The morning had dawned as most did at Hadlow, the curtains pulled back at exactly six o’clock to allow Marce an unimpeded view of the sun rising over Lord Cresthaven’s neighboring estate. The way the new morning light shone off the metal railing of the parapet of the old house across the meadow and reflected through Marce’s window, even from such a great distance, never lost its luster for her. It was something not found in London, where the homes were often constructed so closely together that light this bright was not seen in between structures until the sun was directly overhead.

Once the sun rose farther, and the household had begun to stir, Daisy would bring hot cocoa and set about laying out Marce’s dress for the morning as she departed the cozy warmth of her bed. It was a luxury not afforded to her at Craven House. Waking slowing, enjoying a few moments of ease before starting her day, and even the ministrations of a lady’s maid were indulgences only to be found at Hadlow.

At home—her true home—she and her siblings tended to themselves, donned their own gowns, and pinned their own hair. On occasion, Sam would play the lady’s maid for Jude and Marce, but those instances were rare.

“Ye be awful fussy, Your Grace,” Daisy mumbled, pushing the final pin into Marce’s hair, securing the curl into place. The same as the day before. Not all things changed when at Hadlow Estate. “But I do think ye hair is lovely today.”

Marce stared into the looking glass on her dressing table and tilted her head slightly, noting the dark circles under her eyes, and the frown lines bracketing her mouth. Daisy certainly had a way with her curling rod and pins, something Marce had never mastered. So while the style was the same, today, there was an added air of containment to her long, blond locks.

“Thank you, Daisy. I am worried about the duchess. That is all,” Marce said, standing to allow Daisy to finish buttoning the back of her gown before offering pearl drop earbobs to match her light pink dress. When Marce refused, her maid placed the delicate pieces back into the box on her dressing table.

Her maid frowned. “Mrs. Giles told us not ta bother the duchess today. No clean’n about her rooms or even close’n of doors in her part o’ the manor.”

After the physician had seen to Leona the previous afternoon, he’d deemed the duchess not fit to venture downstairs for their evening meal. And so, Pearl had brought the news to Marce that their evening gathering had been postponed until the following day. However, she’d sent orders Rowan and Marce were to continue as planned.

Things had not progressed as such, for Marce kept to her room. It was only late into the night that she’d heard Rowan’s heavy footsteps pass her door on the way to his chambers. Marce squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists just as she had the previous night when she listened to Rowan pause outside her door. She could hear his breathing echo through the still house.

Had he been discouraged or perhaps upset that Marce hadn’t arrived for their evening meal?

She’d tensed with fear at the thought of him knocking and asking for entry. The idea of being alone with Rowan in her private chamber was enough to send a shiver down her spine even now, though the night has passed without the duke coming to her. There was something raw—and almost unnerving—about the image of them in a room as private as her bedchambers, alone.

What scared her more, even during the light of early morning, was how tempted she’d been to crawl from her bed, flip the latch, and open the door to allow him entry. Though for what purpose, she knew not. Certainly, she had no desire to be alone and scantily clad in his presence. In fact, Marce should have a strict aversion to such an occurrence with Rowan in any location, not only her bedchambers.

Blessedly, before she’d given in to the urge, he’d continued down the hall and slammed the door to his own room.

When no other sound had come from farther down the hall, Marce had eventually fallen into a fitful slumber—directly resulting in the darkened circles under her eyes.

She could not push from her mind the idea that last night may not have been such a rare occurrence. Had Rowan halted outside her door each night they were in residence? Listened for any movement within? Perhaps he’d taken to the habit when she first agreed to their ludicrous arrangement, fearing she’d flee during the night and abscond into the darkened Kent countryside with Harwich valuables in tow. The thought gave her an unexpected spark of satisfaction, visualizing him outside her room yet never being allowed entrance. The duke knowing Marce was mere feet away, dressed in her delicate white shift that fit snuggly to her curves…

It was troubling how readily Marce was willing to forget who she was—who Rowan was—during their stays at Hadlow.

She shook her head to clear away the absurd thoughts, gaining a frown from Daisy behind her.

She was not attracted to the duke. Rowan Delconti was a wicked man, and Marce was not at Hadlow of her own volition. Perhaps she’d even been a bit too agreeable over the years.

If he’d worried she’d flee, the last several years should have diminished his concerns. Not once had she shirked the duties of the deal she’d agreed to.

The stakes of doing so had been made abundantly clear that day, and until recently, the imaginings of their reality had been very real and frightening.

Losing her home—her means to support her family—hadn’t been an option. Marce had willingly, knowingly, and with no reluctance, given up her freedom to make certain her family was not cast out onto the streets…again.

