“Have you lost what little sense you previously possessed?” Tobias growled, slamming his hand on the mantel above the hearth in the Cresthaven study. “I cannot imagine your mother will allow you to live long after she discovers her son made such lurid remarks—to a lady, no less. Do you think word will not get back to her?”

Rowan did not so much as flinch at his friend’s unusual outburst. Slouching lower in the overstuffed chair he preferred when visiting Tobias at his home, he swirled the amber liquid in his tumbler. There was nothing that could further impact his mood, either for the positive or the negative.

There was no denying that Rowan was an utter scoundrel. A blackguard. The least worthy of the title gentleman.

Since Marce’s departure, he had told himself at least that much.

For the last several days, his servants ignored him, and Pearl outright gave him the cut direct.

And worst of all, his mother continued in her contented ways, not knowing the fatal blow her heart would soon take when she learned of the duplicitous nature of those around her.

He was as alone as he’d ever been. Even coming to Tobias and admitting what he’d said and done had taken much from Rowan, especially when he’d openly accused Marce of dallying with Tobias behind Rowan’s back. Tobias was his friend, but in this moment, the earl was far more loyal to Marce. It was to be expected. Rowan actually believed she deserved Tobias’s friendship more than he did.

He sipped from his glass, stopping himself from draining the spirits and requesting another. Drinking was not likely to solve any of his problems. Of that, he was sure.

Why he’d thought Tobias would lend an ear without chastising him was still a mystery. Is that not what true friends did? Chastise you when you did something reckless and foolish?

“Mayhap I should return to Hadlow and tell my mother the truth,” Rowan mused before bringing his lips to the rim of his glass once more and—throwing caution to the wind—draining it. “At least then I can depart for Scotland. When I return in a few months, her anger should have subsided.”

“You think it is anger she will feel?” Tobias scoffed. “You have larger issues to contend with than I thought, Ro.”

“I was surprised Marce requested a coach back to London and didn’t flee to Cresthaven immediately after our argument.” Rowan set his empty tumbler on the table beside him, focusing his sightless stare on the flames in the hearth.

“Why in heavens would Marce come here?”

“Because the two of you are involved.” He propped his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin falling to rest on his open palm. “I know it was preposterous of me to take offense that you found comfort with her. Even if the affair was behind my back.”

“Are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth, or are you spouting nonsense just to hear your voice?” Tobias snatched Rowan’s glass from the table and refilled it, returning it to his elbow.

“It is fine, Tobias. Marce did not deny my accusations when I confronted her with them.”

“There was no reason for her to deny such ludicrous and insulting claims,” Tobias said, slumping into the chair next to Rowan and facing the warmth of the fire. They sat in silence for a few moments—so long that Rowan thought his friend was so bored with the conversation that he’d fallen asleep. Finally, he said, “I have never had an interest in Marce beyond friendship. You brought her to Kent, forced her to pose as your wife, and all but left her to fend for herself when in residence. That was not fair.”

“I know that now.”

“No, I do not think you do.” Tobias turned to face Rowan. “Marce is a resilient woman.”

“I am aware.”

“She is beautiful…beyond the classic beauty favored by the ton.”

Rowan reached out blindly and collected this drink. “There is no question about that.”

“You stole her chance at a normal future.”

Rowan could only shrug. He’d done what Tobias accused him of. There was no reason to deny it.

“You blackmailed her into acting as your wife for eight years,” Tobias growled. “Do you think this scandal will not make its way to London? The gossips may have been kept in the dark about your charade up until now, but once you take possession of Craven House, the scandal sheets will have their way. Marce will be ruined. And not only that, she gave up all these years to you. Years she should have been searching for a husband who truly loved her. Years where she could have had her own family. All for what? To satisfy your animosity toward your father?”

“She is but the proprietress of a brothel,” Rowan countered. “How many prospects did she think to have? I allowed her to keep her family home. Her siblings had a roof over their heads because I did not walk in and cast them all from the property my dukedom rightfully owns. If anything, she should thank me.”

“If we were not longtime friends, and you did not have nearly six inches on me, I would demand retribution for your words.”

