Rowan stormed into Tobias’s townhouse, tossed his coat to the waiting butler, and preceded the servant down the hall to the earl’s study—a room he’d taken over in the two days they’d been in town. The thrashing in his ears caused his entire balance to be thrown into a tailspin. It was bloody inconvenient not to reside in his own house, but word would travel to Hadlow quickly if anyone discovered that he was still in London and not on his way to Scotland as he’d told his mother.

“Damnation.” He slammed the door behind him on his way to the sideboard, stocked heavily with the finest spirits to be found in all of England.

He was chilled to the bone, his skin chaffed and windburned, and his fingers had yet to regain feeling and their proper rosy color.

A stiff drink would help with all of it, except for the confusion that persisted.

Nothing he’d witnessed the last two nights gave him any clarification as to what was what.

And he’d be damned if he hid another night in the bushes across the street from Craven House. There were bloody feral cats living in the shrubs, as evidenced by the putrid smell that clung to his floor-length overcoat. Their meows had nearly done him in, sending him fleeing to his carriage as soon as the sun set.

Two bloody nights—and nothing.

He emptied his glass and poured another before collapsing into the chair closest to the hearth. His body ached from crouching, his neck screamed in pain from where a sharp branch had poked him, and his eyes were dry from the infuriating wind that blew endlessly through the bushes.

How was it possible that he’d seen nothing he expected to see?

Men coming and going during the evening and nighttime hours would have been normal. Candles lit in every room, and the sounds of merriment escaping the house were expected. Drunken men departing Craven House in search of their own homes in the wee hours of the morning would have been par for the course.

Instead, he’d witnessed the mundane workings of any other London townhouse: a servant had left before first light both mornings for the market, several women dressed in unfamiliar servant’s uniforms departed not long after and returned around dinnertime, and the pair he’d seen on his last visit to Craven House, her siblings, had come that very evening at nearly the same time Rowan arrived for his night of observation. He hadn’t the time or the energy to sit all day and watch the house. He hadn’t set eyes on Marce since she cast him out two days prior.

He’d told himself he waited outside each night to check on her well-being, hoping to see her—or anything damning.

But…nothing.

Candles were lit in a few rooms on the second and third floors, but other than those, no room that faced the street was lit after dusk.

How in the bloody hell did a brothel operate without actually operating?

His stare strayed to the desk, a mound of paperwork that needed his attention leaning haphazardly. Any small gust would send the stack careening off the surface and onto the floor.

Focus had eluded Rowan, even during the daytime hours when he locked himself away in Tobias’s study or his guest chambers above, his body demanding sleep that never came as he lay awake and restless. And then he would rise and dress at sunset for another night outside Craven House. He hadn’t known if he would gain anything during his second night of watching the house that he hadn’t witnessed the night before.

A sighting of Marce in the front window with another man? Perhaps validation of some sort? Yes, that’d been exactly what he sought. If he saw her with his own eyes in the arms of another man, it would solidify in his mind that everything he’d done and said to her was, in part, justified. He would be vindicated regarding his assumption of the woman.

There was one thing his hours spent watching Craven House had validated for Rowan…

His time would be better spent on business. He’d sent word excusing himself from the deal in Scotland, but that didn’t diminish the stack of paperwork pertaining to other ventures awaiting his review.

It was long past time for him to admit and accept that things with Marce were over. Done. Complete. He’d told her to keep the house and that her debt to him was settled. So why had he expected to see her again—or, at the least, receive a note from her? Rowan had made certain that she knew he was staying in London—at Tobias’s townhouse—for at least the foreseeable future. For him, nothing with Marce was over and done. Not in any way that he found satisfactory, at least.

Could it be that she didn’t have Tobias’s directions in town? Impossible.

His friend, on the other hand, had insisted Rowan go to her.

At Craven House.

However, the possibility of being turned away again was something his pride would not allow. They owed each other nothing. They should be able to go their separate ways and forget one another.

Yet, Rowan was incapable of spending even five minutes without her golden curls coming to mind. Her clear, bright blue eyes—so much like a cloudless day in Kent. Or the way she walked into every room with the grace and poise of a woman who knew her worth. Even the way she’d treated his mother with the utmost respect and kindness all these years. She hadn’t needed to show the duchess any affection whatsoever; however, they’d become as close as any true mother and daughter pair could be. Bloody hell, but they’d written one another even when Marce wasn’t at Hadlow.

What woman forced into such a charade continued the farce when it wasn’t demanded of her?

There was too much about Lady Marce Davenport that confused and conflicted Rowan. And it was something he could not turn and walk away from until he understood her better. They’d spent the last eight years journeying to Hadlow several times a year, and that meant hours and hours in his coach riding from the Whisper Hook Inn in Welling to his country manor, yet they’d gained no deeper connection or knowledge of one another beyond sharing information with regards to their story.

Why now, only when their farce had come to an end, did Rowan care to learn more about the woman who’d posed as his duchess for all these years? Was he the selfish lord Marce proclaimed him to be? Was his heart as black as the hue of his hair as she’d said?

Though he hadn’t treated her as he should have, Rowan was not the cruel man she accused him of being. He had a heart—a rather large and sometimes inconvenient one as it were. He cared very much for his family, his estates, and his servants—overwhelmingly, or so Tobias was known to say. The ruse had been to protect his mother from the hurt he’d suffered at the hands of his father. Marce had only been a means to an end—the woman who needed something from him as much as he needed something from her.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered.

Two drinks were not enough to give him any additional clarity regarding his predicament, nor halt the images of Marce that continually played in his mind. Perhaps he’d been wrong to assume that if he discovered more about the woman, it would diminish his guilt and curiosity. That it would alleviate his culpability in making her the woman she was today.

