Marce stood on Lord Cresthaven’s stoop, her hands clenched so tightly, pain spiked through her fingers as she stared up at Rowan. His black hair was tousled, and his eyes were rimmed with red. Heavy, dark circles were evident under each eye, as if he hadn’t slept in days. Was it the same for him as it was for her? His wrinkled trousers and white linen shirt spoke of a restlessness Marce could certainly identify with. Mud clung to his Hessians, and she wondered if he’d been out walking the dark London streets to clear his mind.

The tension in his shoulders eased when he stepped back to allow her entrance.

He reached around her, his exhale caressing her exposed neck as he closed the door and reset the latch. It not only blocked the chilly night air from invading the foyer but also barred her from fleeing.

Not that she wanted to leave.

At least, not until she’d spoken her piece and was ready to depart—her chin held high, and her resolve as stiff as a freshly laundered and pressed cravat. She would not cower before Rowan nor allow him the satisfaction of believing she’d be destitute without his charity. Never had she needed someone else to provide for her or her family. Even if Rowan had stripped her of Craven House all those years ago, Marce would have never allowed her siblings to suffer or go without. She would have found a way to support them all and give them the lives they rightly deserved, even if she’d had to seek employment in a workhouse or darn gowns morning, noon, and night.

They would have survived.

No matter the obstacles thrown into her path, Marce would have done exactly as her mother had—she would have found a way. She’d never given up, and she wasn’t about to start now.

She’d come to give him a minuscule taste of how he’d treated her all these years. To let him feel the helplessness she’d endured. The unrelenting oppression living with secrets she could speak of to no one. The last eight years had been the loneliest of her existence. Even after her father’s death and her family’s banishment from their home, Marce hadn’t been alone. With four younger siblings and a house to care for after her mother passed, the days and nights had never brought her so low she found it hard to breathe.

However, lying to her family—and herself—had taken its toll on her.

And she was done with it all.

If that meant walking away from the only home that had ever truly felt like her own, the house that had seen so many happy times, the dwelling that had kept her family together all these years, then so be it. She would give Rowan the bloody thing.

Craven House was not who she was.

Craven House was not worth her future happiness.

Craven House was not her prison any longer.

“Lady Marce Davenport.” He bowed stiffly, looking ridiculous in his wrinkled clothes with his mussed hair. “Do join me in the study?”

His appearance reminded her of his frantic work in the gardens at Hadlow; however, his demeanor was poised and composed—the Rowan she’d known all these years. He was at odds with himself, something Marce could understand well.

“Lady Marce?” she asked, her brow rising high in question.

“Yes, well—”

She held up her hand, the sleeve of her cloak falling down to reveal her black glove. “It is of no concern.” She didn’t have any interest in knowing why, after all this time, he thought it necessary to address her properly. Her connection to her family name was something she’d worked tirelessly to escape…including the scandal tied to it.

“My apologies for calling at such a late hour.”

“Is it late?”

“However, this could not wait.” She didn’t acknowledge his remark, nor dwell on whether he meant it as a jest or if he honestly hadn’t any notion how late the hour was. “Do lead the way to the study. I haven’t any urge to wake the entire household.”

He stalled for only a moment, and Marce wondered if he thought she’d visited Tobias’s townhouse on other occasions.

“I had to consult Debrett’s directory for Lord Cresthaven’s directions.” She made a show of glancing about the foyer. “Is he in?”

Rowan cleared his throat, snapping him out of whatever trance he’d fallen into—or she’d disturbed him from. “Ah, no…well, yes, but he retired earlier.”

The nervous tendrils released her, and she followed Rowan out of the foyer and deeper into the house. The last thing she’d wanted was to confront Rowan with Tobias as a witness, further entangling the earl in their spat.

The lingering scent of rum—or was it scotch?—trailed behind the duke; however, his steps were steady, measured, and in no way seemed negatively impacted. Drunken carousing had never appeared a thing Rowan would enjoy. On many occasions, she’d witnessed him in the Whisper Hook Inn when she arrived to meet him, an empty pint glass before him, but she’d never seen him drunk.

Perhaps he was not like the men she’d observed in her childhood at Craven House—so deep in their cups, they saw nothing wrong with hitting a woman, stealing from another man, or cheating at cards. Could it be that Rowan was a man who kept his wits about him even after several tumblers?

