Marce marveled at the vulnerable side Rowan worked tirelessly to hide from everyone in his life. They were both still reeling from Leona’s confessions about the past—Rowan especially. It was easier for Marce to grasp the magnitude of the situation. She’d never cast her mother or Julian in a negative light. They were people to her, ones she knew well. She’d always thought they’d done what was needed for the sake of those around them.

Thinking in terms of black and white, or varying shades of grey as Leona had spoken of, had never been a rational way of thinking for Marce. It was easier to believe that every person had their own reasons for their words and actions—their own black and white.

Odd that she’d never dwelled long on Rowan’s reasons. Never had she spent time pondering the whys behind anything he did. She’d willingly believed he was cruel, without further scrutiny. Just as he’d known the reputation of Craven House and assumed she was a woman lacking a moral compass. Had that been the deciding factor behind his proposition? He’d thought her not above deceit.

Perhaps she hadn’t wanted his motives to cloud her opinion of him or weaken her resolve. For years, she’d thought he possessed a heart and soul as black as his midnight hair, yet now she wondered if it was only that he kept his heart hidden so deeply within himself that the shadows from the sheer depths had cast a dark light on him.

It was no way to live—Marce was certain of that.

“One might argue that Julian is exactly the person who made you the man you are today,” Marce said to soothe the hard edge from his words. “Once you let go of your anger and hatred, you will be surprised to see the weight lifted from you.”

Marce had been in his same position at one point. Alone and scared with four siblings and a house to care for. She could have turned inward and allowed her past to fester and corrupt her future, but she hadn’t. Even Rowan, coming to her that night, had been a blessing in disguise.

“Can I tell you what I was doing the night you came to Craven House—all furious anger, indignation, and arrogance—and proposed your ludicrous plan?” She hadn’t spoken of it, let alone thought about it since that very night. During that hour Rowan was in her mother’s study, Marce had promised herself that she’d never give up or give in to any man. When he remained silent, she continued, “I was reviewing the account ledgers for Craven House. We hadn’t enough coin to buy another candle nor attend the market, let alone provide tutors for Sam, Jude, and Payton. I was ready to give up. I was on the verge of selling Craven House and moving out of the city, anywhere that our measly funds would go farther than they were. I didn’t know where we would go or how we would survive—let alone remain together as a family.”

The heartache of that night returned, as well as her rage at the injustices of life. “But when you came to me, I learned that even Craven House, the one thing I thought was mine, was not. I had no choice but to push on. To move forward or risk losing everything—my siblings included. It was your proposition that ignited my need for survival. As you know, my elder brother cast us from our home, and we had to start over, but at least we were beholden to no one. And here I was, beholden to yet another man…you. Rowan, you held the power, and that infuriated me enough to not give up. I decided that night, with you pacing across from me, that I would survive again, my entire family would, and we’d be better for it.”

“I had no idea,” he mumbled.

How could he have any notion of their suffering? He’d never asked, and she’d never spoken of it. She’d never trusted him enough to share such an intimate detail about her past.

“You were dealing with your own grief and loss.” Marce sighed. “As I said, nothing is black and white. You may think you took advantage of me, used me, extorted me for your own personal gain, but it was a blessing. Truly. If not for your arrival that night, my siblings and I would have moved out of London. Jude and Sam would not have met and married men they love. Payton would not be…well, Payton is a different creature altogether, but I assure you, my family would be worse off had I not agreed to your plan.”

“My intentions were to see you suffer.” His admission didn’t shock her in the least. “I wanted you to hurt as much as I was hurting.”

“And instead, you were my savior. Because of you, I met the duchess.” Marce couldn’t help but smile at the mere mention of the elder woman. “It was like having my mother back. Someone to guide me through the difficult times. And now we know it was because she knew my mother, was aware of my struggles, and loved us both enough to go along with our charade.”

“My mother said that she could not fathom what brought you and I together.”

“And I cannot fathom what could keep us apart.”

Marce had never been more honest and forthright with anyone in her entire life—not even Garrett or her sisters.

Rowan had been a mystery, an utter stranger only a few days before, but Marce suspected that she knew—and understood—him on a level far deeper than he even knew himself.

“What now?” Her stomach clenched as Rowan sagged against the lounge, his voice thickening with defeat.

“You two make things official and give the duchess what she wants. We all know we are helpless to go against her wishes.” Marce and Rowan turned toward the door as Tobias entered the study, a wicked and pleased grin on his boyish face. “A spring wedding at Hadlow, in Leona’s treasured gardens, would do nicely. That is enough time for you to collect all your wayward siblings and bring them to Kent, is it not, Lady Marce?”

