Rowan stared up at the townhouse that was etched on his memory with such vivid imagery that it was inconceivable to think he’d only stepped foot inside the home once—the night he’d propositioned Marce. The exterior had been freshly painted in the last several years, the windows scrubbed to shine without a hint of the grime so common about London, and the minimal landscaping trimmed and manicured to precise perfection. Even the sign that hung out front proclaiming the place as Craven House held not a speck of dirt where it swung evenly from its post.

Visualizing Marce within was no great feat.

This house was innately her.

Proper, refined, and perfectly outfitted.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Rowan turned to Tobias, sitting across from him in the coach. “Are you getting out, or shall I have the driver take us to my townhouse instead?”

“I’m getting out,” Rowan growled.

As if on cue, the door opened, and two women dressed in plain, grey dresses with white aprons exited the house, then walked down the drive past Rowan’s waiting coach and continued on down the street. Neither glanced in the coach’s direction nor slowed to show that they even noticed its presence.

Rowan glanced at the front window of the townhouse. The drapes were pulled closed, but a sliver of light shone through the gap between the hanging pieces of fabric. Closing his eyes, he pictured the layout of the room—two long lounges, several chairs and tables, an open hearth with a roaring fire, and his father positioned in the middle, surrounded by unfamiliar children. The woman he now knew to be Sasha, pressed close to his side as he read from a book to the gathering of kids. His father hadn’t been alone, despite his misdeeds and the betrayal of his family. And Rowan had done everything in his power to make certain his mother fared better. Yet, he was ever alone. Those around him seemed happier with others—his mother with Miss Pearl, and Tobias with Marce.

A shudder went through him as he pushed the memories aside and opened his eyes to once again stare at Craven House.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to possess the property. He never expected to again set foot inside the place that did nothing but bring back the hurt and betrayal his father’s actions had caused.

Eight years ago, he’d come here with clear intent: to strip everything from the family who’d stolen from his.

Now, Rowan had no plan. He hadn’t any notion what to say or what he meant to accomplish with this visit to Craven House. Certainly, he was not here to propose renewing their ruse, yet neither did he see his other option as favorable. His mother learning of his deception was unacceptable and would only be cruel to her. The mere shock of it all would likely further diminish her health. Rowan would not be responsible for his mother’s decline.

She’d fallen further and further into the clutches of her illness because of his father.

While his sire had needed to go outside their home to find happiness, the duchess had withered without him—and he either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.

“Must I throw you from the coach by your trousers?” Tobias prodded, reclining on his seat. “I can say that a week ago, I would have been opposed to such a thing, but today, I would consider it an honor to push you toward your fate, Ro.”

Tobias intertwined his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and chuckled.

“My fate, huh?” Rowan hadn’t ever pondered such a thing as fate or how Marce—or his long-deceased father—played any role in his future. Certainly, he’d spent countless hours with his solicitor discussing future business ventures, and many days with physicians regarding his mother’s health, but his own future had always seemed far less important. “And what, may I ask, do you know about fate?”

“Just that it is a woman and she has a long memory…”

Rowan rapped on the ceiling of the coach, and his driver, Charles, pulled the door wide. When he made to set down the steps, Rowan called him off and leapt from the conveyance.

Straightening his coat and smoothing the wrinkles from his trousers, Rowan rounded on the coach to see Tobias framed in the open door.

“Fate may be a woman with a long memory, but is it not also my choice?” At that moment, he was uncertain what his future held—or even what the coming hour had in store. He would not allow his doubts to cast a shadow over his confidence. Defeat started inside oneself, and Rowan would not let the feeling take root and corrode him.

Instead, he moved toward the door to Craven House with Tobias’s mutterings following him on the afternoon breeze, “Fool enough not to know when loss is almost upon you.”

Rowan hadn’t lost anything.

“I will present myself, Charles,” he called to his driver. He couldn’t afford for Marce’s servants to turn him away, and it would be simpler for them to bar his entrance if his driver announced his arrival.

Walking up the drive, Rowan concentrated on his even, slow steps as if someone were watching his every move, attempting to spot his weakness. He made certain that his shoulders were not laced with tension and ensured his footfalls were solid as he once again marveled at how normal Marce’s home appeared, especially in the light of day. Would anyone guess the debauchery that commenced within once the sun set? Rowan would be hard-pressed to believe that these walls contained one of London’s most famed brothels if he didn’t know it already.

Craven House clung to the outskirts of a respectable neighborhood, on the fringes of being socially acceptable; however, its exclusivity was so high that Rowan had yet to meet a lord who’d frequented the establishment in years. No one spoke of what went on inside the brothel, and never had he come across even so much as a hint of a bet regarding the bawdy house in White’s betting book.

What was required for a lord to sample the delights only available within the house’s walls? What had Madame Sasha offered his father that had stolen him from his family and led him to purchase the establishment, giving control of it to his mistress?

If it were a mere ounce of the passion he’d sensed hidden under the surface of his and Marce’s kiss, then perhaps it was worth something grand, indeed. Had he found the connection with another person so lacking in Rowan’s life? What he’d searched so many years to find had been given to Julian, and all he’d needed was to overlook neglecting his family.

Startled, Rowan realized he stood on the stoop, his fist held high to knock.

With a deep breath, he rapped his fist on the door.

The portal was quickly answered; however, the young woman who greeted him was not at all what he’d expected. Before him stood a tall, thin girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen, her mahogany hair swept up into a loose coil atop her head. Her gown was reserved, but not that of a servant.