In all the time that’d passed since she agreed to his proposition, she’d never witnessed any violent tendencies from him. No, Rowan was adept at destroying his foe with only words—and sometimes his wealth. He hadn’t the need for physical violence. Not like the men who’d come to Craven House during its famed years as a brothel. Those lords needed validation, and to be among men whom they could best at cards and other sports in order to prove their worth and prestige.

The man stalking down the hall in front of her knew his power. He had no illusions about his worth or the command he held over others.

In a way, Marce envied his confidence.

That did not mean she sought to emulate him in any way or give him the upper hand.

This was to be the final time she spoke to him. After this night, she was resigned to never see him again. The final attachment between them would be severed. Craven House would return to its rightful owner, and Marce would make the move to her new home in Kent.

Entering the study, the silence that descended on the room was deafening. Broken only by the tick-tock of the clock. Instead of taking a moment to glance about the room, she kept her stare trained on the duke. She sensed that they would both grapple for the upper hand in the coming confrontation, and whoever broke eye contact first would surely be deemed defeated.

Rowan had held the advantage in the past.

Now, Marce had nothing left to lose by taking control of the situation.

Her siblings, while shocked and disappointed by her choice to hand over their home so readily, were aware of her decision. Her solicitor was acquiring a new home for her with the small amount of funds she’d managed to collect over the years. There was nothing Rowan could take from her that she would not survive.

There was a definite freedom in knowing she could have her present taken from her but still have the courage to go on and create a new future.

“May I take your cloak?” he asked.

She was uncertain what she’d expected him to say, but acting the gentleman was not it.

When she only stared in disbelief, he continued, “The Cresthaven butler is abed, and as such, it falls upon me as your host to offer.”

Marce unclenched her fists and reached for the row of buttons keeping her cloak secured. She begged her hands not to betray her by trembling. This Rowan was not the man she’d come to know—or thought she’d come to know. Something had changed as surely as something within her had altered and transformed her over the last week.

Slowly, she released each button.

His eyes followed her progress with a level of interest she’d never before gained from him. It had always seemed to her that she was an afterthought, an interloper forced into his daily existence while in Kent but easily overlooked and ignored. For years, Marce hadn’t minded it. His perusal was intimidating, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the final button, her cloak opening to show her light green gown beneath. The scooping neckline and high waist were crafted for a woman ten years her junior, but the color suited her golden curls.

And matched Rowan’s eyes.

How had she not noticed that coincidence before now?

She turned, allowing him to take her cloak as it fell from her shoulders. Next, she removed her gloves, tugging each finger free before pulling the long, satin length from her hands. They were her finest set, purchased in black to minimize the chance of staining and, therefore, certain to last longer. That they drastically contrasted with her creamy white skin was only another boon. Now, from the intense scrutiny gained, Marce questioned her every decision…including coming to face Rowan at all.

Perhaps it would have been wiser to send a letter…after she’d removed herself from Craven House and settled in her new home.

Her bare arms tingled, and her stomach fluttered, only settling when Rowan stepped away to lay her cloak on a table and close the door.

“Your father was a marquess,” Rowan said, turning to face her once more. “Why did you not tell me this?”

“My lineage is not a well-kept secret, Your Grace.” Marce glanced at the hearth, longing to step closer and accept its warmth. “Besides, it would have changed nothing between us.”

“Perhaps not…” He hung his head and clenched his hands behind his back as he made his way toward the open fire, his arm brushing hers as he passed.

It was an unexpected touch, and he seemed not to notice the contact; however, every nerve ending in her flared. Her exposed skin prickled with goosebumps; not from any chill in the room, but from anticipation of when next their skin might meet.

Marce had no plans for another touch between them, and she chastised her body for betraying her. This was her opportunity to finally put an end to everything between them, to gain a measure of satisfaction and closure before walking out the door for good.

“May I offer you a refreshment?” He nodded at the sideboard, heavy with decanters filled with spirits of varying hues ranging from clear to amber. “Perhaps a glass of sherry?”

She remained rooted to her spot, just out of reach of the hearth’s warmth, but also a location that afforded a clear view of Rowan as he knelt before the sideboard and rummaged through the cabinet below before standing once more, a glass bottle held high in triumph.

