Rowan leaned farther over his desk, peering at the assortment of Hadlow Estate paperwork in need of his attention as he attempted, for the twentieth time, to read—and comprehend—the detailed list his steward had made in reference to improvements needed about the estate. Yet, his mind refused to cooperate as his vision blurred and his thoughts strayed to other matters. Far less important subjects—or at least they should be far less imperative. Instead of finalizing and signing land and crop agreements, tenant leases, and repair notices, Rowan found himself once again staring off at nothing, his mind returning to those brief moments on the head of the stairs.

Shoving the papers aside, he scrubbed at his face and blinked several times to clear his focus before retrieving his quill.

It had been hours since he happened upon Marce after his morning visit with his mother. And, still, he could think of nothing but their upcoming private conversation.

What could possibly be so pressing that the woman demanded an audience with him?

Hadn’t they traveled for nearly an hour in private the day before? They had been alone with no fear of being overheard, but Marce had broached no subject of a delicate nature.

Rowan reclined in his desk chair, his neck and back aching from his continued resolve to finish the task before him, even after several hours of making no progress. Instead, his eyes drifted closed once more, and all his mind conjured was that bloody pink frock…far too innocent and demure for Marce with its high neckline and simple waist. Not a speck of adornment accompanied the outfit—no jewels strung around her neck, or bobs hanging from her exposed earlobes. Even her hair was secured, half up and half down, as was her chosen fashion in recent years, without a single ribbon, flower, or comb.

In his dreams…no, not his dreams. Rowan did not fantasize about Marce. In his mind’s eye, when he envisioned Marce at Craven House, she wore gowns of the deepest scarlet or rich emerald green, accompanied by diamonds or rubies or sapphires. Her hair would also flow freely down her back and curl over her bare shoulders to cascade across her supple, mounding breasts where they strained against the tight silk of her bodice. Never did she bother with flounces or hoops, instead preferring skirts that hugged her body until they skimmed the floor at her feet. Her lips were always a rose red, and her cheeks a healthy pink, but never from the paints and dyes that some women preferred. No, everything about Marce was natural, from her long, fair, curling hair to her bright lips to the curve of her hips.

Bloody hell.

Thinking about Marce in such a way was only serving to distract his focus further.

There was little arguing that she was beautiful and poised, but desiring her in any true sense beyond their current arrangement was not something Rowan would allow himself. Any need or longing to hold the woman, kiss the woman, fit their bodies perfectly together, was the precise thing Rowan had avoided since the first time they were alone together. He’d covered his attraction with his fury that night, and he could do the same now. He had to.

Rowan shoved the mound of papers on his desk to the floor and threw his favored quill across the study, watching the driblets of ink that had clung to the tip spray about the room as it sailed through the air. He noted where each drop of black stained the rug, a wingback chair, and the frame of a landscape portrait that hung on the wall. Why could he focus on such a miniscule thing and not the mounding stacks of paperwork needing his attention?

The ink matched the thin, barely noticeable, black rings that outlined Marce’s crystal blue eyes, so light in hue many would mistake them for clear, holding no pigment at all if they did not look closely—and often.

The Devil take him…straight to the depths of hell the woman thought he’d crawled from.

The door closed with nary a sound, and a familiar voice of reason asked, “What is all this?”

Rowan brought his eyes from the now empty surface of his desk to see Tobias, Lord Cresthaven, standing just inside the study door, surveying the mess—papers strewn across the floor from where Rowan had pushed them away, his quill lying at Tobias’ feet, and the ink splatter here and there about the room.

Yes, Rowan was in serious need of Tobias’ words of wisdom; yet he knew they’d never speak of Marce or Rowan’s part in deceiving his mother.

Those topics were off-limits, even to Rowan’s closest friend.

Tobias leaned down and plucked the quill from the rug at his feet, sending it flying back toward Rowan. He made no move to catch it as it skidded across his desk and fell once more to the floor.

“Pelton will have your hide when he sees the disorder you’ve made for him,” Tobias said with a chuckle. “Should I assist you with straightening up, or allow you to face your butler’s wrath?”

Tobias’ brown brow rose in question when Rowan only sent a frown his way before collecting the quill.

“Ah, things are far more dire than I suspected.” Tobias made his way to the sideboard and retrieved two tumblers. “Scotch?” He didn’t bother waiting for Rowan’s reply before pouring two healthy portions from a decanter and turning to hand one to his friend.

They drank in silence, and Tobias moved to refill the glasses.

“No, thank you,” Rowan said, covering his tumbler with his hand. “Dinner with Mother and Marce…I must have my wits about me if I am to survive.”

Tobias shrugged before filling his own glass once more and throwing himself into the ink-stained wingback chair across from Rowan, his scotch splashing over the edge of his tumbler and threatening to drip down the chair. Tobias wiped at the liquid before it could make its way down the side of the glass. “Suit yourself; however, I will endeavor to enjoy my evening.”