Discovering nothing of use only flamed the fires of his interest.

And increased the burden upon his shoulders.

Remorse and regret about his past vengeance, rage, and spite did nothing to alter the present.

He was no different than his father.

Rowan was Julian Delconti’s son, his flesh and blood. His sins were Rowan’s. His deceptions, his son’s. Every horrible deed his father had forced upon his family was now Rowan’s misdeed. Rowan had lied to his mother under the guise of protecting her. He’d coerced Marce into their sham of a marriage to protect himself.

Protect himself?

Rowan blinked several times. That was not it at all. He’d lied to his mother to give her a sense of contentment. To show her that if her sickness consumed her, Rowan would be taken care of. However, he now saw it for what it was. He’d forced Marce to agree to his proposition to protect himself from perpetuating the same hurt and betrayal his father had. If he took a true wife and had children, what was to say he would not stray like the duke? What was to stop him from taking a lover who captured his heart more fully than the woman he’d pledged to love and honor for his entire existence?

His father had done it…forsaken his family for another woman.

Would Rowan be any different?

The truth of the matter was, he wasn’t. Not really. All these years spent trying to convince himself that he was not his father’s son, and he was exactly that.

Rowan could try and convince himself that the situation was completely different than his parents’, but at the heart of everything, it wasn’t dissimilar at all.

With one exception.

While his father had allowed himself to find happiness, Rowan had denied any chance of that.

He’d never allowed himself to love—or to be loved by another.

Rowan had been overbearing and domineering in his treatment of her, yet, Marce had been there each time he summoned her…without fail.

Lady Marce Davenport, the woman who had never so much as wavered in her promise to him.

Rowan scrubbed at his face. So much time had been wasted traveling the country and other lands…for nothing. All it did was take him away from his mother, let him run from his past, and keep him from addressing and fixing his own personal failings.

Any misfortune that came now, Rowan deserved.

His mother’s scorn.

Tobias’s contempt.

Marce’s hatred.

He’d been playing with fire all these years, and he’d allowed it to consume him and everything he cared about. He was a foolish man. Claiming status as a gentleman was something out of his reach.

Perhaps the time had come to return to Hadlow Estate, throw himself at his mother’s feet, and beg for her forgiveness. Could she look past his deceptions without Rowan telling her of his father’s betrayals?

Crushing his mother’s heart twice was not Rowan’s intent, and his father was not solely to blame for the decisions Rowan had made since Julian’s death.

Rowan heard a knock at the front door.

His head popped up as he listened. Certainly, he was mistaken. It was long past midnight, and everyone, even Tobias, was abed until morning. The Cresthaven butler had greeted him at the door how long ago? Glancing at the clock, Rowan noted that it was indeed after one in the morning. He’d wallowed in self-pity for over two hours…finding solace at the bottom of his cups. Yet, he hadn’t had nearly enough to cast a cloud of fog over his thoughts, to diminish his guilt and remorse—or to ignore the pounding that became more and more demanding as the seconds passed.

Had Tobias gone out and forgotten his key? It was the earl’s home, after all, and he owed Rowan no explanation about his comings and goings; however, Tobias had insisted on retiring early. He’d sought his private chamber long before Rowan had departed to keep watch on Craven House.

With a deep sigh, Rowan pushed from his chair, expecting his head to swim or his eyes to lose focus from the sudden movement, but his senses remained stellar as he departed the study on course for the front door.

“Halt your incessant pounding,” he growled, surprised to notice that his headache had receded. “You shall wake the entire household.”

If he didn’t stop whoever was at the door, not only would his headache return, but the entire Cresthaven staff would come running.

Rowan threw the latch that kept the door bolted during the nighttime hours and opened the door wide, a rebuff on the tip of his tongue for whoever sought to invade his midnight musings.

He sucked in a deep breath, and the target of his reveries gasped, stepping back in alarm.

The night was dark, and with her hood covering the golden crown of her hair and hanging low to obscure her face, Rowan could not see her clearly. Perhaps his eyes deceived him, and it was not Marce who stood before him but another woman.

Lavender invaded his every sense.

It was the scent that had clung to her on every occasion they met, though he hadn’t noticed how innately Marce the fragrance was until their last stay at Hadlow.

There was no doubt who stood before him, though her long, hooded cloak kept her fully shrouded.

“Marce?” The single word escaped as a breathy whisper.

She lifted her chin as her hands rose to push the hood from her head, revealing her tightly bound blonde curls, and striking blue eyes. She was petite, but her presence filled the space. Her chin lifted as her eyes met his in challenge, and her hands were clasped before her. The sleeves of her cloak were so long, they nearly hid her intertwined fingers from view, but he only needed a quick moment to notice that her hands shook.

Marce was here for a purpose, and her nervousness was hard to hide, despite the confidence in her stare.

He wanted to call out to her again, beg her to speak whatever she’d come to say and plead with her to forgive him. However, her name on his lips wasn’t right. Rowan didn’t deserve the privilege of saying it, let alone throwing himself at her feet and begging for forgiveness.

The depth of his deception struck him again. He was a black-hearted scoundrel, a man deserving no kindness or compassion—as he’d shown her none in her time of need. He’d used her weakness against her for years, exploiting her need to care for her family and keep them safe, fed, and housed. He’d lied to himself all these years, as well, until he actually believed he’d forced her to accept his proposition to provide comfort for his ailing mother.

It was his grandest lie of all.

And he’d told it to himself.

Her lips pressed together tightly as her stare traveled down his body and then moved back to meet his no doubt widened gaze. “Are you going to invite me in, Your Grace?”