Marce reclined against the pillows fluffed at her back as she pulled the covers even higher and tried to wish away the pounding in her head. Two nights with nary a moment’s rest was taking its toll on her. Exhaustion seeped from every pore, and her muscles ached—though that was likely from her outing on horseback as much as the exhaustion. London—and her normal daily life—did not allow for many days spent upon a horse.

Glancing at her door, Marce confirmed it was indeed still latched tightly with her dressing table bench pressed close. She’d claimed a headache the night before to escape dinner with Leona and keep her maid from coming to her in the wee hours of the day when the sun was barely cresting over Lord Cresthaven’s manor. She supposed it was her due that she’d truly been set upon by a headache sometime during the endless hours of the night.

Her stomach let out a growl, reminding Marce that she’d forgone her meal the previous evening and was long past the hour she usually broke her fast.

If she departed her room, the likelihood of happening upon Rowan was higher than if she remained in her chambers.

The notion of sending word to Tobias about everything had been quashed without much thought. Marce knew she should warn the earl of Rowan’s accusations, but that would only further draw Tobias into the midst of a problem that didn’t concern him. She and Tobias had never been intimate; never more than an appropriate touching of hands—hers glove-covered—when the situation demanded it. Never had he invited to her Cresthaven Park without Rowan in attendance.

While Rowan’s allegations about her relationship with Tobias stung, it was his utter ignorance about her life in London that truly wounded her. They’d known one another for all these years, yet, he still believed Craven House nothing more than a brothel. For a man who prided himself on his successful business ventures, his complete lack of interest and knowledge in her was, frankly, startling. Was he utterly daft, or did he truly have no interest in her daily life?

His attention to his business endeavors was something she’d read in The Post, not that Rowan had ever shared that tidbit of information with her. Perhaps it was their dealings that were of little import to him.

How could he so readily connect himself to her and not know a thing about her? Her life, her chosen career, her family…he knew none of it, and had never shown any interest in asking. All these years, he’d believed her to be a common whore. A woman whose life depended on her ability to sell her body.

Even Tobias had learned more about Craven House and the good deeds Marce and her siblings did within its walls. It was not the best-hidden secret about town. Anyone who asked could learn that while Marce still hosted several high-stakes card games during the week, she allowed no improper behavior, no drunken tirades, and no scandalous antics within her walls. Men acted as gentlemen should while in her home. And in return, they could wager to their hearts’ content and stay until the early morning hours. Men from Seven Dials could sit beside the Duke of Northumberland, as long as their funds were good and they didn’t wager above their means. As long as they conducted themselves with decorum and tact, they were allowed to remain—and return. There were no arguments, and no game had ever ended in the throwing of fists.

Marce collected five percent of every hand for the house, and in return, the men were fed and given a clean, private room where they could play cards.

The women she helped, as well as Marce’s siblings, stayed in their private chambers, and no man dared break Madame Marce’s rule by setting foot on the stairs leading to the floors above.

Marce pushed the covers back and departed her bed, pacing along the length of the room.

Her irritation was evident in the stomp of her stocking-covered feet.

How dare Rowan speak of her—to her—in such a disrespectful manner?

She should have fled Hadlow Estate during the dark of night. It was more than the duke deserved for his abhorrent behavior. Calling her a whore and then being so bold as to kiss her.

It was unthinkable!

Maddeningly brazen.

She should have kicked him in the shin for his impertinent, brash actions when he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers—though he was not plagued by a weak lower lip or clammy skin.

Brow furrowing, Marce chastised her wandering thoughts, which, in turn, brought images of a shirtless duke to the forefront of her thoughts once more.

“Bollocks!” she cursed.

Why had her body so readily responded to his scandalous advances? It was as if the years of tension between them had built to that exact moment—as if all that had come before had led them to that one kiss. It was undeniablly true that she’d begun to see the duke in a far different light during this stay in Kent. She’d seen his calm exterior falter, and she’d been drawn to it. He’d lost control at their dinner party and in the garden. It had always been Rowan’s way to have every detail outlined and every person in his presence act accordingly; however, something had altered. Leona was not doing as Rowan demanded. Tobias had broken and spoken of Rowan’s past. And Marce had decided to leave Rowan.

Yet, instead, she’d found herself in his arms, enjoying the touch of his lips to hers.

She was not fool enough to deny that she’d known the danger she flirted with the moment Rowan stepped into her private chambers. The sensible thing would have been to demand that he leave, cast him from the room, and bolt the door.

