Rowan longed to throw her from the townhouse, forget their conversation, and demand that his anger return. Speaking of his family’s past and confronting his own grave mistakes was not something any man wanted to do before an audience—especially the woman he’d wronged while attempting to come to terms with losing his father and confronting the incessant rage that filled him.

Saying the words aloud, detailing what had transpired that night and over the last fourteen years was crushing. His flaws and transgressions were laid bare before him, and he could no longer deny them. He wanted to turn from them, yet could not look away.

“I had no right to demand anything of you.” He focused on the flames once more, refusing to meet her stare, though he felt it on him.

“I want to know why.”

“And I want to forget it all.”

“You brought it up, Rowan,” she seethed. “I deserve an honest answer.”

She deserved far more than that from him. He’d stolen eight years of her life and all but forced her into their arrangement, thus robbing her of a future of her choosing. But how could he admit the selfish reason behind his proposition?

“My father had just died, and I believed my mother would follow soon after,” he growled. Taking a deep breath, he calmed himself, dampening his rage at the mention of his father. Rowan would save his fury for a later time. “She was growing sicker and sicker as the days passed. She fretted that I would be alone when she died—my mother was sick with worry, but not over her own health. She was scared that she’d succumb to her illness and leave me, her only child, alone.”

“So you concocted your scheme to give her peace.” Her words held no accusation but possessed a softness he didn’t deserve.

“Yes, to give her a small measure of peace.” He hadn’t admitted this, even to himself. “It hadn’t been the plan when I arrived at Craven House that night. I’d fully expected to confront your mother for stealing my father from us, but she was gone—and you were there.”

Marce said not another word, and Rowan chanced a glance at her. It was a mistake, for the look on her face—her downturned lips and furrowed brow—bordered on pity. How could she feel sorry for him after everything he’d put her through?

“Fortunately, news of our marriage gave my mother a new lease on life.”

“She is a loving, sincere, and patient woman,” Marce said with a smile.

“She deserves happiness, something I was determined to give her—am still determined to give her.”

“Without inconveniencing yourself.” Marce took the final drink of her sherry and moved to the sideboard, pouring another glass. “You did not want to wed.”

“It was not that I didn’t want to marry…” Rowan clamped his mouth shut, afraid to utter any more. He’d shared so much of himself already, more than he’d ever told anyone, even Tobias.

She tapped her finger on her goblet, waiting for him to continue.

He owed her the truth, the entire story, no matter how shameful it was.

“I feared that I would be as my father was.” He let out a ragged breath. “I was afraid that I would take a wife, sire children, and abandon them just as my father did with my mother and me. I felt his disinterest every day of my damned life after I found him at Craven House. I am certain my mother lived with the burden, as well; however, she is far too much of a lady to admit the hurt she suffered at the duke’s hands.”

He had nothing left to hide from Marce. Every insecurity, every misdeed, every wrong decision he’d made in his life lay between them.

The weight should be overwhelming; however, Rowan had a sense of freedom about him he’d never felt before.

“It was mostly for your mother, though also to assuage your own fears,” Marce sighed, slumping onto the chair beside him. “It is not so different than what I’ve done for my siblings.”

It was far different, but Rowan wasn’t prepared to admit that—at least not aloud.

“I love my mother.”

“I know,” she conceded. “Just as I love my siblings.”

“I did not want to disappoint her,” he admitted. “It is one thing to fail. It is a completely different thing to admit it.”

“But that is what it has come to, has it not?” She peered at him from the corner of her eye, and Rowan nodded.

“Some say fate is a cruel master. With everything that happened, I cannot rightly blame fate for any of it.” It was an outcome he had caused when he chose to force Marce into their bargain. He’d cursed her just as he had himself. “I must face my faults and suffer the consequences of my actions.”

“That is what men are raised to do,” Marce agreed.

If there were any hint of satisfaction in her tone, Rowan didn’t hear it. She appeared as downcast as he. “You love my mother, too.”

It wasn’t a question. There had been no doubt about Marce’s affection for the duchess—not since the first moment he witnessed them together.

“When I first met her, it was like having my mother back.” It was Marce’s turn to stare into the red liquid of her sherry. “I had spent a couple of years at that point caring for my siblings. I was tired, exhausted really, and at my wits’ end trying to make everyone happy while keeping the pantry stocked and the servants paid. Leona was a kind ear for me. She listened but did not push advice on me. She empathized with my situation but did not try to solve my problems. She asked no difficult questions about my past, only accepted me for who I was in my present.”

“That is something even her illness never changed about her,” Rowan said. “My mother has always been that person in my life. Her heart was always open, and never did she order me around. I wanted to travel England and Scotland to continue my father’s business ventures, and she never once complained about my absences. I told her of my plans to invest in small businesses about the country, and she never feared me squandering our family’s fortune on unwise investments. Sometimes, I wonder if she knew about my father’s infidelities and understood why he strayed…possibly even accepted it as common practice.”

“It is not so uncommon, that is something I know well.”

Rowan had no interest in listening to Marce’s stories of Craven House, the men she’d entertained over the years, or their reasons for seeking out a brothel over their families.

Had she ever fancied herself in love with any of the men who frequented her home?

Rowan pushed up straight in his chair. It was not his place to think on such matters. Lady Marce Davenport was not his, was never meant to be his, and they’d soon say goodbye to one another—forever.

Pushing to his feet, Rowan turned to face her where she slumped in her seat, staring into her sherry. “I truly did mean what I said.”

When her eyes met his, Rowan noticed a flicker of unease. “About what, Your Grace?”

“Craven House. It is yours. I would prefer never to set foot in that house again,” he growled. Fearing he’d offended her, he softened his tone. “I am certain you can understand why I have no designs on the property.”