It was difficult to hide her grin when Rowan saluted her in a rare moment of boyish abandon. Not for the first time, Marce was confused by the change in him. His mask of the arrogant, severe lord had been cast aside just as Marce’s cloak had been laid upon the table after entering the study. His every move was no longer measured and expected, but at ease in a way she’d thought impossible. As if all that hung between them was no longer of consequence or something that drove them relentlessly apart.

Marce nodded, and he made quick work of opening the bottle, pouring her a glass and heading in her direction. It did not escape her notice that he did not collect his tumbler. Needing warmth, Marce took several steps toward him, and they met closer to the glow of the fire.

Presenting her with the glass of rich, deep red sherry, Rowan bowed slightly as if it symbolized a peace offering. Could there be any peace between them after everything they’d been through? After all the insults they’d hurled at one another?

A part of her, a deep, nearly hidden part of her, wondered if the possibility was there. Perhaps she even longed for a measure of peace between them.

The glass was cold and heavy in her hands, but she took a small sip. A burst of sweetness exploded on her tongue as the aroma of fruit drifted to her nose. She rarely drank sherry—and never before had she enjoyed such a fine glass. The fondness women of the ton had for the drink was no longer so foreign to her.

Rowan’s brow rose at her silent approval. “Tobias is stellar at many things; however, his superb taste in sherry and scotch are known across the countryside.”

“I didn’t know that about him,” Marce mused, swirling the sherry in her glass.

“Yes, it is fabled that he once sent a letter of recommendation to the king himself, and now the entire court drinks only Del Coix sherry from Spain.” He returned to the sideboard, and she thought he’d pour himself another tumbler of scotch. Instead, he picked up the bottle of sherry and filled a glass for himself. “I do not believe the fables, mind you. And I assume Tobias, the scoundrel, started the stories himself—or at the very least, let the morsel of information slip before a servant known to have a loose tongue.”

“I am not here to speak of Lord Cresthaven.” Watching his expression, she noticed the way his jaw clenched.

He took a swallow from his glass, the deep red staining his lips before he spoke. “Then why are you here?”

“This thing between us”—She motioned to him and back to herself with her free hand—“it is at an end. I shall not be keeping Craven House, as it rightly belongs to you.” She held up her hand to stop him from interrupting, but his lips were pressed tight, and she realized, for likely the first time, that he was allowing her the opportunity to say all she needed. “Within a fortnight, I will have secured a new home for my family, and you will not have to worry about our paths crossing again. I am leaving London. For good.”

“And if I say this is all unnecessary?” His chin dipped, and he held her stare.

She glanced away, not wanting him to see the hope that shone in her eyes.

“I would politely disagree.” She shook her head to show the finality of her decision. “I have thought of nothing but this moment for years—since you barged into my home eight years ago—and it is best I give the property up and start anew. This new home will be solely mine, and no one can take it from me…ever.”

His eyes narrowed, pinning her in place. “You think I want to take your home?”

“Of course,” she said with a bitter laugh. “Is that not what you’ve wanted since we met?”

“I would just as soon have the place burned to the ground than step foot in it again.”

“It is a completely acceptable house, Your Grace,” she argued. “A fine foundation and thick walls with a sturdy roof, though it is on the fringes of a proper neighborhood, I think you can sell it for what is owed by my family if that suits you better.”

His shoulders stiffened as the ease from a moment before seemingly fled him. His grip on his glass whitened his knuckles, and Marce feared she’d misspoken. Perhaps her family owed the dukedom far more than she suspected.

He moved to a chair before the hearth and lowered to sit, not offering her a seat.

“Do you know when I learned of my father’s infidelities, Lady Marce?” Rowan’s words were issued through clenched teeth.

She would not admit to speaking of the delicate matter with Tobias while at Hadlow. They’d had no right to delve into the duke’s past nor share secrets that were Rowan’s to tell—even if they impacted her as much as they did him.

When she remained silent, he glared at her where she still stood, glass clutched in shaking fingers. She hadn’t come to speak of the past, only the future… their separate futures.