But…she’d wanted him to remain.

And when he stepped forward and kissed her, her entire body had rejoiced, though she suspected a need already within her had been awoken by his touch.

Though her body had betrayed her, her mind—and her heart—had not. No, her reason would never stray in such a manner.

Pivoting, Marce stalked toward the hearth, its coals grown ashy, grey, and cold; however, if a chill had invaded her room, it hadn’t sunk through the long sleeves of her night shift yet.

If she were wise, she’d gather her things, stuff them into her traveling trunk, and depart with all due haste. Return to London, arriving not long after midday, and remove her possessions from Craven House before Rowan arrived to banish her for good. Or would he send a magistrate with the appropriate paperwork?

Rowan didn’t appear the type to muddy his hands with such trivial things. Peculiar that something as inconsequential as a house to Rowan, used to be the difference between life and certain death for Marce and her family. Blessedly, she’d seen to those issues and made certain the loss of her family home would not mean the end for her.

If Rowan changed his mind and refused her transport to London, she would summon a carriage on her own. Certainly, the servants would not deny her request.

There was nothing left for Marce at Hadlow—had never been anything lasting for her at the duke’s estate. Rowan thought her nothing but a common whore. Though she did not sell her body, he was correct in a way. She’d done far worse by selling her soul. Part of her wondered if she would have given herself to another to save her family if it had come down to it. Without a doubt, Marce would have given her entire being to protect and care for her siblings. She was not foolish enough to think otherwise.

They’d had that brief time after her father’s death when it had only been her mother and her brother, Garrrett, and they’d been cast out of their home by her father’s heir, her half-brother. It was no secret that he’d always despised his father’s second wife and the two children who’d come from their union, but to throw his blooded siblings from their home with no recourse or funds was incomprehensible. Until her dying breath, Marce would never forgive Benton for it.

Marce closed her eyes, begging the horrible memories to stay buried. It had been years since she’d been cut low by Benton’s cruel actions. Yet, visions from that fretful night smashed into her conscious mind. The horrid argument between her mother and half-brother—words such as strumpet, harlot, and nouveau riche flung about from her sibling while Sasha hurled her own insults in return: pompous ass, ungrateful swine, and unhinged, deranged lunatic.

All things Marce’s seven-year-old self hadn’t understood; however, she’d been wise enough to know that with each word leveled, the divide between her mother and the new Lord Buckston grew.

It hadn’t been until Benton accused Marce and Garrett of being bastards, born of an affair, Marce had turned into a wild-eyed madcap. She’d waited until her mother fled the room in tears before slipping in to give her brother—a man she’d thought highly of only a few days before—a piece of her mind and went at him, claws bared like a wild hellion cat. She yelled, berated, and mauled him.

She remembered that night as if it were yesterday: the way the expensive wax candles adorned her father’s study, how her fingers had ached and her nails had bled after her unrelenting assault, and the manner in which her head had cracked against the wooden leg of the lounge when her half-brother had nearly thrown her across the room to escape to his own chambers.

She’d felt a measure of satisfaction as she lay on the floor listening to Benton flee through the house—as only the innocent, misguided mind of a child could.

The next morning, she’d been greeted by her mother and called to ready herself with all due haste, and told to collect only things she could carry in the pockets of her pinafore, essentials she deemed absolutely necessary.

They’d been cast from their home at Buckston townhouse an hour later.

The guilt and remorse from that night had stayed with Marce all these years. She’d been the reason her mother was thrown from her home—and that expulsion was not something she ever wanted her younger siblings to experience.

The horror of that night was only overshadowed by the evening the Duke of Harwich had come to collect on the debt owed to his family.

Both had altered Marce’s view of any man who sought her out. Motives and the means to control her…that was what Benton and Rowan had in common, though never had the duke so much as placed a hand on her or raised his voice at her, unlike her unscrupulous brother.

Until the previous night.

She was unsure if his actions were out of line with his normal behaviors because, beyond their infrequent trips to Hadlow, Marce did not know the man on a personal level. He could be an abuser of women for all she knew, but she’d never heard rumors to that effect. He could be accustomed to shouting to attain what he wanted, yet who would do business with a lord that acted as such? She shook her head, dispelling her naïve thoughts.

Despite all that, or likely because of it, Marce had been adamant about never speaking of her past with Rowan.

What if he were a cruel man and thought Benton’s actions justified—or worse yet, warranted?

Marce had once been an ignorant, guileless child, but she hadn’t been that in many, many years.