“My mother deserves better than this.” Rowan didn’t dare look at the garden behind him. It would only infuriate him further, causing his headache to intensify. And so, he kept his stare locked on Marce. He hadn’t noticed her arrival at first as he’d been entirely focused on his task, but now, with her in front of him, staring at him as if he’d sprouted a second head, Rowan took a deep breath, attempting to restore some semblance of composure.

“The duchess loves one thing above all else: this garden. In my absence, it has gone to ruin. Overgrown, unmaintained, and, frankly, an eyesore. I cannot have her staring down and seeing the mess it has become as she sits up there, unable to fix it. I will not stand for this. Not at all!”

Rowan averted his gaze and instead glanced down at his hands, balled into tight fists at his sides. What had come over him?

His mother’s disappointment the evening before when speaking of her treasured garden… Rowan should have made more time to visit Hadlow, to make certain everything was as the duchess wanted; instead, he’d been off traveling England on business. All while his mother sat cloistered in her private chambers, her sickness preventing her from tending to her beloved gardens. Besides raising him, it was the only thing he’d ever seen his mother show passion for.

And he’d saddened her.

No matter how many times he told himself it was the servants who’d failed in their duties, Rowan was the one to blame. He knew how much the gardens meant to her, and he hadn’t been home to see to their care.

It wasn’t that he avoided his mother, or sought out other people and places…no, being at Hadlow meant being close to Marce, the woman before him.

It was no excuse, at least not one he could fall back on at the moment.

Releasing his clenched fists, he noticed the stains that clung to his hands, the soil under and around his nails. His trousers were matted with the moist earth, still damp from the night’s dew.

He expelled the breath he’d been holding and ran his dirt-encrusted fingers through his hair, still slick with sweat from his hard labors.

The entire situation was ludicrous, both his servants’ disregard and his reaction.

Rowan didn’t need Marce cowering at the sight of him to know his response to the situation was overemotional and had only served to make the problem worse.

What would his mother think now, looking down on the absolute disaster he’d created?

He was unraveling. Everything around him was disintegrating, and Rowan was unable to stop what was already in motion. His mother’s illness, the garden’s disheveled appearance, and Marce’s perceptive stare, not to mention the altering connection between them. It was all too much, too fast.

And worse, Marce had witnessed his undoing—his utter weakness—and he was certain she’d use it against him. Hadn’t he done the same to her during the days immediately following his father’s death? He’d longed to assuage his grief, to take his anger out on someone. And she had been his only option.

The truth was, human nature dictated a person exploit the weaknesses of others.

His father had taken advantage of his mother’s weakness after losing the babes—yet another pregnancy ending tragically for the Duchess of Harwich—and her continued sickness to justify his infidelities. There was no other way his father could have rationalized betraying and abandoning his family for another woman.

The anger Rowan worked tirelessly to suppress gnawed at his insides, threatening to escape.

“Is there something you need?” he huffed, jamming his filthy hands into the pockets of his pants.

“I, well, no.” Her stilted words trailed off. “I will leave you to your work.”

Yet, she remained frozen before him.

She’d requested a private audience with him, and he’d promised they would speak today. Perhaps she’d come to the gardens for that purpose.

“Lady Harwich,” the stable master called across the expanse of the gardens as he hurried to them, bowing to Rowan before turning his attention to Marce. “Your Grace, your horse is ready.”

“Thank you, Daniel.” She did not look away from Rowan when she answered the stable master.

“Where are you going?” Rowan’s stomach knotted.

Her brow drew low over her clear blue stare as she scrutinized him. “Lord Cresthaven requested I join him for a ride. Do you not remember?”

Rowan straightened, the tension easing from his shoulders. “Of course, I remem—”

“If you prefer that I remain at Hadlow I am certain the earl will understand.”

“No, no, you are free to accept the earl’s invitation and do as you wish.” Except, deep down, Rowan wanted to demand she remain at Hadlow, specifically somewhere he could keep watch over her. Better yet, he wanted Marce to want to stay with him—errr, at Hadlow. From her restless, tense stance, she likely wished to be as far from his erratic behavior and outbursts as possible. “Do enjoy your ride, Lady Harwich.”

“I intend to, Your Grace.” But still, she made no move to follow the stable master to her waiting horse. Nor did he move to return to his work on the garden. They continued to stare at one another. It was Marce who broke the eye contact first, glancing uneasily over her shoulder and up at the manor. “Be advised that Leona is awaiting you in her chambers.”

He was certain an outright look of panic crossed his face, for his body stiffened again, and his head throbbed.

“Do not fret,” she continued reluctantly. “She thinks you are helping the groundskeeper.”

“That is exactly what I am doing,” he retorted.

Marce glanced over his shoulder, her gaze swinging over the garden. “If you say so, Your Grace.”

With that, she stepped around him and headed off toward the stables.

Rowan could do nothing but watch her walk away, her hand rising high in a wave to greet Tobias where he stood just outside the stable door, waiting for her.

Every muscle in Rowan’s body tightened, and spots flashed before his eyes when Tobias waved back, his smile wider than Rowan had ever seen it.

He wondered what in the bloody hell his best friend was up to with his wife.

A shock so intense his knees threatened to buckle coursed through Rowan at the thought.

Not his wife. Marce was not his spouse, nor would she ever be.

He’d spoken the truth when he said she could do as she pleased. She could accept Tobias’s invitation or not, it mattered naught to him.

It shouldn’t make any difference what Marce did with her time at Hadlow Estate or whom she chose to spend it with. Actually, Tobias was doing Rowan a favor by keeping the woman occupied and out of his way. He should thank his friend.

So why did Rowan have the overwhelming urge to follow the pair and demand that he be included in their outing?

An excursion between his counterfeit wife and his best friend…there were at least a dozen things more pressing and worthy of Rowan’s time. Namely, restoring some semblance of order to the garden he’d destroyed during his moment of madness.