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.

Standing, she glanced about the room, seeing her things everywhere—her brushes and hairpins on the dressing table, her clothes in the standing closet, and her muddied boots from her ride set against the far wall, waiting to be cleaned. Even her stationery table sat on the bed, the coverlet rumpled from her afternoon attempt at a nap. She hadn’t dared pack her things before it was time to depart for fear that someone would stumble upon her bags and alert the duke. Her maid, and every other servant at Hadlow, was loyal to Rowan, as they should be.

Surprise was her only chance to flee Kent without a scene.

If given the opportunity, Rowan would come up with another reason to hold Marce to their arrangement, and she couldn’t chance that there was something she’d missed. Something else Rowan could use against her to reassert his control. A nagging sense that she was misreading the situation pulled at her.

What if Rowan let her go without a fuss?

What if he claimed good riddance and cast her from Hadlow without further argument?

Would that hurt as badly as his past manipulations? Thinking that she meant so little to him that being rid of her would cause him no grief? After all this time, imagining that he would wash his hands of her, take her home, and be content to never see her again. It shouldn’t bruise her pride or injure her feelings in the slightest. They’d used one another long enough. Parting was the next logical step, was it not?

There was no time to think further on the subject. Leona was waiting for her.

With one final look about the room she’d called hers since first coming to Hadlow, Marce turned to depart as knuckles rapped at the door. It was not the light, nearly silent tap of her maid, nor the sharp, quick knock of the housekeeper. Even Pearl had a singularly identifiable cadence when she presented herself at Marce’s door.

Perhaps it was a footman come to collect her, silently chastising her for keeping the duchess waiting.

“I am nearly ready,” she called to whoever waited in the hall. She brushed at her cheeks, surprised to feel the moisture from shed tears. This was not a sad moment. Breaking the chains that bound her to Rowan should be freeing…it was freeing, or at least it would be once she gained a private moment to confront him. “Please let the duchess know I will only be a moment longer.”

Marce pinched her cheeks to return her color.

The knocking began again, growing louder and more persistent. There was no mistaking the harsh, unrelenting pounding for that of Mrs. Giles or the maid.

Marce leapt back in fright as the latch sprang open and the door swung wide, slamming against the edge of her dressing table—a single, long crack splitting her mirror.

Uncertain whom she expected to see on the other side, Marce did not think to face Rowan, his glare narrowed as his eyes darted about the room in search of her.

“Your Grace,” she whispered, clutching her throat. “What—what can I…what are you doing in my chambers?”

“Your chambers?” he scoffed, glancing about the room again as if he at least had sense enough to make sure her maid wasn’t present. “Hadlow belongs to me. Everything in it belongs to me.”

Her stomach sank at the hard edge to his tone. He was angry, that much was obvious, but something else showed in his pained stare. Hurt? Desperation? Mayhap, defeat?

Someone—Tobias, perhaps—had told Rowan of her plans. She’d thought she could trust the earl, that their years of friendship meant something beyond him being an ear for the duke. Any chance of her leaving Hadlow before Rowan could muster another con to keep her under his thumb was gone. Or, worse yet, he could restrain her, taking away her chance to flee entirely.

Rowan strode to the open wardrobe door, his movements jerky, and glanced inside before peeking behind her dressing screen and along the far side of her rumpled bed.

His eyes darkened further while his movements became strident, his cheeks turning crimson and flushed.

If she thought she would succeed, Marce would dart from the room and find safety with the duchess. Certainly, Leona would not allow anything untoward to occur in her presence, especially to Marce. The determined set of Rowan’s shoulders told her escape was impossible—and futile. He’d find her, much like the lions of the wild stalked their prey.

Marce was Rowan’s quarry.

And didn’t it seem appropriate that now was the precise moment he’d take her down?

The pit of her stomach dropped as her fighting instincts kicked in, her hands clutching into tight fists. Not that she thought Rowan would ever physically harm her. No, this was something else entirely. Instinct also heightened her every sense. Her back was to her dressing table with the door to her right and her wardrobe closet to her left. Rowan stood before her, between Marce and her mattress. Not that the bed offered any means of escape.

He took a step toward her, and without thinking, Marce retreated two steps, her legs slamming into the bench of her dressing table and knocking it over.

“Your Grace, I must—“

“You mustn’t do anything but tell me the truth, I assure you,” Rowan spoke with a quiet resolve belying his agitated state, his green eyes lighting with precise focus. “Sit.”

Marce most certainly would not. She was already at a disadvantage where she stood. Sitting and permitting Rowan to tower over her was not something she was prepared to do. She’d allowed him to hold such control over her the day they met in her office at Craven House, but not now. Too much had changed since then. Or more to the point, the duke had barged his way into Marce’s life and taken so much from her.