When the girl openly smiled at him as he searched his mind for the correct words, Rowan wished he’d brought Tobias to the door with him. He hadn’t wanted his friend to witness his failure at Craven House, but neither had he expected to be utterly at a loss for words.

“May I help you, my lord?” she asked, her brow rising in question as she crossed her arms protectively over her chest. When she continued to stare, Rowan realized it wasn’t because of any need to protect her person but simply as a common stance—almost verging on defiance. “May—I—help—you?”

Rowan cleared his throat and gave the woman his most charming smile. She looked oddly familiar, as if they’d seen one another at some point. “I am here to call on Lady Marce Davenport.”

It was the first time he’d spoken her true name to anyone besides Tobias, and it rolled off his tongue far easier than he’d expected.

“May I inform her of who is calling?” Her intense gaze traveled from his face, down his chest, and lower, before returning to meet his stare.

“The Duke of Harwich.” No recognition crossed the woman’s face at his name. Could she be completely unaware that she stood on the threshold of his property? He’d never guessed that Marce had kept their arrangement from her family—at least in her own household. However, the woman before him clearly had no clue whom he was. “Is she in residence?”

He hadn’t stopped to think Marce would be away from Craven House when he arrived.

“She is, however”—she paused, glancing over her shoulder—“it is not yet the proper hour for social calls, Your Grace.”

“I hope you can overlook my faux pas as I have only just now arrived in London and came directly to speak with Marc—Lady Marce.” Rowan donned his most reticent smile, hoping the girl took pity on him and allowed him entrance. “I suppose I should have consulted my timepiece before coming.”

The girl scrutinized him in silence. Perspiration gathered at his collar before she finally stepped back and gestured for him to enter.

Though he’d been nearly overcome by his rage and hurt on his last call to Craven House, he remembered enough to see that the foyer hadn’t changed in the slightest. The rug, while made of expensive material, was now aged, and the wooden railing, while pitted, was polished and dust-free. The interior of the dwelling was as precisely maintained as the outside—everything in its place and a proper place for all.

“This way.” The girl walked to the left and pushed open the door to the one room Rowan had vowed never to enter—ever. “I will inform my sister she has a guest.”

Sister? This young woman was Marce’s kin? Perhaps their blooded relationship was why the lingering notion of familiarity clung to his thoughts.

Rowan held the girl’s eye contact as he strolled past her with a nod and entered the room—to await Marce’s attendance.

Instead of hurrying off to collect her sister, the girl leaned against the doorframe and once again examined him. Was she sizing him up? Did she know exactly who he was and sought to punish him for his years of mistreatment? The girl was far too young to be well-versed in the art of torture, though this game she played certainly heightened Rowan’s anticipation of the confrontation to come with Marce. It had only been a few short days since he’d last seen her, but even now, he wondered what color her gown would be, whether her hair would fall freely down her back or be pinned in its usual style…and what of her manner? Would she be angry he came or relieved?

To avoid matching the young woman’s intense stare, Rowan turned his attention to the drawing room in which he stood. For the first time, he was an insider looking out, except the drapes were drawn, and he was alone—just as he’d been when he stood outside on that dark night.

Alone. An occurrence he’d grown accustomed to in recent years due to his travel.

No, not always alone. He had his mother and Tobias. Halting his wayward thoughts, he refused to include Marce in his short list of those who kept him from being utterly alone.

Things were different today from that night. No fire lit the hearth, casting a warm glow across the room’s occupants. No one cluttered the space, causing the area to appear smaller than its actual size. No voices mingled with laughter. Often, in his youth, Rowan had gone so far as to imagine the aroma of the drawing room. Had Madame Sasha served his father warm, spiced rum? Had they enjoyed fresh, sweet orange cakes or date pudding? Had Sasha sent the children off to bed so the pair could cuddle for all to see through the large window?

Glancing back at the door, Rowan saw that the young woman had departed. She’d certainly been among the children who’d enjoyed his father’s attention, yet he could not place her. She would have been one of the younger ones sitting on the floor before his father.

For the first time since discovering the duke’s infidelity, rage did not course through Rowan at the memory. Neither was he filled with the unrelenting need to punish someone—anyone—for his pain.

The shock and denial were long gone. The hurt that had trailed Rowan for all these years, and eventually morphed into the overwhelming sense of guilt he felt, was also not as sharp. He’d grown accustomed to the loneliness of his situation, to the point where he no longer thought it odd that he counted so few as friends.

No, his fury at his father had, at some point, ebbed. Now, Rowan saw the light. His dark days were coming to an end along with the deception.

He was here, at Craven House, not to take what rightfully should have been passed on to Marce and her family, but to put a final end to their ruse and move on.

To be free of the lingering anxiety that hung over him at every turn was almost inconceivable. No longer would he live each day exacting retribution for his father’s misdeeds.

Though, living without the burden of his past weighing him down meant letting Marce go. How could he keep her bound while freeing himself from the shackles he’d made for himself? Rotating slowly, he took in the room that had altered his path in life and changed him into a man he didn’t recognize; one that’d sent him spiraling toward his own demise—all while taking an innocent woman with him.

He’d embarked on each business venture knowing she awaited his return. He’d traveled home to visit his mother with Marce by his side.

It seemed as if Lady Marce Davenport had always been his constant. And now he wondered, what would his life be without her?

Would loneliness overtake him completely, dooming him to continue on with no one by his side? Nothing would matter if he were cursed to a life of solitude without the benefit of a wife and family. He’d thought he lived a full life—one dedicated to his business endeavors and his time at Hadlow. Yet, once his mother was gone, Marce would continue on with a future that didn’t include him, and Tobias would be happily wed, and…Rowan’s life would be without meaning and purpose.