“Those are the only reasons?” Rowan prodded, glancing at this friend from the corner of his eye.

“Those, and I would hate for your mother to be disappointed with me.”

“Something I obviously have no qualms about.”

“I do not believe that to be true.”

Rowan chuckled bitterly. How could Tobias still think there were redeeming qualities to him? “Mayhap I deserve to be called to account for my behavior.”

“That will solve nothing, and likely injure us both,” Tobias mused. “What would better serve would be for us to discuss your plans to fix this. After what you did to Marce, and her brother’s betrayal before you, she will surely never trust a man again.”

“What of her brother?” Rowan crossed his legs at the ankle, refusing to alert Tobias to his piqued interest in the change of topic. “I have heard they are close.”

“Not Lord Garrett.” Tobias shook his head, staring down into his tumbler as he swirled the liquid. “Her eldest brother. Buckston.”

“The Marquess of Buckston?” Rowan’s neck heated, and his pulse increased. “I was not aware that Marce’s mother was Buckston’s mistress at one time.”

“Not mistress.” Tobias’s voice echoed in the room as if he’d shouted it. “Wife. Marce’s mother was the Marchioness of Buckston, the former Lord Buckston’s second wife. Marce and Garrett were born of their marriage.”

“That would make her the current Lord Buckston’s half-sibling. She’s Benton’s sister?” Rowan stood, fleeing the fire’s warmth as his skin heated past the point of being tolerable. “Davenport. I never suspected that she was from that Davenport line.”

“Not many do.”

“But how did Sasha, a bloody marchioness, come to run a brothel?”

“Benton cast the lot of them from their home after his father’s death. Left them with only the measly funds his father had earmarked for a dowager allowance.”

“That blackguard!” Rowan paced the room, needing a way to expel his irritation. “And she accused me of possessing a black soul.”

“Oh, your soul is still black as night, my friend. Do not think that learning any of this absolves you of your misdeeds. Marce may not be here to hold you accountable, but I am. You did to her exactly what her brother did.”

It is not the same at all. Rowan couldn’t bring himself to utter the words aloud…because it was a lie. Yet another falsehood compounded on the many he’d already told himself, his mother, Tobias, and Marce.

“Marce was thrown from her home at the age of seven,” Tobias sighed. “Lady Buckston’s friends turned away from her and offered no assistance after she was shunned by Buckston’s son and heir. She did what she had to do to support her family, much as Marce has been doing all these years with her siblings.”

It was too much to comprehend. Rowan longed to escape the room and return to his home. Or, even better, leave Kent altogether in an attempt to distance himself from the truth he’d blinded himself to all these years.

“What have I done?” Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Besides make an utter ass of yourself?”

“Tobias, you are not helping my predicament.”

“Oh, I was unaware you sought me out for assistance. I thought you merely came to accuse me of dallying with your wife.”

Rowan stomped across the study and sank back into his chair. “She’s not my wife.”

“For all intents and purposes, dictated by my code of honor as your friend, and as a gentleman, Lady Marce Davenport has been your wife for eight years. Therefore, off-limits to men such as myself. Never would I jeopardize our friendship and the perfect set of my nose by crossing that line. And it would be highly inappropriate to involve Marce in such a scandalous situation.”

“Who do you count as friend?”

“Can I not pledge my undying allegiance to you both?”

“I am not certain that will work in this situation.” Rowan swallowed, hoping to keep his baser motives from being verbalized. He needed a friend in this moment. No, not just a friend, he needed his closest confidante to be there for him—with him.

“Then I choose Lady Marce.” Tobias’s flippant reply bore deeply into Rowan’s already injured pride.

“What? Surely you jest.” Rowan glared at Tobias. They’d shared tutors in their youth and traveled all over England together for business. “Why is she more deserving of your loyalty than I?”

“Simple.” Tobias stared back at him, his eyes wide and his speech slow as if Rowan were a mere child and incapable of understanding. “She has never demanded I choose between the pair of you. And if I were doomed to spend the rest of my life with one of you, it is her I would pick.”

“Because of her beauty?”

“Heavens, yes,” Tobias gasped. “But also because she possesses a wit unparalleled and would make certain I am well cared for.”