“What do you wish to know?” she gulped. Focusing on keeping her arms at her sides, Marce lifted her chin and stared up at Rowan. “I shall endeavor to be truthful and hide nothing.”

She would not cower before him, for she was not weak.

“I would know what you are up to,” he demanded. “You will tell me now, lest my irritation turn to anger.”

“Your pinked cheeks and rigid stance speak to the fact that it’s already too late, Your Grace.”

“Do not play coy with me, woman.”

“I must admit, I am not versed in the art of coquettish decorum.”

“Ha-ah.” He slapped at his thigh as if she’d told the finest jest, but the gesture was too irregular for her to think he actually found humor in her words. “Come now, Marce, do not think me a fool. My father, God rest his tortured soul”—He raised his empty hand in solute and turned his gaze toward the ceiling, acting as if he drank from a glass before focusing on her again—“was certainly a halfwit, but I am not.”

“I would never assume as much, Rowan.”

“You think to use my given name? As if we are friends of some sort.”

Marce’s mouth flapped open as she attempted to find the words to calm him. If his behavior had been erratic and suspect in the gardens, he was downright frightening in his menacing nature now.

“Mayhap it is you who is the fool,” he mused. “Thinking Tobias would keep your secrets from me.” He turned away from her and faced the bed. Marce glanced at the door for only a brief moment.

This moment was as good as any to follow for her escape.

The cords in his neck tensed as his desperation turned to something far darker. “Has he visited you here?” he asked, gesturing to Marce’s rumpled bed sheets. “Or mayhap you journey to Cresthaven Park to see him.”

“What?” Marce stumbled over the word, not fully believing she’d heard him correctly.

“I suppose I must take after my mother a bit as it took me this long to notice what was going on right in my own house. My best friend and my—” His words cut short.

“Yes, Rowan, your best friend and your…what?” She was baiting him. It was wrong, and would only end badly for her, yet how could she not pressure him to finish? If he said the word—not that she knew what it would be—it would certainly be simpler to tell him to go to the Devil. Regardless, she was leaving Hadlow Estate and Rowan. When he remained silent, she prodded, “Your what, Rowan?”

His eyes flashed and clouded.

This would likely be the only moment of true honesty between them.

“Do not squander this private moment to share with me how you truly feel.” Marce took a step toward Rowan. It was his turn to retreat. “There is no one here but you and I. This meeting is years in the making. Your what?”

“You are nothing to me; however, no matter what profession you embroil yourself in while in town, you will see to it that you do not conduct business in my home.”

Marce’s breath left her in a whoosh. It was as if someone had punched her in the gut. No, not someone—Rowan. And he questioned her friendship with Tobias, of all people. “You accuse me of bedding Lord Cresthaven…and doing so to earn a living?”

She wasn’t certain what offended her more—Rowan thinking she and Tobias were intimate, or that he’d called her a whore. Marce had never so much as lain with a man, let alone embarked on illicit coupling with Tobias while in residence at Hadlow.

Marce had half a mind to confirm his accusation—if she thought it would injure Rowan as much as he’d wounded her.

“Need I remind you, Your Grace,” she seethed, placing her hands on her hips. “It was you who came to me and demanded that I fulfill the financial obligation to your family. Need I also remind you that it was you who demanded I agree to your proposition or risk my entire family being turned out onto the cold, harsh streets of London? What I do, and do not do, outside of those obligations is not your concern.”

“Nowhere in our arrangement were you to seduce my best friend.” He stepped forward, mirroring her pose, but Marce was not prepared to back down.

“Nothing in our agreement forbid it either,” she challenged.

“It is just not proper.”

It was Marce’s turn to laugh. “Nothing about our arrangement is proper.”

He cursed under his breath, running his hand through his hair, mussing it even more.

“But, be that as it may,” Marce said, straightening her shoulders, attempting to give herself the nerve needed to continue. “I have been meaning to speak with you about—”

“Is this what you wanted a private moment to discuss?” He paused for a moment, dragging in a deep breath. “You and Tobias?”

“No, Rowan. However, I did come to Hadlow with the intent to end our association.” She’d spoken the words, there was no going back. A weight she hadn’t realized she carried all these years fell from her. Freedom would be hers, as long as she remained calm and escaped Hadlow. “And I am well aware of the repercussions of my decision. If you allow me to collect a few belongings—family mementos and clothing—from Craven House, I will turn over the house”—she could no longer think of it as a home—“to you within a few days.”

And with those words, the gravity of her decision set upon her.

She’d always been Marce Davenport of Craven House. Now, she was simply Marce Davenport. Hadn’t that been exactly what she desired?

Looking up into Rowan’s tantalizingly raw and hungry green eyes had Marce wondering if she’d misinterpreted her true desires.