“I—my family and I—am not in need of your charity.” She stood, making it necessary for him to retreat or they’d be too close, something that had clouded his mind before and was threatening to do so again. “If we remain at Craven House, I demand to know how much I owe the dukedom, and I will continue to pay our debt.”

He wanted to accept her terms; however, that would mean they would continue to be connected. Neither of them moving on.

“It is I who am indebted to you.”

She took a step forward, setting her glass on the table beside his and straightened.

Rowan should retreat, turn and face the flames in the hearth, or perhaps flee the room altogether.

He wanted so much to agree to the new terms, if only to keep her in his life. If she left London, he would likely never hear from her again.

“I insist on repaying my debt.”

“I cannot accept—will not accept—any future funds from you,” he said with a firm shake of his head.

When her hands came to rest on her hips, and her chest pushed out slightly in determination, Rowan suspected he’d lost the battle…a war he hadn’t realized raged between them.

“And if I abandon the house?” Her brow rose. “What then?”

Rowan lifted his chin, meeting her intense stare with his own sense of surety. “It will remain empty and fall into disrepair.”

It was a lie.

He would make certain the house remained in proper condition…awaiting Marce’s return.

“It is only a house, no longer a home.” She took a step forward, his chest now mere inches from hers. Though she was petite, Marce was a formidable opponent while negotiating.

Rowan refused to back down. “Be that as it may, I do not want it.”

In any other moment, he’d find their tit for tat comical. Craven House had been the one thing they both coveted. Rowan wanted it to remain in control and ensure her continued visits to Hadlow. Marce desired it to have a home for her family and a way to solidify income.

Now, they were both willing to walk away from it, if only to give the other what they wanted.

How fast their desires had changed.

“I only want you to be happy,” Rowan sighed.

“And being done with Craven House, my family’s scandalous past, and away from London is what will make me happy.”

Away from London…and him.

There was no need to say it, they both knew what she meant.

“How will you support yourself?”

“I have been frugal and will find a way.”

They were so close, Rowan smelled the sweet aroma of sherry on her breath, and the hint of lavender soap on her skin—subtle yet undeniably Marce. Unable to stop, Rowan reached out and touched one silky curl, playing with its length, to distract them both. Allowing her hair to fall back to its place on her shoulder, his fingers trailed across the exposed skin of her neck. It was ablaze with heat, and the mere touch sent his pulse into an erratic beat.

Rowan should walk away, allow Marce to abandon the house and depart London if that was what she desired, but the moment his gaze left the delicate skin of her shoulder and met her aquamarine eyes, he was lost.

And she was the only one to save him—from himself, from his fears, from making the same mistakes over again.

He’d hurt her, taken advantage of her—and he didn’t deserve saving, especially at her hands.

Her clear blue stare darkened—her eyes turning steely as she stared up at him.

Rowan longed to ask what she saw when she gazed upon him.

A man who’d made horrible mistakes in his life? A gentleman not worthy of her company? A son who’d deceived his mother in such a horrific manner that she’d likely never forgive him? A lord who would go back—turn back time, if he could—and do it all differently?

Yes, his fury and need for vengeance should have been aimed at his father, not the woman before him.

“You deserve so much more than the life I’ve made you live,” he muttered, refusing to look away, even for a moment. “Imagine where you would be today if our paths hadn’t crossed.”

She stared up at him. “I would like to believe we’d be right here—just as we are.”

He searched her open stare, certain he’d heard her incorrectly.

“That cannot be—”

“Do you wish me to leave, Your Grace?” she asked, her blue eyes averting with hesitation.

How could Rowan admit that he never wanted her to leave him? That he would certainly perish without her near. Their past was a tangled web of lies and deception—he was unsure how to strip those layers away to tell her exactly how he felt and what he wanted.

Blessedly, Marce made the words unnecessary when she lifted to her toes and set her lips to his.

He longed for his kiss to show her there was no other place Rowan wanted to be than here: at Tobias’s townhouse with Marce in his arms.

It was not only her breath that held the sweet scent of sherry, her mouth tasted of the remnants of their evening, as well. His tongue touched the seam of her lips, thirsty for more, as her fingers ran through his hair and settled on the back of his neck, holding him tightly to her.

A tendril of alarm coursed through him, but he pushed it aside, wrapping his arms around her waist and lifting her.

If they were making yet another mistake, he didn’t want to think on it. They’d been through too much, they’d said too much, and yet there was so much more to say. There would be days, months, years to dwell on what he and Marce were doing this night, but he refused to allow what he hadn’t done to linger as a regret for all eternity. There would be time—Rowan would make certain of it—for him to earn her forgiveness, to share everything he’d learned about himself and her. For now, Rowan was content to settle for a few moments where their past didn’t intrude.

Rowan carried her to the lounge and laid her upon the deep red brocade, an alluring contrast to her light green gown and blue eyes, alight with…desire. He wanted to step back, take in the beauty of her hair cascading across the cushion, the way her lips turned up in a mischievous grin, and how her eyes, wide with surprise only moments before, were now hooded with longing.

The pale orbs of her breasts strained at the bodice of her gown as if begging for his attention.

How had their night come to this?

Rowan had laid his every transgression before her, and she’d shown him mercy.

“Rowan?” she coaxed, her voice a deep, strained tone as she held her arms out to him.

As he answered her call and lowered himself to the lounge, Rowan couldn’t help but wonder if he were falling in love with his counterfeit wife—or had he been in love with her all along?

He wanted to question nothing in that moment, only give himself to her—and hope Marce didn’t regret their joining by morning’s light.