Wit. Rowan hadn’t noticed if Marce was indeed in possession of wit—dry, sarcastic, or otherwise. For not the first time in the last several days, he was envious of Tobias. As far as Marce’s caring nature, that was evident in the sheer amount of time she spent with his mother. He’d never demanded that they grow close or that she correspond with the duchess when she was away from Hadlow.

“Do not appear so surprised, Ro,” Tobias continued. “There are facets to Lady Marce Davenport you have yet to see—and much you do not deserve to witness.”

The room fell silent as Rowan pondered everything he’d learned. Tobias relaxed into his chair, his eyes closing.

He took no offense to the man’s turn to slumber. It meant that he would have some peace from his friend’s accusatory tone and pitying glances.

How had he been so oblivious to Marce’s past—and even her present circumstances?

The daughter of a marquess…a proper lady, made to live like a pauper. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the gossips, inquired after Marce’s past where it pertained to him, yet he’d been so focused on her present circumstances—her debt to the Harwich dukedom—he’d neglected to learn more about her. And in the years that’d passed since, his only need was to keep her at arm’s length. If she did not know about the pains of his past, then she could not use it against him.

Instead, he’d relegated her to a place she didn’t belong, much like that scoundrel Buckston.

He hadn’t been jesting when he stated his desire to punch Buckston in the nose for allowing his sister to live in such an unbefitting manner. She should have been raised a lady with proper tutelage and everything else the upper crust of London was afforded. The fact that she’d been raised above a London brothel infuriated him, yet he was responsible for perpetuating the abuse she’d experienced at her half-brother’s hands.

Rubbing at his eyes, Rowan bid his aching head to calm. “She said that we—she and I—were innocents hurt by my father’s and Madame Sasha’s infidelities. Even my mother was a casualty of my father’s betrayal.”

“There is much sense in that,” Tobias said, his eyes drifting open as he stared into the dying embers of the fire. “Beauty, wit, and smarts.”

“I was so angry with him.”

“Have you ever stopped to think that your father’s love could have extended to both Sasha and your family?”

“He abandoned Mother and me,” Rowan retorted. “He remained in London much of the time. He rarely journeyed home for holidays, and if I hadn’t gone to Hadlow each Season, Mother would have suffered alone.”

“Who says your mother suffered?” Tobias asked.

Rowan’s gut tightened. They’d never spoken of the duke’s absence. It had been Rowan’s own rage at his father that had kept him silent regarding his father’s activities. The hurt and heartbreak from yet another failed childbirth had been enough to convince Rowan that he should bury the secret, but it’d been impossible to forget…or forgive.

That rage had only burrowed deeper as the years passed and Rowan saw the way his father ignored his family. So much so that when Julian died before Rowan had the chance to confront him, Rowan had only thought of punishing someone. That person had been Marce, the only link remaining between Julian’s and Sasha’s families.

“How is Leona doing with Marce’s sudden absence?” Tobias cast his arm over his eyes and stretched out his legs before him. “Does she suspect that anything is amiss?”

Rowan scoffed. “Marce told Mother there was a family emergency in London that needed her immediate attention.”

“Simple and effective.”

“Yes, but now Mother questions me every day—sometimes several times a day—about why I didn’t accompany my wife to London.” Each morning, he’d been summoned by the duchess and questioned about Marce: had she written yet? Would she return soon? Shouldn’t Rowan attend to her to remedy the emergency? It took much energy to waylay his mother’s insistent questions. “She went so far as to try and convince her physician that she is able to travel.”

“Travel where?” Tobias asked. “Leona hasn’t left Hadlow in nearly ten years.”

“London, of course,” Rowan sighed.

“I suppose you convinced the good doctor that it would be unwise to take pity on the duchess and agree to the journey?”

“I didn’t need to,” Rowan confessed, staring into his empty glass. “Miss Pearl talked my mother out of her plans. I think the old dragon knows Marce called an end to our farce.”

“If Leona’s companion knows, then the entire staff at Hadlow is aware.”

“I do not doubt that.”

“Then why are you still here?”

