The day had remained bight, with nary a cloud in the sky or a passing carriage on the roads all the way to the Kent countryside. Their journey was endured in silence…a contemplative stillness, unlike their previous coach ride. Several times, he’d longed to inquire as to her musings, yet he’d remained mute, acting as if the passing scenery held his attention. Rowan was hesitant to speak on the matter of his mother, and Marce accepted that, sitting quietly at his side until slumber had pulled her into a deep sleep, her breath coming in even, smooth inhales and exhales.

Eventually, he’d drawn the drapes, shrouding the interior of the coach in darkness and keeping the afternoon sun from waking Marce. She’d taken the seat next to him so readily, it had sent him reeling. How had they progressed from two people who were little more than strangers to this?

Any other day, he might have found comfort in their newly discovered understanding of one another. Unfortunately, his worry over the duchess’s health made it impossible for him to explore all they’d learned of one another recently—on both a physical and emotional level.

It was only when his coach drew to a halt outside Hadlow that Rowan released Marce’s hand and nudged her awake.

“We have arrived,” he whispered. After their night together, locked in one another’s embrace, he was exhausted, too, but sleep had eluded him during their travels.

Running her fingers through her tangled, wayward curls, Marce gave him a tentative smile. “I must have fallen asleep. My apologies.” Her voice was thick with sleep, and Rowan thought he could wake to the earthy tone every morning for the rest of his life and die a happy man at the end.

Without any consideration, he leaned down and kissed her.

A simple, chaste kiss, but it sent a shock so intense through him, Rowan was certain she experienced the same.

And it held promise—a promise that the time would come for them to speak about everything that had transpired between them the night before. Time still for him to make amends—no justifications, no rationalization…only words of apology and a promise for them to explore a future free of lies and deception.

The carriage door opened, and a footman put the steps down for them to exit. Rowan ignored them, leaping down and raising his hand into the coach to assist Marce to the ground.

“Your Grace, Your Grace,” Miss Pearl shouted, hurrying out of the manor and down the steps. “Rowan, your mother. She is in her room…waiting for the physician to arrive.”

By the time the older woman stopped before them, she was panting and doubled over to gain her composure.

“Please, calm yourself, Pearl.” Marce stepped forward, patting the woman’s back. “That’s it, deep breaths. Now, tell us what has happened with the duchess.”

“She was”—his mother’s companion paused, glancing up at him before refocusing on Marce—“she was preparing for bed last night and stumbled off balance when a coughing fit overtook her. She fell and hit her head on the corner of her bed. I found her a while later when I went to bring her the orange tea she enjoys before she retires for the evening.”

“Was the physician called last night?” he growled.

His tone was more forceful than he’d anticipated, but the woman did not back down. “Of course, Your Grace, I am not feeble-minded.”

“No one said you were,” Marce soothed, taking the woman’s hands into hers and rubbing them gently. “Your hands, they are freezing. Have you gotten any rest since the physician arrived?”

“I have been with Leona since I found her.” Miss Pearl turned a narrow-eyed stare on Rowan as if to prove she was fulfilling her duties. “The physician feared a concussion from her fall and said I must keep her awake until he returned this afternoon to examine her.”

“Did she injure anything else?”

“A bruise on her arm, that is all, but it seems the doctor is also concerned about her increased coughing.” Miss Pearl pulled from Marce’s hold and turned toward the manor. “She insisted you not be summoned, Your Grace, but I was ever so worried and knew you could convince her to do as the physician says and remain abed.”

A bit of Rowan’s unease receded, and they followed his mother’s companion into the house and up the stairs and to the west wing of Hadlow. He nodded to various servants as they passed them in the foyer and the corridors. Each seemingly stunned to see him.

He leaned close to Marce when they rounded the corner and entered the west wing and said, “It appears every servant assumed I would abandon my mother in her time of need.”

“It isn’t that, Rowan, I assure you.”

His step faltered at her words. “Then what in the bloody hell is it?”

She squeezed his hand in answer, and he realized he’d taken hold of her again at some point…and every occupant of Hadlow had noticed.

Her hand in his felt natural and normal—a feeling he’d never felt before. Rowan had spent so many years comforting his mother that being comforted was foreign—yet very welcome.

“She is in her bedchambers,” Miss Pearl called, glancing over her shoulder. “However, she is expecting you, Your Grace.”

They entered the duchess’s private drawing room and continued on to her bedchamber beyond, the air thick with warmth from the roaring fire in the hearth. The room was dim with the drapes pulled closed, and but a single candle lit on her dressing table. The stench of sickness nearly overwhelmed him. Only a few days before, his mother appeared to be improving and was looking forward to working in her garden come warmer weather. But now, her eyes were sunken, and her arms looked deathly thin.

His mother appeared fragile and pale where she lay in her large, four-poster bed, the sheer curtains tied back with a chair positioned close to the mattress.

Rowan led Marce farther into the room, pulling her close to him as they reached the side of the bed. “Mother,” he whispered so as not to startle her if she slept. When she began to stir, her eyes opening a crack, Rowan lowered himself onto the chair. He sensed Marce at his back. “Mother, Marce and I are here.”

