Marce breathed in deeply the moment she crossed Hadlow’s threshold, her lungs filling with all the smells that had at some point over the years become familiar—and even comforting—to her. The scent of the lemon used to polish the floors and wooden stair rails. The delightful, tangy aroma of baked goods emanating from the kitchen at the rear of the house, somehow making its way across the manor. Not only to the foyer but also all the way to the east wing where she and Rowan resided, and the west wing where Lady Leona’s private suite overlooked the Hadlow gardens. There was yet another sweet scent that carried through every square inch of the estate, and it reminded Marce how far removed Rowan and his mother were from her way of living at Craven House.

The honeyed fragrance of beeswax candles.

Marce was fortunate to possess enough coin to light their home with tallow in their private chambers and rush-lights in the most frequented rooms below. Only on the few nights per week that she invited men into her home for card games were proper beeswax candles brought out—and they were blown out and whisked away immediately after the games concluded, burning not a second longer than necessary.

Oh, the airs one put on for the benefit of others.

Closing her eyes, Marce threaded her fingers together before her, holding the duchess’s gift to her chest and inhaling one last time…her exhale achingly slow as the tension from the carriage ride drained from her.

She would miss the smells of Hadlow—among other things.

To her, these were the scents of a true home, a place where a family resided—lived, laughed, loved, and cherished one another. There had been many firsts and lasts within these ancient walls. Leona had wedded Julian in Hadlow’s gardens. Rowan had been born in the very room Lady Leona still kept as her own. And Julian, the previous duke, had died here…along with their many babes who did not survive. Despite the hardships the Harwich family had endured over the generations, these walls still provided a treasured sanctuary for the occupants.

One day, Marce would possess a place like Hadlow. Not equal in size or to its grandiose nature, but a house that was more than a mere dwelling, more than four walls and a roof that afforded shelter as long as she abided by the terms of an agreement.

A home.

A place her siblings would come to for short respites from their hectic lives in London.

A place with a small garden where Marce could tend to the herbs and vegetables. The satisfaction of feeding her guests with crops tended by her own hands would surely be fulfilling.

Situated a short distance from a small village where the townsfolk would greet her by name, and she would invite them to visit her for tea or an afternoon of lawn activities…perhaps even a dinner party every few months.

There would always be a feast to share, sweets to enjoy, and festivities to plan.

A home that her children would enjoy—not her children, but those of Garrett, Sam, Judith, and Payton. They would come and visit every holiday season, and she’d demand they remain until after the new year dawned. There would be a yuletide log with plenty of holly decorating every table and railing.

Yes, that was what Marce longed for.

A small slice of Heaven that was hers, and hers alone.

Never would a man take from her. Marce would not allow it.

Never would a man own her. She would perish before agreeing to such a thing again.

“Lady Harwich.” The soft, familiar voice drifted through the foyer. It had taken many years for Marce to halt herself from glancing about for Leona, Rowan’s mother, when someone uttered the greeting. “I wish you a good afternoon, Your Grace.”

She opened her eyes with a smile upon her lips to see Pearl, the duchess’s maid, at the bottom of the stairs.

Lady Harwich, or Your Grace, were difficult titles to assume when Marce knew the depth of the deception she and Rowan were embroiled in. The name and title were not hers, not in truth; however, that did not alter the greeting she received each time she arrived at Hadlow.

“My mistress has been eagerly awaiting your arrival. I fear she will not rest until she has set eyes on you.” Pearl was nearly the same age as Rowan’s mother, but for some reason, she hadn’t seemed to age in over two decades, at least if the painted portraits in the duchess’s sitting room were to be believed. With her mousy brown hair, milky skin, and delicate frame, many would think the duchess’s companion no older than Marce. “She spotted Johnathon leading the duke’s horse round to the stables, and I rushed to collect you.”

Aside from when Marce was in residence, Pearl was Leona’s sole companion, hired as the duchess’s maid long before she and the duke had wed. She bathed the older woman, changed her linens, and even pinned her hair each morning, despite Leona rarely leaving her private suite of rooms. They were more than mistress and servant, they were bosom friends.

“I shan’t endeavor to keep her waiting a second more,” Marce said, unable to keep the joy from her tone. Pearl returned her smile before turning and leading the way up the stairs. “How has she been since my last visit?”

If the servant noticed her use of my instead of our, therefore excluding Rowan, Pearl did not hint at it.

“My mistress has been as well as can be expected. She has good days, bad days, and days I fear I will need summon His Grace back to Hadlow.” Pearl kept her eyes trained before her, nodding slightly with sorrow as she spoke of Leona’s persistent sickness. Marce had learned when they first met that the duchess had never been in good health, not since her birth. However, Leona’s father’s status in society had afforded her a successful match with the Duke of Harwich despite her frail state. “Today, it is only you—and her son—she speaks of. Not a moment of rest will be had until she has set eyes upon you, my dear.”

