A draft traveled down the deserted hallway, sneaking past Rowan’s expertly tied cravat and sending goose pimples down his arms. The chilly, moist breeze could set further illness upon his mother, settle in her lungs, and cause even more coughing fits. He’d speak with Pelton about his grievance as soon as he had a moment to himself, and after the entire wing was checked for deficiencies that allowed the cold winter air in. Every windowpane and doorframe would need to be reinforced and sealed.

Damnation. He shouldn’t have anything more troubling to tend to than his mother’s health and well-being; yet, here he was, loitering outside her private chambers and waiting for Marce to appear. He could have waited downstairs or outside her quarters, but Rowan was terrified of what the women spoke of. There was no doubt that Marce was saying her goodbyes, making an excuse to depart Hadlow; however, he also feared she’d let slip mention of their farce.

He needed to be close at hand when it happened to soften the blow for his mother.

Rowan had never wanted to lie to the duchess. He cared for her more than he cared for his own well-being. That was not true…he’d lied by omission when he discovered his father’s infidelities. And he’d outright lied when he introduced Marce as his wife and duchess.

Ever since that day, he’d feared this moment. Even though a part of him never thought it would come to this—the time when his deceptions would be brought to light and his mother would no longer cherish him.

The duchess had been ill for so many years…

He’d wanted his charade with Marce to be over years prior, but not at the expense of losing his mother’s love. Her disappointment would crush him.

Rowan stepped closer to the door and listened for any sound that suggested their meeting was coming to an end. What did he expect to hear? Sobbing? Laughter? Raised voices?

Anything would be welcome after his extensive wait in the hall without anything to occupy him but his thoughts.

Only during the dark hours of night had he come to the realization that his mother discovering his deception was a good thing. And when he made the discovery, he’d instantly felt an immense burden lift from his stooped shoulders. No more would he be an actor in his home and around his own mother. He could just…be.

That would mean letting Marce go while he remained to pick up the pieces and reassemble the splintered remnants of his life. With surety, Rowan would let her go. No man owned a woman so wholly as to keep her against her will. Not even he could be so cruel, despite all the harsh words he’d hurled at her the previous day.

Had his father felt similarly? Had he lived in fear every day that his betrayals would be discovered by his wife and son? How had it weighed so little on him as it dragged Rowan so low? While Rowan prided himself on not being his father’s son, he had perpetuated his father’s sins. An outsider would have a difficult time distinguishing between the two men.

Rowan had a difficult time believing his father would have felt any remorse for injuring his family and tarnishing their good name. Not that the Harwich dukedom was even remotely as important to Rowan as his mother.

Finally, Rowan heard the door between his mother’s drawing room and her bedchamber open. Two voices mingled together as Marce and the duchess moved closer to him, though the solid, closed door kept his presence hidden.

“…you will tell them I send my kindest regards?” his mother’s raspy tone said.

“Of course, Your Grace. And I will certainly write while away,” Marce’s melodic voice chimed in. “But you must promise me you will rest—” His mother must have nodded agreement, but Marce continued. “Very good. And do not venture into the garden until the weather has warmed considerably. Oh, and make sure Pearl accompanies you.”

“Of course, my child, of course.”

Remorse pulled at his stomach upon hearing his mother’s affectionate, playful tone.

“I cannot apologize enough for having to hurry off before the duke and I had planned to depart; however, Payton’s letter said it was urgent, and I must not tarry. I needs must return home immediately.” Marce paused, and Rowan imagined the two women embracing. “Rowan will remain here until it is time for us to leave for another business venture.”

“Are you certain his presence is not also needed in London?”

“Oh, I can handle matters with my siblings, Your Grace,” Marce countered.

Yes, Marce would certainly offer any reason for him to remain at Hadlow and not follow her back to town.

Following her to London was certainly not something Rowan wanted to do, but lingering at his estate seemed a fate worse than the aforementioned journey. To grovel at Marce’s feet, to cast himself on her mercy would only hurt more when she denied him even a speck of forgiveness. Clemency Rowan had done nothing to earn.

“Again, I am exceedingly sorry for cutting my stay short.”

“Mayhap I can journey to London with you during the warmer months,” his mother prodded as the women’s footsteps came closer to the door. The duchess’s steps were punctuated by the thump of her cane. “It has been years, and I have yet to make the acquaintance of any of your family, dear.”

Rowan leaned closer, placing his ear against the door, enthralled by the conversation. His mother had never questioned him about Marce’s family or stated her desire to meet them. It was most peculiar. He’d thought she wasn’t interested in them, or that Marce had spoken of them being away at boarding school or some such nonsense. Yet, that did not answer the question of why they never visited around the holidays or spent their summers at Hadlow.

“I think Rowan and I would adore your presence in London, though we need to gain the physician’s approval before we even so much as think of arranging the trip.”

Rowan leapt back when the latch groaned as someone—likely Marce—grasped the handle to open the door. Nervously, he glanced up and down the empty corridor. Waiting outside his mother’s room had been a mistake, a folly of epic proportions.

He would either look the desperate fool or like a perverse stalker.

Neither would reflect well on him.

Perhaps he could pretend as if he weren’t arriving at his mother’s room and only using the hall on his way to a different location within Hadlow.

Utter rubbish.

Anyone who resided at the estate knew the hall led to one of two places—the duchess’s private chambers or the room of her companion, Miss Pearl.

He certainly was not seeking out the elderly woman who’d chosen a life of servitude to his mother over marriage and a family of her own.

His decision was clear—as crystalline as the blue of Marce’s eyes.

He was in the west wing to see his mother. That Marce was departing her room—and that he and Marce had argued and kissed recently—was merely an unfortunate coincidence. As the lord of the manor, Rowan had every right to be where he stood and to visit the woman within the quarters beyond.

Whether that meant Marce or the duchess…it was better if no one asked.