Rowan ran his fingers through his hair, likely mussing it more than it already was. “Enjoy an evening at Hadlow? Dining with both my mother and Marce…at the same time?” He shook his head, fearing Tobias had at some point jarred his head so severely he’d forgotten how difficult it was to monitor one’s words when in the company of Lady Harwich—both Lady Harwichs, as it were.

“Whatever are you so concerned about?” Tobias took a long sip before continuing, “Leona is a—”

“Lady Harwich or the duchess,” Rowan corrected with another scowl.

“Lady Harwich, though you know I was given liberty to address her by her given name years ago—“

“I did not agree to such.”

Tobias shrugged again, obviously unconcerned with his own well-being. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Lady Harwich is a delight, and Mar—err, Lady Harwich part deux is captivating, even though she cannot take her stare from you most days. However”—Tobias raised his hand to stop Rowan’s protest—“I have it on good authority that she favors—”

“Stop!” Rowan’s deep voice thundered, fairly rattling the windowpanes, yet Tobias was undeterred by his friend’s outburst.

“Okay, I will share who my source is, but you must agree never to reveal their name to anyone,” Tobias joked; however, Rowan sensed that somewhere behind his words and jest, there was more than a morsel of truth. “It was Constance, the milliner’s daughter’s husband’s third cousin…once removed. From over in Swanscombe.”

“What in the bloody hell does some chit from Swanscombe know of any of this?” Rowan massaged his neck as his left eye began to twitch.

“Obviously more than you and I, Your Grace.” Tobias shot up straight in his seat, his empty tumbler forgotten by his side. “I am certain I can gather her directions for you if you need further evidence. Though you cannot, under any circumstances, tell her that you heard the information from me. Swear to it, Ro!”

“Enough, Tobias.” Rowan narrowed his eyes at his friend, wondering what had drawn the two men together all these years and continued their friendship despite the distance that normally separated them. “I do not give a bloody damned whit if my mother allows you to call her Leona, nor does it interest me if Marce favors you over me.”

The continued twitch in his eye spoke to the contrary, and Rowan only prayed Tobias hadn’t noticed the tell.

“But she favors me,” Tobias sighed as if mortally wounded by Rowan’s lack of interest in the topic. “Either way, I am greatly looking forward to our meal. When news arrived you’d be at Hadlow and the duchess was requesting my presence for a dinner party—”

“It is not a party.” Rowan was done trying to hide his exasperation.

“Come now, allow us lowly Kent simpletons the delight of an intimate dinner party now and again,” Tobias said, standing to refill his tumbler for a third time. “It is not often that fine London dwellers such as you grace us lowly country folk with your presence…”

“Lowly country folk?” Rowan scoffed. “Did you not just recently return from across the Channel?”

“That is neither here nor there.”

“It most certainly is, and just six months ago, you traveled with me to Scotland,” Rowan said with a chuckle. Blast it all, but the man knew how to banish his dour moods. “And next month, we travel to Liverpool to meet with the Marquess of Huntly.”

Tobias was incorrigible but worth the hassle on every level. A good friend and business companion whose trustworthy nature was never called into question was certainly a rare commodity—especially among the ton.

There were more words to describe his friend, as well: loyal, understanding, and steadfast.

And so, Rowan overlooked the frequent melodramatic tendencies that afflicted Tobias.

“I would be honored to accompany you, my dear Rowan, but whatever shall we tell the duchess?” He pressed his hand to his chest and widened his eyes—even his chin trembled slightly. Perhaps it was past time to stop overlooking Tobias’ quirks and demanded his friend act the part of a gentleman and not a court jester. “You do not think people will gossip overmuch about all the time we spend together?”

Tobias’ dramatics had never rankled Rowan’s nerves in such a manner before.

“My mother never asks after my business affairs, as you well know.”

“And what of your other duchess?”

“There is no reason for her to inquire as it does not pertain to her,” Rowan huffed. “And she is not—”

“Your duchess, I know.” Tobias sobered, all jesting and joking fleeing as his lips pulled into a firm line. “What of the woman? You cannot think to keep at this ruse forever. Your mother spoke of grandchildren last month. Grandchildren, born of Harwich blood.”

The truth of the matter was that the duchess had been speaking of grandchildren for many years. First in whispers to only Miss Pearl, but recently, openly asking Rowan of his future plans for the dukedom. He’d never dared ask Marce if his mother had questioned her on the topic, as well.

It was a discussion that would be uncomfortable for both of them.

It would be ludicrous to think Marce would go so far as to birth Rowan’s child, or any child, to keep up with the pretense of their sham of a marriage. But thinking on the subject brought to mind the wayward longing that invaded him when he allowed his guard to slip.

There was little doubt that Marce would one day have children; however, they would not be his or of Harwich blood.

“So…”

“So, what?” Rowan asked, wishing he hadn’t pushed the stacks of papers from his desk. He needed something to look at besides Tobias. And something to think about other than Marce as the mother of his children. The man was incredibly shrewd at the most inopportune moments. Rowan would not admit that the duchess had written him about just that subject the previous month after Tobias, the lout, had brought his sister and her children to visit Hadlow.