“It could be arranged,” Marce stumbled over her words, knowing exactly what her response meant—she’d agreed to yet another plan. However, this one was of her making.

“Spring it will have to be, and not a moment sooner as it will take that long to repair the damage Rowan did to the area.” Tobias turned a stern glare on his best friend but softened immediately at Rowan’s dour frown. “Come now, my man, ask the lady what needs asking and let us tell Leona the good news.”

“Is it so simple?” Rowan asked, hesitation lacing his words as if he could not believe he was worthy of any of it.

“Sure it is,” Tobias laughed, walking farther into the room. “Marce, do you find your heart fluttering with anticipation each time Rowan walks into a room? You know what I’m speaking of—pulse racing, cheeks heating, palms perspiring…” He waggled his brows up and down. “Do not make me detail all the sordid little particulars.”

“It is everything I’ve felt for some time—”

“Great!” Tobias exclaimed, clapping his hands once for emphasis. “Now, Rowan, do you not find yourself completely at a loss when around Lady Marce—your nerves frayed and your words and actions seemingly out of your control? Your thoughts not your own, your mind wandering to things you’d rather not dwell on—perchance the precise hue of someone’s”—He winked in Marce’s direction before continuing—“golden curls or whether her lips are more of a rosebud shape or a heart? Oh, and do not inspire me to lament on the subject of the softness of said lips…not that I would know, mind you.”

“Well, I—“ Rowan began, his stared trained on Tobias.

“Precisely what I already deduced. You love him.” He pointed from Marce to Rowan. “And you love her,” Tobias said, reversing the action. “It is settled. And now I think it is time for a drink to celebrate. Rowan, will you be having sherry or something a bit stronger as the occasion calls for?”

“Tobias.” Rowan pushed to his feet and took two steps to cut Tobias off as he moved toward the decanters lined up on the sideboard. “You cannot come in here and order us about. This is a matter between Marce and me, not us, you, and my mother.”

“The facts remain the same, my friend.” Tobias pushed Rowan from his path and continued to the sideboard. “Drinks?”

It was her turn to speak. “Tobias, I must say I agree with Rowan on this.”

Tobias spun around, a smile pulling his lips wide. “See, already joining forces against a common foe. This marriage will be blessed—very blessed indeed. Now, sherry or scotch?” He paused for only a brief moment before collecting a goblet and two tumblers. “I say I pour us refreshments and we head upstairs to impart the good news to the duchess.”

“What makes you think I will agree to wed the duke?” Marce asked, taking the goblet Tobias offered. She stood at Rowan’s side, her arm brushing his as they both faced down Tobias.

“Simple, you already agreed to wed the scoundrel on one occasion, and I dare say the offer was not as appealing as it is this day.” Tobias shoved a tumbler into Rowan’s hand and tapped his cheek in thought, his eyes rolling to stare at the ceiling. “I suppose the two of you can deny your attraction for one another, refuse to accept your mutual affection for Lord knows how long, and in the end—after months, possibly years of denying your hearts’ desire—come to finally wed. However, you’ve both wasted nearly eight years on this charade. If we know anything, it is that life is too short to wait for tomorrow.”

Marce felt Rowan’s heated stare on her as she focused on the sherry in her hands. Odd that neither had been startled to hear the other confirm their love.

“Perhaps Tobias is correct,” Marce mused.

“Of course, I am,” the earl scoffed.

“You truly love me?” Rowan asked, his voice deepening.

How was it easy for him to accept his love for her but not fathom that she could return the sentiment? Marce didn’t need to think on his question; however, a simple yes would not do. Rowan was a man who spoke only when he was certain of his words, arranging them in the perfect way as to embody his exact meaning.

Marce owed him the same.

When he shifted away from her, their arms no longer touching, Marce knew she needed to speak—and now, before Rowan receded once more, taking his heart and hiding it again.

“A part of me believes we have continued in this indeterminate state for so many years because I was fearful of lifting the mask you wore to keep me at arm’s length. I wanted to continue in my hatred of you, which kept my resolve strong, and allowed my need for survival to prevail. But in turn, I robbed us both of so many years of happiness—either together or finding love with another.”

“Together,” Tobias cut in. “Obviously, the correct answer here is together.”

“Not another word.” Rowan’s severe tone put an end to his friend’s commentary, and Tobias slunk from the room, gently closing the door behind him.