“I was a lad of fifteen, home from school for the birth of my sibling…siblings,” he whispered, turning his stare to the glass in his hands. “After several disastrous attempts, my mother and father were finally having another child. The duchess was quite large, and it was assumed that the babe would come at any time. I paced the halls of my family’s townhouse for days, though it felt much longer.” He paused to take a sip from his glass. Was it courage Rowan sought? “Finally, the time came. It was early evening, and a light rain had started, not uncommon for London. When the midwife and doctor said it was time, I went in search of my father, but he was not at home. I’d thought he was at his club or mayhap dining at a friend’s home. My mother had taken to her private chambers over a month before, and so, my father was free to do as he pleased, to eat and find entertainment without worry for her.”

“But you were worried?” The words rushed out of her on a sigh.

“With all that’d gone horribly wrong in the past, and my mother’s precarious health?” he asked. “Of course, I was. I was terrified of losing her, yet my father seemed oblivious to the risks they took. Our driver said he would take me to where he’d dropped the duke earlier in the afternoon. I readily accepted the offer. The babe was coming fast, and my mother screamed for my father.”

“The coach ride took us out of Belgrave Square and into a less proper area of London—a neighborhood I’d never set foot in, let alone thought my father would journey to.”

It was then that the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She’d never heard this story, but she was certain she knew the night he spoke of.

“Imagine my surprise when the driver pulled to a halt in front of a large house with a sign proclaiming Craven House. I hadn’t any notion why my father would be there, of all places, nor was I certain the driver remembered the directions correctly. When I asked, he said that this was where he dropped my father several times a week—and returned before first light to collect him.”

Marce held her tongue—and her breath—waiting for him to continue. She wanted the story done and over with…she knew the ending as well as Rowan.

The Duchess of Harwich lost not one but two babes that night—twin girls. Identical in birth and death.

It was one of the first things Marce and Leona had bonded over. The duchess had lost twin daughters, and Marce had twin sisters.

“Why would your driver bring you there if he knew what you’d discover?”

“Charles—the same driver I have now—and all the servants loved my mother.” It was not a fact that needed to be said, as the Harwich servants were exceedingly loyal to the duchess. “They loved my mother then as they do now and were tired of the way my father abandoned her nearly every day. And so, Charles made certain I learned of the duke’s infidelity.”

“Did you and your father quarrel?”

Rowan chuckled—a deep, wounded sound. “Heavens, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I never spoke of that night to him, nor paid any attention when he disappeared each night. He was a man above reproach in my youthful eyes. A man I adored. The man I emulated. And he was a fraud. I couldn’t bring myself to ask after any of it—it would only have hurt me more, and it wouldn’t have changed anything. Instead, I lavished all my time and energy on my mother, especially after she was sent to Hadlow and her sickness grew worse.

“I stood before Craven House in the rain and watched through the window as my father read a bloody book to a gathering of children who were not his, as his own offspring perished before they’d even taken their first breath.”

“Oh, Rowan, I did not know.” Marce started for him, but his narrow-eyed glare halted her in her tracks before she’d taken even three steps. “I swear, my siblings and I never knew that Julian had a family. And after my mother died, he rarely visited. I never thought much about the man after that.”

Rowan’s glare swung toward the flames in the hearth. “By the time I made my way home—on foot, I’d bid my driver to leave me outside your home—my sisters were gone, and my mother was near death’s door. And my father, he was in the arms of another woman.”

Marce had nothing to say. It was a pain she did not know, nor one she could ever fully understand—the love of a boy for his father shattered so violently. And then to live all these years without speaking of it? It was enough to bring Marce to her knees with the imagined pain of it all.

“You—your family—were the only one left to exact atonement from.”

“But we were innocent in it all. Even you, Rowan.”

“Do you not think I know that now?” he snapped. “But that does not repair anything…my mother’s abandonment, and my…”

His words trailed off, and he closed his eyes tightly, rubbing his forearm across his face.

“Hurt,” she said for him. “It is past time you accepted that it also wounded you, Rowan. It is a pain I cannot fathom, but I do not lack compassion.”

His reasons for doing as he had after his father’s death had always been a mystery to her. Yet now, with each word he spoke, Marce understood his need for vengeance and retribution, even if it was misplaced.

“What now?” Marce was clear on her next move, the path she’d decided on for herself, but what of him? “Leona will be hurt by your—our—deception.”

No matter what happened between her and Rowan, it was Leona who would be devastated by the outcome.

“Why?” It was the burning question she’d longed to ask since he walked into her mother’s office at Craven House. “Why did you demand I act as your wife when we both knew it could come to this?”