Rowan halted near his desk in the study when he heard Marce’s footsteps approach and pause outside the door he’d left open, waiting for her arrival. He knew with a certainty he felt to his very bones that Marce would come to him—be it several hours or mere minutes after she left the duchess’s private chamber.

Even he could not have imagined it would be less than the time it took to pace the room several times and decide on pouring a drink while he waited.

There were many questions left unanswered, for both of them.

Diving into the abyss surrounding his father’s love affair with Sasha Davenport—with his mother’s blessing—was something Rowan was not ready to do at this point. Perhaps he would never be ready, and his need to continue nurturing his fury was something he’d simply need accept. It was his fate…to hold a candle of resentment for his father. Even if he discovered that wasn’t true, he would need time to change, time to accept everything his mother had confessed. He wanted to believe that he was capable of more than simple fury and resentment, that the old wound could be healed with the correct amount of time and the right person by his side.

He glanced at the sideboard and then back at the open door. Marce was just out of sight, but he could hear her heavy breathing, could nearly feel the beat of her heart racing as she hesitated. He knew she probably wondered if she should enter the room and face Rowan or continue on to her chambers. Perhaps she pondered departing Hadlow altogether.

She’d done it once, and Rowan suspected she was likely to do so again.

He’d treated her horribly and thought the worst of her on many occasions.

Everything he’d lived his life believing for the last fifteen years was false. Not just untrue, but blatantly wrong.

His animosity toward his father. His protectiveness of his mother. His horrid transgressions against Marce.

Everything he’d based his life around was a lie.

He’d deceived because he thought he’d been deceived.

He treated others with careless regard for their feelings because he thought they had done the same to him.

Possibly his worst transgression was allowing himself to think one way without question. He’d never figured himself for a sheep, easily misguided in his beliefs. Yet, here he was, discovering only now how so many things in his life were not as they appeared. Why had it taken his mother being on her deathbed—and a passion-filled night in Marce’s arms—to realize he lived with a blindfold blocking his sight?

His breath hitched in his throat at the thought of everything he’d missed. He’d set his mind against a proper marriage and family because he feared following the same path as his treacherous father.

Now, he knew that Julian Delconti hadn’t been a deceitful lord at all.

His father had given Rowan’s mother everything and only found his own happiness at Leona’s urging. His head swam with thoughts of the unfathomable, sordid details of his family’s scandalous past.

Marce stepped into the room, her face pale and her steps hesitant. She kept her gaze on the ground before her, her hands clasped in front of her at the waist.

Did she struggle with Leona’s revelations as he did?

Had she been as shocked as he to learn of the love between his father and Madame Sasha? Certainly, he could not have been the only one to see the shame in their affair. She’d accepted his proposition only to save her family. Not because she too found shame in the affair that had ripped apart Rowan’s childhood.

None of that mattered, except the deplorable way Rowan had treated Marce.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation,” Marce whispered, her voice sounding defeated and remorseful. “I never told you about Craven House and, as such, allowed you to continue thinking something that wasn’t true.”

Rowan stumbled back, regretting his decision to forgo a drink.

“You owe me an explanation?” he scoffed, his anger at himself igniting. To think, he was responsible for Marce thinking herself to blame, even partly, for their sordid past. “It is I who owe you, Marce, for all these years you’ve spent dedicated to my mother.”

“And you…”

He must have heard her incorrectly, for never should she have dedicated even a single thought to him after he’d taken so many days, months, and years away from her.

“You cannot mean that.”

“But I do,” she replied, moving several steps closer to him until she stood directly in front of him, affording him a view of her golden curls atop her head as she continued to stare at his feet.

“I have treated you worse than I believed my father did my mother. The words I spoke, no matter how angry I was or if they were actually truth…they were deplorable and unnecessary. Speaking to you in any manner below utter reverence and admiration is unforgivable. I cannot begin to express how sorry I am for everything…for all these years.”

She exhaled, and he brought his finger to her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his, silently pleading for her to speak and not leave a single detail out.

“Tell me of Craven House,” he demanded softly. “What is it that many know that I do not?”

He’d lived his adult life in control of everything, for fear of his inability to control anything in his youth.

“It is true, Craven House once lived up to its reputation as a brothel, a sinful place where men were free to slake their lustful desires to their hearts’ content.” She said the words as if it were printed on a pamphlet and distributed across the lands far and wide. Come one, come all, see the wonders to be had within the walls of Craven House. When she continued, it wasn’t only bravado lacking from her tone, it was the utter sureness that had always been undeniably Marce. “After my mother’s death, I knew that things needed to change. It took time—and a lot of money—but it was worth it. I locked the doors before our evening meal. I blew out every candle in the house. I set Mr. Curtis out front to send away any man who appeared. It was done quietly and with great care not to bring any undue attention to us. My siblings, the four of them, would be finding their way in society before too many years passed, and I knew I needed to keep scandal of any sort from our door.”

“How did you survive all these years?” His hand fell away from her chin as her jaw tensed. “Sending the payments I demanded and also supporting your entire household…it must have been difficult.”

“We made do.” She glanced away from him toward the hearth when she spoke next. “Jude fancied herself a thief for a while, which helped. Sam was her accomplice. As more and more women sought my help, the burden grew to daunting proportions. Thankfully, London households pay handsomely for trained, loyal servants hired through Craven House. And those who chose to return to their families oftentimes sent funds to compensate me for their time spent in my home.

“Otherwise, and after much consideration, I opened Craven House to a select few for gaming nights, several times per week. It brought in enough to keep our pantry stocked, with enough left over for other necessities. Eventually, there was enough excess for me to save a few shillings here and there.”