Setting her goblet aside, she reached forward, clasping Rowan’s hands, his fingers finding their new natural way of entwining.

“I was content to allow our continued association to fuel my hatred for my father.”

“But we must let the past go,” Marce sighed, “if we ever hope to find even a speck of the happiness we deserve.” Rowan shook his head, and Marce knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth to speak. “You deserve happiness, Rowan, of that I am certain.”

His stare searched hers for some magical answer that had eluded him all these years. “How can you look past all the hurt I’ve caused you?”

“It isn’t about looking past it—or forgetting—it is about assigning it a shade of grey, understanding why it happened, and moving forward.” With a small smile, she stepped closer to him and stared up into his green eyes. “I understand the many reasons you did what you did, and I can forgive you so I can move forward and discover the man beneath the pain…a man free of suffering.”

“How can you forgive me when I haven’t offered any apology?” He flinched slightly, but he held her stare. “I cannot forgive myself for everything I’ve put you through.”

“There are more ways to make amends beyond the spoken word,” Marce confided. “You followed me to London when you could have put me in your past and moved on. You allowed me to remain in my home when you had every right to toss me to the streets. You could have denied me the chance to return to Hadlow when word came about Leona, but you brought me with you without a second thought. All this says more than any string of apologies could.

“I know you love me, just as I am certain I love you.” Her heart shuddered when she spoke the word, fearful he would turn away, pull from her hold, and flee the room. “I cannot tell you when it happened—yesterday, a year ago, eight years ago—but it did, and if I know anything, it is that love is a precious thing.”

“A fleeting thing,” he continued.

“No matter how fleeting it may be, or capable of crippling a man, that does not mean we should allow it to pass us by.”

“What if I cannot stop from hurting you again?” he said on a breathless exhale. “What if my love fails—what if I fail? What if I cannot give you everything you desire and deserve?”

“If we do not try, we will never know.” It was she who released him and turned to walk toward the hearth. “The burden of regret at not seeing where our love will take us would be far more crushing than accepting and embracing our connection, knowing that one day it might lead us in different directions.”

Rowan stepped close to her back, his hands settling on her shoulders, squeezing gently as he caressed the tension away, his breath at her ear, the warmth of the fire on her face. For the briefest of moments, Marce allowed herself to believe that this was her future, that they could put the past behind them and find the happiness that had eluded them for so many years.

But she could not risk her own desperation overshadowing her judgment, turning Rowan’s words into something they weren’t, or hearing a promise he didn’t pledge.

“It appears there is only one thing left to say.” She heard anticipation and need in his tone and steeled herself for what was to come as she gazed into the fire. A single tear slipped down her cheek. “Lady Marce Davenport, will you do me the esteemed honor of becoming the Duchess of Harwich?”

She pivoted to face him, her bosom pressing against his chest as she gazed up at him, his green eyes deep pools of warmth as he held his breath, awaiting her reply. He brushed away the wayward tear.

“Are you certain?” Her heart stopped, refusing to beat even once more until she heard him speak.

“I’ve never been so certain of anything,” he replied.

“Yes, yes, I will wed you.” She threw her arms around his neck as his hands encircled her waist, drawing her ever closer.

When a loud burst of applause sounded from the far side of the closed study door, they both laughed.

But they quickly sobered as a seriousness descended.

Marce stared up at Rowan, suspecting that he saw the hesitancy in her eyes.

“My dearest Marce, I cannot promise that every moment to come will be happy, lighthearted and joyful, but I can pledge to love you every day we continue to draw breath. I will make mistakes, likely disappoint you in ways we cannot imagine, but I will not give up. I will keep making amends each day to prove my love for you, and to show you that there’s more to me than my resentment and hurt and that they do not consume me still.”

She made no attempt to staunch the flow of tears that cascaded down her cheeks. His vow—and her tears—washed away the past as if it had never happened. She’d lied when she said that she would never forget their transgressions because, in that moment, their slate was wiped clean.

No grey, no white, no black.

“Rowan Delconti, I love you with all my heart.” She rubbed at her eyes, clearing her blurred vision. “I love you in a way that scares me, which makes this all the more right.”

“You have always been a fierce woman,” he sighed, pressing his lips to her chin. “A strong, independent woman”—He kissed her nose—“a woman I should have recognized long ago was perfect for me.”

Marce couldn’t resist a moment longer as need coiled in her stomach, as heat pooled in her most sensitive areas.

Yes, they would tell the duchess what she’d longed to hear for many years, but first, Marce would show Rowan how much she loved him.