

Notching up her chin an inch, Marce blinked several times, banishing the tears that threatened to spill past her lower lid. Rowan was a formidable man, and Hadlow Estate was breathtaking, even in the clutches of a waning winter, but everything else couldn’t have been further from the truth. Julian Delconti had been dedicated to no one and nothing but his own desires. Rowan, while intelligent and handsome, was not as his mother imagined. And Marce was not the fine lady the duchess thought her to be.

However, there was one thing Julian, Rowan, and Marce had in common: they were all liars.

They each deceived for their own unique gain, to be sure, but there was no denying that they all were guilty of the same sin.

“Come now, girl.” Leona squeezed her hands. “Do not allow sorrow to overcome you, especially because of me. Look”—The duchess gestured toward her window and the garden below—“I may be unable to enjoy my garden up close or spend much time with Rowan as he has many important things keeping him busy, but I can look down from above.”

Marce did not want to ponder the additional meaning behind the woman’s words—as if she were already in the heavens above, looking down on her most favored place at Hadlow. A world without Leona was something Marce did not wish to dwell on, even though she’d have to live the rest of her days removed from the older woman.

Death was not knocking at the duchess’s door just yet. That much was evident. One only need stare into the woman’s eyes to know she lived more than most people, even if she were confined to these rooms.

“Look,” Leona coaxed.

“I’ve seen the gardens a thousand times—”

“Can you not entertain an old woman’s mutterings?”

Remorse coursed through Marce, and she turned toward the window, her fingers instantly tightening on the gift in her lap. Below, Rowan stood with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and old, worn trousers hanging loosely over scuffed boots. He pointed this way and that, giving instructions, but whomever he commanded was too close to the manor wall to be seen. Even more shocking than his attire was the dirt covering his arms, neck, and pants as if he’d been tilling the soil all morning. His hair lay flat against his head as if he’d recently discarded a hat. The bright morning sun gleamed off his ebony locks and kissed his bare skin.

“What is he doing?” Marce stammered.

Leona shrugged, causing the blanket to slip down to her waist. “One never knows with Rowan. I thought maybe he’d said something to you.”

Marce couldn’t admit that she hadn’t seen, let alone spoken to Rowan since she excused herself from the table following their meal the previous evening. “He mentioned nothing about working in the garden this morning.”

“Interesting…”

If Marce didn’t know better, she’d think Leona was attempting to get a confession of some sort from her.

“Is that package for me?” the duchess asked, the exhaustion so evident a few moments before, vanished.

“Yes, I found it for you in a bookstore on our trip to”—Marce paused, trying to remember where Rowan had said they’d traveled since their last visit to Hadlow—“well, that is not important. What is significant is if you like the book. Go ahead, open it.”

Marce set the bundle in the duchess’s lap, hoping the large tome didn’t weigh too much for the woman’s legs to bear.

Tentatively, Leona pulled at the twine that held the paper wrapped securely around the book. When the string fell away, Leona slipped her hand under the wrapping and removed the book, holding it before her as she mouthed the title silently.

“It is an exposé, about the Swiss Alps, complete with illustrations.” Marce couldn’t tell if the duchess was overjoyed at the gift or disinterested. “I suspect it is a place neither of us will ever visit and that we will only learn of its wonders through books.”

Leona smoothed her hands over the leather-bound volume before lifting the cover to peek inside.

Air burned to escape Marce’s lungs as she waited for the duchess’s reaction. This was to be Leona’s final gift from Marce—and if the duchess were not completely taken with it, would that cloud her fond memories of Marce once she was gone? No, the duchess had to love the gift, there was no other option.

Time slowed to a halt, and a maid could be heard rushing down the corridor outside the room. The fire crackled in the hearth as it struggled to provide ample warmth for the large room. Marce’s senses were so sensitive in that moment she thought Rowan could be heard in the gardens below; however, that was not possible with the solid windows and thick walls of the manor between them.

“It is lovely, Marce,” Leona sighed. “The Swiss Alps. I can say I have not given the area much thought…ever.”

“The illustrator, Hans Govstein, is a famed artist in Austria,” Marce shared the only fact that she’d been told about the book. “It was his final work…and many say his most accomplished.”

Marce clamped her mouth shut and turned her attention back to the window and Rowan below at her near mention of Govstein’s death. Leona needed no reminders that her sickness was progressing each day—so much so that she’d been banned from visiting her garden.

While the duchess flipped page after page, Marce focused on Rowan out the window. His movements were erratic and chaotic as he rushed about the garden. He stopped before a large rose bush, sheering off several branches before gesturing to someone out of sight. Next, he moved to a strand of greenery, devoid of blossoms, and pulled the plant out of the ground, roots and all, tossing it on the pile of rosebush trimmings.

The duke was frantic.

Marce could see that as clear as day; however, the Rowan she knew never allowed himself even a moment of such mania. He was always composed to the point of coldness. What could have led him to such uncharacteristic behavior, especially in front of the servants?

“Will Pearl be joining us again?” Marce asked, reaching forward to tug the curtain closed a bit to block the duchess’s view of her son. When she nodded, Marce continued, “I think I will see what Rowan is up to in the garden.”

“Yes, hurry along.” Leona reclined in her seat, clutching the book closely as Marce collected the discarded wrapping. “Do not languish away here in my sick room a moment longer. See to Rowan and have a delightful time on your outing with Lord Cresthaven.”

Lord Cresthaven. Tobias. Their ride around the estate.

Marce had nearly forgotten the man was to arrive at any moment.

“I will find Pearl before journeying downstairs,” Marce reassured the woman.

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.