Rowan stood perfectly frozen, the air trapped in his lungs, and his entire body tense. Focusing his glare on the single blond curl that had been lightly grazing her creamy shoulder since he entered the room, Rowan pleaded with his head to stop spinning. He must remain in control. If he let his guard fall for even a moment, he’d never get the control back.

He’d accused her of bedding his best friend, all because Rowan selfishly longed for the connection the pair obviously had.

Yet, her words invaded every crevice of his mind, making Rowan question both his words and the feelings behind them. In his heart of hearts, he knew Marce and Tobias had not betrayed him.

“You do not have the right to end our arrangement.” Rowan knew that wasn’t accurate. If she were willing to give up Craven House, then there was nothing to hold her to their bargain. She was free to walk out of Hadlow and never look back. How had he not seen this coming?

“I haven’t had many rights for these last eight years, but I assure you, I do have the resourcefulness to call an end to our outlandish charade.” Her chin didn’t so much as tremble, and her eyes remained locked on his—the determination he saw there banishing his anger.

He shouldn’t be wounded by the friendship she’d found with Tobias. If it did not affect his mother’s happiness, then Rowan should be content. The duchess did not deserve such a betrayal, however. No matter how feigned Rowan and Marce’s relationship was, it was real to her. His mother cared deeply for Marce, and he’d misguidedly thought she felt the same about the duchess.

Rowan was a fool, likely far surpassing his father’s delusions.

How long had Tobias and Marce’s closeness diminished Rowan’s standing with his friend? He’d been content to keep Marce at arm’s length, but he’d never meant for Tobias to exclude him from such an important thing in his life, even if that thing was the woman who’d caused Rowan’s family to collapse.

And Marce stood before him without so much as a simple denial of his accusations.

How had he ever thought an arrangement with a woman who gained her living by bedding men would benefit him? There had never been any degree of trust in their cold, removed association.

She was the bloody proprietress of the famed Craven House, a gentlemen’s brothel. Everything about her spoke to refinement and poise, exactly what she’d want her clientele to pay handsomely for. And in a way, Rowan would be paying handsomely for many years when his mother learned of his lies.

No, Rowan could not dwell on the repercussions of his folly. Marce had to remain at Hadlow, at least for a couple of days. Then, they would depart, and she would return to Craven House and see her words for what they truly were…impulsivity. There was no chance she’d thought through all the consequences of ending their association: losing her home, admitting to her siblings she’d failed them, and being cast to the street like a pauper. She’d never been the least bit impulsive; however, Rowan took hold of that possibility with a vise-tight grip.

“You will be without a home.” Perhaps reminding her of that simple fact would spark some sense in her. “Where will you go?”

Would Tobias be hurt by her disappearance from Hadlow? What of his mother?

How would he survive losing her?

It was a most absurd thought, but the only question that clawed at his insides, the pain so great he feared it would soon be too much to take.

“I will find another home.”

“It is that simple?”

“Certainly,” she replied without a hint of the trepidation that coursed through him when his anger continued to recede. “You think me daft enough to believe Craven House would ever actually be mine once more?”

He wanted to shout that Craven House had never been hers. Not when her mother ran the brothel nor after her death.

A confident smirk settled on her perfect lips. “I have saved every spare shilling since the night you came into my family’s home and stole our independence.”

Rowan rarely considered finances in any of his life decisions; his coffers were overflowing from many generations of shrewd Harwich dukes. Even in his daily business dealings, it wasn’t the cost of a project or the funds in surplus that mattered, but the integrity of the men he chose to embark on business ventures with that played into his decisions. If anyone questioned Rowan’s integrity, he was unaware. As everyone had trusted his father, they also trusted Rowan.

That Marce had been socking away money spoke volumes. She’d known from the beginning not to trust him—and the promises he’d made to secure her agreement. She’d questioned his honesty from the moment they met.

“You’ve planned all along to dupe me and cast a shadow of scandal over my family,” he accused, knowing full well he deserved every ounce of her duplicity. He had been the one behind their arrangement, but now he turned to churlish behavior when it all came crashing down around him. “My mother, every day more fragile, will not survive this treachery. And it is at your hand!”

Rowan’s anger flared, but it was aimed only at himself. Every accusation, every cruel word was better focused on his own transgressions.

Her cheeks finally reddened with the anger that Rowan was finding it increasingly difficult to suppress. A measure of satisfaction filled him at the sight of her blue eyes sparking with fury. Let her be angry. Let her rail at him. Let her scream, shout, and cause a fuss. He deserved it all, especially after everything he’d accused her of.

“Your heart, Your Grace, is as black as your coal-hued hair,” she yelled, stomping her slippered foot. The rug muted the sound. “Dare I guess that your soul has been plagued by the same obsidian darkness?”

“If my heart is black, it is only because your family stole every ounce of color from it.”

Her chest heaved against her tightly tied bodice, the mounds of her breasts rising high above her neckline. The pulse at her throat was visible to his eyes when her chin shot up a notch, and she looked down her nose at him—or, his chest, as she was quite petite, another thing he hadn’t taken much notice of before.

When had he stepped so close that their ragged breathing mingled and his boots nearly touched her delicate, white slippers? The familiar aroma of lavender—the soap procured in the local village for Hadlow—clung to her.

“You can go to the devil, Your Grace,” she whispered. “Take Craven House with you for all I care. Or, better yet, burn the house to the ground. I do not care a whit for it…or you.”

No one had ever dared speak to him in such a brazen manner. Their association had always been one of a reserved nature; namely, he’d set forth the terms, and she’d accepted them to escape the consequences of denying him. She’d never shown him even a hint of the fire she was presenting to him now. Their agreement was not completely one-sided.

He’d gained the guise of marriage to assuage his mother’s worry.

And Marce remained in possession of the home his dukedom rightfully owned.

He was able to give his mother a measure of happiness and contentment in her final years, even though he hadn’t expected his mother’s illness to allow her to live for so long.

And in return, Marce continued to support her siblings in a well-appointed neighborhood.

Rowan had even heard that two of her four siblings had married—and married well, to an earl and a marquess as the gossip sheets reported. She should be thanking him for the advantageous outcome. Rowan did not suppose there was much clamoring to secure a match with women born out of wedlock, no matter who their father was. They could be the offspring of a butcher in the East End, or a fishmonger at the docks for all Rowan knew.

Could it be that the woman before him did not see the benefits of their bargain?

Rowan hadn’t any notion what to say or how to gain her willingness to stay at Hadlow. She had every right to call into question his standing as a gentleman and a lord most proper. Since that fateful day he’d spied his father in the warm interior of Craven House, surrounded by Marce and her siblings, while his own mother lay fairly dying in childbirth, Rowan had been a rogue, a scoundrel, and a reprobate only concerned with exacting his own brand of vengeance on this woman and her family.

Would he have truly followed through on his threat and tossed Marce and her young siblings from their home? Had it all been a bluff, an empty threat, and something he’d never be called upon to fulfill? In his period of mourning, Rowan had been blind. Blinded by so many things: his hatred for his father, his worry over his mother, and the all-consuming need to make certain that someone paid for it all. The duchess had lost precious time with her husband because of the duke’s infidelity. Many a time, Rowan wondered if Sasha were the only one who stole his father’s heart or if there had been women before or after her.

Losing Julian’s attention and affection had weighed on the duchess so much, Rowan feared that her ailments had progressed because of her feelings of abandonment. It had been Rowan’s cross to bear, especially after discovering where and with whom his father had found solace.

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.