“Children…you and Marce…don’t play me for a fool and act as if you’ve never considered it.”

“I most certainly have not,” Rowan refuted. “We have a business arrangement, that is all. There is no romantic entanglement between us. Not now, and not in the future.”

“Interesting.” Tobias had the gall to stroke his chin as if he thought of all the implications of Rowan’s proclamation. “Very interesting, indeed.”

“How so?” Rowan asked.

“Well, you see…” A huge smile pulled at Tobias’ mouth, revealing his pearly white teeth. “When all this crumbles around you, I will be there to console those left in the wake of your destruction.”

“I enjoyed your company more when you respected which topics were not up for discussion.”

“And I’ve never truly enjoyed your company. However, your mother and Marce are delightful conversationalists, though their association with you is—”

The clock chimed seven times.

The dinner hour at Hadlow Estate.

“Ah, yes, our meal awaits.” Tobias pushed from his chair, not pausing to wait for Rowan to join him. “Hurry along, old chap.”

Rowan pushed from his chair, his arms and legs heavy with unease as he hurried after Tobias. There was no denying that Rowan was happy to follow someone’s lead, at least for this one night. He would gladly play second fiddle to Tobias if it meant dinner progressed smoothly, and he escaped unscathed.

Entering the dining hall, Rowan was first taken aback by the exorbitant amount of food spread out on the long table—from great pots of soup to roasted pheasant to steaming mounds of vegetables, and even three different sweets for after their meal. When in residence, Rowan favored a less formal meal, served buffet style. It lessened the chores for his servants and gave him the illusion of privacy in a brimming house. Tonight, the individual aromas mingled, causing Rowan’s mouth to water with anticipation of the fare to come. Every candle in the room was lit, and the chandelier overhead made every wine goblet shimmer. There were candelabras up and down the length of the table with strands of ivy woven between them. Bolts of silken fabric hung from every wall in varying shades of silver and plum, superbly complementing the green of the garlands.

Rowan shook his head to clear the nonsense from his mind.

The extravagance of the room irritated him. Theirs was to be a simple dinner for four, not a party of twenty celebrating some important holiday or tradition. His mother, Marce, Tobias, and him—with no need to mask their meal with societal niceties. The sheer extravagance of the uneaten food and burning candle wax would be enough to sustain one of his struggling businesses for days while feeding and providing light for the workers.

The businesses were not stressed because of any decision Rowan made—but one would not know that by seeing the unnecessary excess surrounding him at that moment.

Glancing toward the head of the table as Tobias took his seat next to Rowan’s mother, he was about to chastise everyone in the room. Heat crept up his neck and moved past his perfectly tied neckcloth to his ears. Servants lined the walls as if this were a daily occurrence at Hadlow Estate, their newly commissioned uniforms in perfect order.

Everything was perfect, from the place settings to the food to the servants to the—

Guests.

Rowan turned his head to take in his mother and Marce, both seated near the head of the table to his left and right, as they chatted quietly with Tobias. The pair was each exquisite in their own way, and both smiled as they greeted Tobias. The look of utter happiness on his mother’s normally worn face brought a lightness to Rowan he hadn’t felt in months…perhaps years.

His feet halted, refusing to take another step closer for fear of bringing an end to the merriment. Certainly, his mere presence was enough to cast a dark shadow over the entire group.

Even now, his mother laughed—actually, giggled would be a more accurate term—and swatted at Tobias’ hand with her fan. His mother actually held a fan, flipping it open with a coy precision born to every woman of noble birth and began to fan her face as her cheeks blossomed with a delicate rose hue.

Marce leaned in close, her arms folded on the table before her as she pushed her place setting aside, her long curls falling over her shoulder in a manner he was coming to think of as normal. The trio laughed again, and Rowan’s annoyance dissipated.

For a brief moment, Rowan considered departing the room and leaving the three to enjoy their meal without his dark presence there to dampen their good cheer.

But then, she turned her smile in his direction.

And nodded in greeting.

Not his mother. No, she was still fanning her heated face and laughing at whatever inane story Tobias regaled her with.

It was Marce’s wide grin that brought Rowan farther into the room. He moved under the shimmering glow from above and amidst the savory scents of the meal set before them until he reached his place at the head of the table.

With her chin tilted slightly, Marce looked up at him, her smile never wavering. And in that moment, for no more than the blink of an eye, Rowan allowed himself to ponder what it would be like if Marce Davenport were truly his duchess. If she gazed at him in a similar fashion every day. If he could look forward to enjoy every meal with her by his side.

Belatedly, he remembered her quick words of avoidance as she’d fled down the main stairs that morning, obviously looking to be in anyone’s company but his. No, Marce’s smile and good cheer was not meant for him, nor caused by his presence.

That was far too much to hope for, even if, surprisingly, it was something Rowan longed to have.