“My dear boy.” Her voice was a ragged croak, and she reached out to touch him. “And my dear daughter.”

“We are both here, Leona.” Marce’s warm breath caressed his cheek when she leaned closer so Leona could see her. “How are you feeling?”

“You are both here?” Her glazed stare narrowed, and her eyes moved between them in seeming disbelief.

“Of course, we are here.”

“Together?”

Rowan couldn’t help but turn a questioning gaze up at Marce, who stood behind him before focusing on his mother once more. “You should rest, Mother. The physician should be arriving shortly. We will return once he leaves.”

In response, his mother snorted, the sound turning quickly to another coughing fit.

Pearl rushed forward and handed the duchess a kerchief.

Pressing it to her mouth, his mother scrutinized them, her green stare identical to Rowan’s. “I was afraid that I would never see the pair of you together again.”

“Nonsense, Mother.”

“It is not nonsense, boy.” She wiggled up into a seated position and set the kerchief aside, the coughing fit over. “You had quite a row before Marce fled back to London.”

He patted his mother’s hand. “We needn’t discuss that now. You should rest.”

“Yes, I think that is a sound idea,” Marce said from behind him, her hand squeezing his shoulder. “We will return as soon as the physician approves guests.”

Rowan didn’t miss the unease in Marce’s voice.

“Oh fiddle-faddle,” the duchess sighed. “The pair of you think you are so wise. Assuming that I, a frail, old woman cannot see what is what.”

“You are exhausted,” Rowan argued. “You should sleep. We can talk later.”

“I did not tell her, Your Grace,” Miss Pearl pleaded from across the room. “I swear to it.”

“Tell her what?” Marce asked.

“What, exactly, is going on?” Rowan pushed to his feet, glaring between the duchess and her companion, his words echoing through his mother’s chambers.

“Sit down, Rowan…and you, too, Lady Marce Davenport.” The sharp edge of his mother’s voice had Rowan falling back into the straight-back chair. Another seat appeared next to him, and Marce sat. “Do you think I am ignorant of everything that happens under my roof?”

Even in his childhood, Rowan had never witnessed his mother speak with such force and conviction.

No longer did she appear pale and sickly as color blossomed in her cheeks.

“Your Grace.” Marce sat, her back ramrod straight as she assessed his mother. “I am—”

His mother’s stern glare halted Marce’s claim. “I have waited all these long years for the two of you to finally come to your senses.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

Slashing her hand through the air, she addressed him. “To be forthcoming, I lost my bet to Pearl years ago. I had no idea the pair of you would be able to keep up your charade for so much as a year, let alone nearly eight.”

“You know?” Marce put a hand to her throat, her eyes wide.

“It took me only an hour, on your first stay at Hadlow, to discover the truth. Not that he had forced you into agreeing to pose as his wife, but that you’d decided together. If I’d known the extent of my son’s resentment, I would have stepped in sooner.” She shook her head with remorse, speaking only to Marce. “Besides, though I’ve chosen to reside in Kent, I am not oblivious to town gossip—or the lack thereof, as it were. No lord in my day, or this day, could wed without the London Daily Gazette reporting on it, especially when he is a duke, and the bride is the daughter of none other than Madame Sasha.”

“I am sorry for deceiving you, Your Grace.”

Rowan’s resolve splintered at the heartbreak in Marce’s voice. He’d caused this…had known the day would come when his mother discovered his deception.

“It was my doing, Mother.” Rowan’s head lowered in shame, unable to meet her eyes and see her disappointment written so clearly across her face. “Marce had naught to do with anything. I forced her to accept—”

“You most certainly did not force me.” Marce stood, turning her glare on him. “I was well aware of my options. You forced me into nothing.”

“That is my girl,” his mother thundered, slapping her palm onto the padded bed at her side. “It is an utter shame that it took so long for the two of you to wise up and see that you belong together.”

“Mother, are you saying you knew Madame Sasha?” Rowan demanded.

“Not exactly. I was acquainted with Lady Buckston before her husband died and that rascal of a son, Benton, threw Sasha and her children to the streets.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Pearl mumbled, exiting the room and pulling the door closed behind her.

“Lovely woman with the cutest pair of fair-haired youngsters hanging on her skirts.” His mother looked at the hearth, a faraway look entering her eyes. “It was such a shame—and a scandal.”

Rowan reached out for Marce’s hand when she fell back into her chair. “You knew my mother?”

“I more than knew her. I sent my husband round to find her and set her up in a suitable house as soon as I heard what that stepson of hers did. Imagine, casting a widow and her children to the streets during her time of mourning.”

The duchess sniffed, shaking her head in sorrow.

“The duke knew my mother all those years?” Marce asked in a breathless whisper.

Rowan was stunned into muted silence, unable to gather words, let alone his thoughts.

“Yes, though they did not fall in love until many years later.”

His mother’s words, spoken with such soft affection, were like a shocking punch to Rowan’s gut. Everything he’d believed the last nearly fifteen years, every torturous moment of vengeance he’d spent years imagining and seeking, every day he’d lived with the need to avenge his father’s betrayal of his family, every trip to Hadlow that he’d lied to his mother…it had all been for nothing.