If Leona had taken the place of Marce’s own deceased mother, then Pearl was the closest thing to a proper aunt Marce had ever known. She was grateful for the woman’s devotion to Rowan’s mother, despite Marce’s lack of affection for Rowan and the farce they were forcing upon the entire Hadlow staff. For many months, Marce had thought Pearl despised her. She had even feared the woman would ruin Marce’s chances of keeping her home by telling Leona of their deception. However, she had remained tight-lipped and, over time, had gotten to know Marce, learning that she wasn’t there to harm Leona in any way or to cause any trouble at Hadlow.

Marce might be dull to think it, but she swore Pearl had come to have a certain amount of motherly affection for her.

“Has the physician been round today?”

“Not yet, Lady Harwich.” Marce noticed the woman’s grip on the railing tighten. “But we expect him shortly.”

She’d beseeched the woman to call her Marce, but she’d refused time and time again, saying that it wasn’t proper, and imploring that if she were to slip up in front of Leona, everything could be ruined.

Footsteps followed them up the stairs to the second-story landing.

One way led to the west wing, and the other toward the east wing where her bedchamber was located. Glancing back, Marce saw Mrs. Giles carrying Marce’s traveling trunk up the main stairs behind them with an ease born of a life of servitude, and a contentment few felt in their existence. She even hummed a soft melody as she worked.

“I’ll take this to your room, Lady Harwich.”

“Wait, Mrs. Giles,” Marce said, setting her hand on the woman’s arm and holding out the wrapped package. “Can you leave this in my room, too?”

“Certainly.” The housekeeper took the book and slipped it under her arm as she bustled toward Marce’s suite. Her humming turned to full song as she disappeared, her words soon becoming indecipherable.

“Another gift for the duchess.” Pearl shook her head and started for Leona’s private chambers.

Yes, the package had been specifically selected for Leona, but Marce couldn’t bring herself to deliver the gift now. Perhaps at their evening meal or, better still, tomorrow. Sadness snaked around her heart, tightening until Marce could barely draw a breath. Once the gift was given, a way to say goodbye without speaking the words aloud, there would be no reason left to stay. Truly, there had been no reason to return at all once Marce made her decision, but she knew leaving Leona without a proper goodbye would only magnify her remorse. But after Marce saw Leona, she’d go to Rowan and make her departure known…and then flee Hadlow, even if the duke forced her to walk to the nearest coaching inn to secure transport.

Rousing herself from her musings, Marce noted they stood outside Leona’s closed door.

“I will give you and the duchess a spot of privacy,” Pearl sighed, placing her hand on Marce’s back. “I shall return with a tea tray.”

“Thank you,” Marce said, but it came out as more of a mumble. Thankfully, Pearl didn’t wait before turning and heading back toward the stairs.

Marce set her hand against the rough, wooden door and leaned close to listen. If the duchess had found a few minutes of slumber, she would not intrude; however, no sounds of sleep drifted through the door.

“Do come in, dear,” Leona shouted. “I heard your footsteps before you made the top of the stairs. Sounded like a horde of wild fillies, I assure you.”

Marce’s lips drew back in a genuine smile at Leona’s call.

If others at Hadlow thought Marce peculiar, Leona was a one-of-a-kind oddity.

She slipped in and shut the door behind her to keep the warmth inside. The room she entered was the duchess’s private sitting chamber where she entertained, ate her meals, and, as she was doing at the moment, worked on her embroidery. Despite Leona’s many illnesses, her eyes and her hands worked perfectly in unison as her needle slipped through the taut fabric, and a beautiful rose took form.

Marce lowered herself to the peach-colored chair across from where Leona reclined on her favored lounge, a thick, wool blanket tucked tightly around her legs and her needlework nestled in her lap. If Marce were never to see the woman again, this was exactly how she would picture the duchess forevermore—her long, sweeping, sable hair now shot through with grey pinned atop her head, her cheeks flushed from the blazing heat in the hearth, and a sincere smile reaching from her lips to her eyes.

“Hello, Mother,” Marce said, her chin dipping with respect for the elder woman. “You are looking radiant today.”

Mother. Marce had never thought to call another what was so evidently Sasha’s place in her life; however, Leona had insisted, and Marce wanted nothing more than to please the duchess.

Leona set her embroidery aside and beheld Marce sitting across from her. “My dear, dear girl. It is so good to have you home.”

“It is good to be home,” Marce said, the last word sticking in her throat. Hadlow was not her home, no matter how much time she spent here. It would never provide for her what it did for Rowan. Home was where one’s family resided, where their heart was. While Marce adored and loved Leona, this was not where Marce’s family was. Having Leona in her life was a privilege Rowan gave her—one that could just as easily be taken away. “Pearl says you have been doing very well but not resting as much as you should.”

The older woman waved her hand in dismissal. “Oh, fiddle-faddle. If I lay abed any more, people would think me dead already.”

Marce could only muster a broken chuckle at the woman’s attempt at humor.

When Leona’s sharp stare narrowed, Marce worried that she might have let something slip. “Are you feeling well, my child?”