“You are a remarkable woman.” Who deserves far better than to be standing before a scoundrel like me, Rowan added silently.

“I did what was needed, just as you have, Your Grace.” She paused as if considering her next words carefully. “We have not always been correct in our decisions; however, we did the best we could in our situations, you and I.”

His breath bottled in his chest as his stomach fluttered. “You truly believe that I did the best I could in my situation?”

A simple nod was his answer.

“What of the years of hardship I forced upon you?”

“You knew no differently; besides, as I said before, it was not all bad.”

Hope blossomed within him…that was the only way to explain it. One moment, his stomach felt as if it were filled to bursting with a hundred butterflies flapping their wings in a desperate need to escape—and then, that same fluttering moved to every limb of his body.

What other explanation was there but hope?

It was almost too much to wish for.

“Why not save all the money and buy your way out from under my control?” he asked. The funds to do exactly that had passed through Craven House, but she’d still given much to others. “Why help others and not yourself?”

Rowan had spent the majority of his life seeking ways to satisfy himself—his guilt, his remorse, his shortcomings—yet, Marce was selfless.

“My mother started Craven House, but not with the intent of selling women.” She shook her head and crossed her arms as she stepped around him and moved to stand before the open fire. “She wanted to help others who were cast out in the same manner as she was, but at that time, she knew no other way. She never dreamt of the possibilities for Craven House.”

“The potential you are responsible for turning into reality.”

“There you go again,” her dour tone dashed his previous hopes. “I think your mother is correct.”

“How so?” he demanded.

“You see the world in black and white. Right and wrong. Scandalous or proper. A lady or a whore.”

“And I was wrong, so gravely, unforgivably wrong—“

“Please, listen,” she whispered. She rubbed her hands together and held them toward the flames, so close, he feared her palms would burn. “My mother was neither right nor wrong. She was scandalous yet proper in the upbringing of her children. She was a lady who was made into a whore by life’s circumstances.”

“That doesn’t matter any longer—” And Rowan truly wanted to believe his words. He’d judged her for so many years, and everything Marce was saying mattered—and he knew why.

“Rowan!” She pivoted to face him, her eyes narrowed. “You do not comprehend what I am saying. There is far more to things than either of us knows. There is this place between black and white…”

He threw his arms wide but remained silent, giving her room to speak.

“Grey.”

“Yes, grey.”

“You are right, it is not easily understood. May I try and explain it to you?” She gestured to the lounge, situated to the side of the hearth. When she sat, he followed suit, the sturdy furniture not so much as creaking with the added weight.

She reached out and entwined their fingers. How had it become such a familiar touch after such a short time? Rowan was helpless to do anything but stare at their clasped hands, knowing they may soon hold hands for the final time.

This time, it was Marce who brought his wide-eyed stare to hers with a tap to his chin. “I cannot claim my mother’s strengths if I do not also embrace her weaknesses. It is the same for you.”

“I know my father’s weaknesses very well, and have tried my damnedest to not fall prey to them.”

“May I ask what you see his weakness to be?”

“He betrayed my mother, no matter how my mother explains it, it was the way of things. She may have known, she may have given him permission to stray, but how could that not hurt her?” As much as he attempted to keep his hand firm in hers, he felt it tremble. Julian Delconti hadn’t only deceived his wife, he’d also betrayed his son.

“Perhaps look at it from your mother’s perspective. She does not feel that he betrayed her, but allowed himself to love.”

“That is a strength?” Rowan repressed the urge to laugh, to call out the folly of her words.

“As I said, not everything is black and white, there are varying shades of grey.” Exasperation infused her words, and she reclined on the lounge, allowing their hands to fall away from one another. “How about this. You think your father abandoned your mother at Hadlow and continued with his life, unaffected by the duchess’s sickness.”

Rowan nodded. It wasn’t just what he thought, it was what his father had done. Regardless of black, white, or grey, his father had walked away from a difficult situation to live freely and without burden with another woman.

“What if he was giving you and your mother uninterrupted time together to allow you both to truly know and appreciate one another? Julian had your mother for longer than that, but if she succumbed to her illness, as he feared, you’d be left with scant memories of her had he kept you in London with him and away from her sickbed.”

“But him doing that meant I knew nothing of my father.”

“No one could have guessed that it would be the duke who left this Earth first,” Marce said, laying her hand on his arm. “Grey, remember. Not black. Not white. Not right. Not wrong.”

Rowan needed someone to be wrong…and there was only him.

For he already knew, from the very beginning, he’d wronged Marce.

Varying shades of guilt and blame didn’t exist, couldn’t exist, in his eyes. The notion of everything not being as it appeared frightened him to his very core. If it had not been as it seemed with his father, then there were things about him that were not black and white.

He’d blackmailed Marce into agreeing to his proposition to insulate himself against becoming his father and to keep his mother happy and content in her final years. That was the black-and-white explanation for his actions, but could his end goal have been something else all along?

“Rowan.” Her whispered tone incited something deep within him. To never hear her speak again would mean the certain death of his very soul. “Your father, by funding Craven House and helping my mother, made it possible for me to help all these women now. It was a future neither of them could have predicted, but the outcome is clear.”

“I’ve hated him, despised him, cursed his very existence for all these years.” Rowan hung his head and covered his face with his hands, muffling his words. “I’ve spent the last however many years giving away the fortune he amassed because I thought it would somehow right his wrongs, but…”

“Neither of us can know what your father was thinking, nor how he’d react now. Whether he’d feel pride in the way you cared for your mother or—”

“Bloody hell, I don’t want him to be proud of me. He doesn’t get that right,” he breathed. “My mother, she has earned the right to be proud of me, for she made me the man I am today, but not him, not Julian.”