“Ye be ready, Your Grace.” Daisy stepped back with a nod before turning and moving to tidy the bed. When Marce continued to stand before the dressing table, Daisy asked, “Will ye be need’n anythin’ else?”

Marce straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin a notch, refusing to dwell on anything but the day ahead of her. At the angle of her head, the shadows under her eyes were barely noticeable, and if she grinned in a perfect, precise manner, no one would note the worry lines marring her face.

“No, that will be all.” Marce collected the wrapped and twine-bound package for the duchess from her side table. She’d put off speaking with Leona for long enough. If Marce delivered the gift now and spoke with the duke before midday, she could be on her way back to London by early afternoon…long before their arranged evening meal. “I think I will check on the duchess before seeking out my morning repast.”

“Don’t be let’n Mrs. Giles catch ye.”

“I promise, I will not allow that to happen,” Marce reassured the maid. “I will pop in, check on her well-being, and hurry on about my day.”

“Very well, Your Grace.” Daisy continued with her chores.

Marce slipped from the room and moved down the hall to where she could either continue down the main stairs or hurry past to the wing where the duchess’s rooms were located. It would be far simpler to continue downstairs, tell the duke she was leaving—for good—and be gone. As she drew closer, the notion began to take root, and her feet moved of their own accord. Before she’d realized how far she traveled, her slippered foot hit the first step.

“Lady Harwich.” The name did not give her pause; however, the man behind the voice did. The honeyed tone had her chest seizing, and she had to force herself to continue breathing normally.

Marce stopped with her foot in mid-step and turned to see Rowan coming from the direction of the duchess’s suites. It shouldn’t have struck her as peculiar in any way. Of course, Rowan would spend time with his ailing mother while at Hadlow. She’d just never truly pondered when he saw the duchess, only that it did not align with her own visits.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled when Rowan halted before her, his extreme height made all the more daunting with her situated on the step below.

“Your Grace,” Marce gulped. “Good morn.”

His eyes narrowed on the package she’d nearly forgotten she carried. “Are you on your way to see my mother?”

It was evident from her position that she was not on her way to the west wing; however, she did hold Leona’s gift. Did the duke attempt to bait her into lying?

If he thought her incapable of honesty when asked a simple question, then he knew her not at all. “I was going to visit her, but Daisy informed me that Mrs. Giles was cautioning against disturbing her. I decided to break my fast first and check on her after speaking with Pearl. But if you think—”

“I will not presume to order you about.”

“Is that not exactly the parameters of our agreement, Your Grace?” It was now Marce’s turn to bait him. “I mean, that has been my understanding for the last…what has it been”—Marce glanced at the ceiling, making a show as if she were actually counting the days—“let us leave it as years, that you presumed to dictate my every move, whether it be here or in London.”

Marce didn’t bother censoring her tone but managed to give him her most sincere, guileless smile. If a servant happened upon them in the corridor engaged in a very obvious argument then so be it. Her days hiding her true feelings were behind her.

“Besides, after seeing the duchess, I was hoping for a private word with you,” Marce continued, leaving herself no opportunity to avoid Rowan any longer. “Hopefully around midday, if that is agreeable.”

“I only just came from my mother’s rooms, and she is not up to receiving visitors this morning; however, she is stubborn as usual and will attend us—downstairs—at our evening meal. As for a private word with you, we are both here”—he glanced over his shoulder quickly and then past Marce down the stairs—“and it appears the moment is private…”

Damnation. She couldn’t call off their arrangement without first seeing Leona. That was the one thing Marce was unwilling to alter regarding her plans.

“It can wait until the morrow if your time is already allotted.”

His brows drew low over his glowing green glare as he assessed her quick change in tone. “I can certainly find a few moments—before our evening meal—to speak privately.”

Marce wracked her mind for any excuse to put off the conversation she’d requested. Her anxious nerves were threatening to shake her resolve now that she’d finally managed to solicit an audience with Rowan. “The duchess said Tobias—Lord Cresthaven—would be joining us for supper.”

The duke rubbed the back of his neck, and his jaw tightened. “Yes, yes, it escaped my memory that Mother insisted he visit while we are in residence. A private conversation may have to wait until tomorrow.”

Rowan quieted as a maid walked down the hall toward the servant’s stairwell, her arms loaded with soiled linens.

At any other home, it would be oddly peculiar a duchess would need schedule an audience with her own husband, yet the relationship between Marce and Rowan was far from normal.

While most of the servants were aware they were not truly wed, none suspected the true aversion and dislike they held for one another. Even when they’d stumbled across one another at a ball the previous Season, each had gone about their business as if they didn’t know one another.

It was the way of things, and how they would forever continue—at least, if Marce had anything to say about it.

Despite her errant—and somewhat disconcerting—thoughts.