The pure, genuine affection in Leona’s tone was like a spike to Marce’s heart. How she longed to fully open herself up to this woman—to allow all her secrets to come to light. Would Leona, ever the wise woman, bring her peace of mind?

“Simply tired from the journey, I assure you.” She lowered her gaze to keep Leona from seeing the truth in her eyes. Would she witness the sadness that lay within Marce? The guilt? The remorse? One day, hopefully not far off, the duchess would come to understand the reasons for everything Marce had done—even if she did not agree with those decisions—and forgive her. At least that was Marce’s hope. “What mischief have you and Pearl found in my absence?”

The shift brought a new light to Leona, and the older woman grasped on to the question without reservation. “If my stringent son were present, I would certainly take offense to your question”—Leona laughed until she nearly choked from one of her usual coughing fits—“however, my prudish offspring is elsewhere so…I can share Pearl strongly believes that Davies, you know, the footman, is consorting with Pelton’s daughter.”

“And how is that any different from Mr. Pelton falling in love with the steward’s daughter all those years ago?” Marce asked, warming to the latest Hadlow gossip. Mr. Pelton, the butler, had caused quite a stir at the estate over fifteen years ago when he had wed Winifred, who now served as the Hadlow cook. It was only fair turnabout that their daughter fell in love at Hadlow, as well. “I am certain Mr. Pelton has no objections to his daughter’s love interest.”

“Davies is a fine, strapping young lad,” Leona mused, leaning forward to set her needlework aside. “Hard worker, too.”

“I think if you and Pearl join forces, the Peltons will have no other option but to allow Davies to offer for their daughter.”

“Very true, Marce, very true,” Leona clucked with a grin.

There was little chance that any servant would risk disappointing the duchess, especially when the outcome would benefit Hadlow as a whole. One day, when Mr. Pelton grew weary, Davies could very well be appointed as butler at Hadlow—and what man would not want such an esteemed position for their daughter’s husband?

A light tap sounded at the door, and both women turned as Pearl entered pushing a tea cart before her. “Are you hungry, Your Grace? Cook prepared a tray of those cheese squares you enjoy. Plus, the physician should be round soon.”

Marce stood, curtseying to Leona and nodding to Pearl as she stepped toward the door. “I think I should settle in, unpack my things, and freshen up.”

“Very well, my girl,” Leona replied, though her eyes didn’t stray from the tea cart. “Oh, how is your family?”

It was an afterthought, but a topic Leona took great joy in hearing about.

“They are well, Your Grace.”

“The twins—Sam and Jude—they are both wed now?” Leona knew it to be true as Marce had written of her siblings’ matches. “I do hope they are happy.”

The topic always lent a sorrowful mood to the room. It was no secret that the duke and duchess had dealt with the loss of stillborn twins when Rowan was about to depart for Eton. It was the last time they’d attempted to have another child, as Leona fell deeper and deeper into her illness following the deaths.

“They are both in love and deeply happy.” Marce suspected the news of her sisters’ happiness gave the duchess some sort of contentment, despite the pair not being of her blood or her not having met Sam or Jude. Marce paused before departing the room. “May I join you for your evening meal?”

Leona shared a quick look with Pearl before responding. “Actually, it is I who will be joining you and Rowan for a proper meal in the hall—along with Tobias.”

“Are you certain you are feeling up to it?” Marce asked, attempting to catch Pearl’s gaze, but the woman set about pouring Leona’s tea. “I can join you here if—”

“Heavens no, my child.” The hard edge to her tone told Marce that there was no room for argument on the matter. “Tonight, I will have a meal with my son, his lovely wife, and Lord Cresthaven. There is little telling when, or if, I will be well enough again. I will hear no objections.”

Marce kept her smile at bay. If there was one thing Leona knew how to do, it was use her frail nature to get exactly what she wanted. No one, not even Rowan, would refuse Leona the opportunity to dine with them if she insisted that she was feeling well enough.

“Until later, Your Grace.” A balmy sheen of perspiration slickened Marce’s palm as she reached for the latch. A meal with Leona was all well and good, but to take her place at the table to the right of Rowan and converse as a true wedded couple for an entire meal…with Tobias an unwitting accomplice to their farce? It was enough to have Marce claiming a headache and hiding in her quarters all evening. However, she was also hesitant to disappoint the duchess. Especially knowing the woman would face the ultimate disappointment soon enough.

“It is lovely to have you home, my child,” Leona called, nodding to Marce as she slipped from the room. “Leave the door open, my dear girl.”

Marce did as bid, the cool air of the hall surrounding her as she exhaled in relief.

“I do wish they would spend less time gallivanting about England and more time here.”

“I know…” Pearl said.

As Marce hurried down the deserted corridor, Pearl and Leona’s conversation faded behind her, and with it, Marce’s tension decreased.

There were two things Marce was certain of: Leona would not get her wish, and today was not the day to speak with Rowan about her decision.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Marce would give Leona her final gift, and she’d request an audience with the duke before collecting her meager belongings and departing Hadlow Estate for the last time.