Rowan narrowed his glare on Tobias. “Because I am not expected in Scotland for some time. I won’t have Marce sending me fleeing from England.”

“Not England, you fool,” Tobias expelled, exasperation lacing his every word. “In Kent. What are you still doing in Kent? Why are you not on your way to London to make things right with Lady Marce?”

Rowan still had trouble accepting the fact that it was Lady Marce, not simply Miss Marce. It shouldn’t make any difference. A gentleman should treat every woman with the utmost respect. That Marce was nobility shouldn’t matter in the slightest. And did it truly matter now?

“She left, Tobias.” Rowan sat forward, his head spinning slightly. “She wants naught to do with me, and I do not blame her. It is over. There is no reason to hurry to London in an attempt to mend the mess I’ve made. If we are both lucky, society will never get wind of any of it.”

“When do you plan to take back Craven House?”

“I do not want the place.” He’d stepped foot in the house only once, and that was more than enough. The place reminded him of everything he loathed about his father. It was the reason he’d abandoned his family and turned his affection elsewhere. It was where the duke had been when his wife nearly perished giving birth to the duke’s twins—babes who hadn’t survived. It was the place he’d remained after sending Rowan’s mother to live alone at Hadlow. Craven House highlighted the failures of his family. He wanted nothing to do with it.

“So, you are resigned to break your mother’s heart?”

“Of course not,” Rowan retorted. “I’m remaining at Hadlow to make certain she learns nothing of what transpired.”

“And it will not strike her as odd that she never sees your charming wife again?” Tobias chuckled. “While I don’t claim to know the duchess as well as you, I will remind you that she is a very perceptive woman. She will certainly notice when Marce isn’t at your side when you next come to Hadlow.”

Tobias was correct. Even if Rowan were able to keep his mother from finding out about his deception, it was in no way a long-term solution. He was saving her heartache today and postponing the inevitable only to cause greater hurt when she discovered the truth.

“You need to tell her. The sooner, the better, before she overhears a servant speaking of it.”

“I cannot.” He was being a coward. He knew it, and from Tobias’s frown, his friend knew it, as well. “Besides, it has been so many years already with Mother becoming none the wiser. I cannot bring myself to wound her so brutally.”

“Then you have only one option.”

“Do tell.” Rowan sucked in a deep breath, awaiting his friend’s response, certain he would offer the answer to all his problems.

“You must go to London and beg Marce to forgive you.”

“She would likely spit in my face—”

“Then you will wipe it from your chin and ask the woman to wed you for real.”

Rowan’s heart hammered in his chest. Wed Marce? The idea should not shock him so. And Marce agreeing to any such thing would be beyond surprising. “I have no designs on Marce, or on wedding any woman for that matter,” he stammered, the only sign that his motives lay not in his wedding a woman but one certain woman rebuffing his proposal.

“At this point, you need to save your own arse, and Lady Marce Davenport is your only option.” Tobias slammed his tumbler on the small table to his right and pushed to his feet. “Saving your own hide means avoiding injury to your mother, as well. Either we go to London and fix things with Marce, or you return to Hadlow alone to confess everything to the duchess.”

Rowan’s head fell into his hands, and he scrubbed at his face, his eyes gritty from his disturbed slumber over the past two nights. Perhaps he wasn’t thinking clearly. Or more likely, he was thinking plainly for the first time.

Everything he’d said and done made him worthy of being nothing more than his father’s son. He’d lied, not only to his mother and Marce but also to himself. He’d believed for so many years that his actions were justified and that they were righting the wrongs of his past. That one day, when his life was not in shambles, he’d be faced with the decisions he made and know that he’d done right by his mother.

In turn, he hadn’t done right by anyone. He’d cheated Marce, deceived his mother, and made Tobias go along with it all.

He had no right to forgiveness; however, that didn’t mean he shouldn’t try. Even if she turned him away, he needed to tell Marce how he felt. Confess his transgressions and throw himself at her mercy. It was ironic. Only a few days before, he’d have rather thrown himself to a pack of hungry beasts than humble himself before the woman he wronged.

“Horses? Or should we take your coach?” Tobias asked, his brow rising in question.