To Catch a Viscount (The Heart of a Duke Book 17), page 18
He should hate her.
She deserved that.
Alas, Andrew had always been a better man than either he or the world had given him credit for. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“I was in the wrong,” Andrew said, and he lifted his hand as if to caress her cheek, and then his gaze slid past her shoulder to where Marcia’s father stood. He let his palm fall to his side.
“Bloody right you were,” her father gritted out. “We are leaving.” Her father caught her by the arm and tossed his cloak around her, yanking the hood up into place.
Coward that she was, she let him all but drag her from the pleasure hall. She let herself be tugged from Andrew and this place, wanting to put all of it behind her. Wanting to forget Atbrooke and her father’s arrival. She wanted to forget it all—except that kiss she’d shared with Andrew.
The moment she and her father arrived outside, the viscount led her by the hand in the same way he’d done when she’d been a child. The driver drew open the door of her father’s coach, and her father lifted her gently and set her inside, climbing in behind her.
Marcia had believed there was no greater shame than having all of Polite Society, from friends to acquaintances, witness her being left at the altar.
She’d been wrong.
So very wrong.
This was worse.
In fact, as the driver shut the door, climbed atop the perch of his box, and set the carriage into motion, she was certain this was the absolute worst.
Being discovered in that room in Andrew’s arms by her father was far worse.
Seated across the carriage from her father, Marcia huddled on the bench, trying to make herself as small and as invisible as possible.
All the while, the viscount remained tucked in a similar way against the opposite side of the carriage, his gaze firmly on the slight crack in the curtains.
“You called him a bastard,” she said quietly.
Her father stiffened, and as if it pained him to do so, he looked at her.
But then, mayhap that was how he’d always felt, deep down. Repelled by her. Hating her with some part of himself for the pain she’d brought to her mother.
Her father stared blankly at her.
“You called Andrew a bastard, but he’s not. I’m the bastard.”
Pain rippled over her father’s face. “Marcia,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean—”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. I was just pointing out that you were incorrect in casting those aspersions upon Andrew’s character.” Any of them. Andrew had only ever done what she’d wished, and for that, he had gotten handed a vicious beating. With that, Marcia turned her focus to the passing scenery, the moon’s glow so faint it barely lent any light to the inky-black setting of the Rookeries.
“What were you thinking, Marcia?” he asked, his voice laden with pain and sorrow and anger, all emotions she’d never before seen from him and certainly not directed at her.
“I was thinking as I no longer have a reputation that matters that I may as well enjoy life,” she said simply.
“But it does matter.”
Pain cleaved her chest. “Flora and Maisie,” she whispered, remembering once again the reason she’d known she couldn’t continue this game. Her brothers would one day weather anything, as all men did. But women weren’t afforded those same freedoms.
“Not Flora and Maisie,” Marcus said, and a gentleness had returned to his tones. “You, Marcia. You,” he repeated. “Do you think your name and future and happiness don’t matter?”
“I don’t have a name, Papa. Not one that is true. Collins was the name made up by my mother, for a man who never truly existed.” Marcia’s mother had told the world of hero-husband gone off to war all to conceal the actions of Lord Atbrooke. Now, those lies had been found out.
Her father’s features whitened. At the mention of her true sire’s name?
Marcia sank her fingers into the squabs of her bench. What a sacrifice it must have been for him to love her and care for her when he’d so hated the man who’d given her life. Now, he’d have to contend with Lord Atbrooke’s threats and bribes, too.
Unable to meet his eyes, she looked away.
“Marcia,” Marcus said quietly, and reluctantly she forced her eyes back to his. “You stopped being a Collins the day I met you.” He spoke with a somber insistence. “You stole my heart with your forthright manner and spirit. You are a Gray. You have my name.”
Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it hard. “Yes.” How thoughtless her words had been. This, when he had only shown her kindness and love. “And I’ve sullied that, too.” God, she did not deserve him or her mother.
Her father groaned. “No. That isn’t what I am saying.”
It might not have been, but that was precisely what she’d done.
She looked down at her lap.
“Marcia, look at me.” That gentle command brought her gaze reluctantly up. “Your happiness matters,” he said quietly. “Your future matters. You matter. And… running about with a cad like Waters… You deserve more than that.”
She frowned. “Andrew is not a cad.”
A muscle spasmed along her father’s jawline. “Do not think to defend him. Not to me. He is his father’s son.”
“If you believe that about blood, I’m my father’s daughter, so then we are a perfect pair, are we not?”
Her father blanched, his facial muscles twisting.
And thankfully, mercifully, they arrived home, saving her from whatever loving assurances he intended to give.
Hockley opened the door, and she hurried to take his hand and let him help her down. Rushing inside, she didn’t break stride, heading for the sanctuary of her rooms.
Her heart pounding, Marcia struggled to tug off her turban, and when she failed, she gave up and lay with her back against the door. This was bad. Very, very bad. Her father would never forgive Andrew for this. When it had been only Marcia’s fault.
A gentle knock sounded at the door.
Of course she’d be expected to speak on it.
Drawing in a deep breath, Marcia made herself grab the handle and open it.
A frowning quartet stared back at her.
Her siblings, Flora, Maisie, Lionel, and Clarion. All of whom had arrived sporting pretend weapons strapped to their waists.
Her siblings whose reputations she should have put first. Her siblings who would now have Lord Atbrooke in their lives, too. The marquess had insisted he’d stalk their house if the viscount did not pay.
“It is the middle of the night,” she said softly. “What are you doing up, little ones?”
“Flora woke us,” Lionel said in somber tones.
Clarion shifted on his feet. “What happened?” he whispered.
“Nothing,” she said quickly, in an attempt to reassure them.
“Then why are you wearing that silly thing on your head?” Maisie asked. “It’s really quite awful. Is that why Papa is upset? Because that’s why I’m upset.”
A strangled half laugh, half sob climbed into her throat, and she buried it behind a fist. “It really is hideous,” she said, tossing her arms open.
Maisie came hurtling into the room, and Marcia caught her youngest sibling and held her close.
Clarion remained standing in the doorway, balling and un-balling his hands. “It was Thornton, wasn’t it? That’s why the whole house is awake.” With a black glare, he yanked out his weapon and pointed it at the ceiling. “I knew I should have called him out.”
Not releasing Marcia, Maisie glared back at their brother. “We agreed I was the better one to call him out.”
A familiar quarrel erupted amongst her siblings, who loved playing at dueling. Her brothers entered the room to debate Maisie over who should have that honor.
To be heard over the argument that broke out, Marcia raised her voice. “Thornton has done nothing… this time,” she allowed, and her siblings immediately stopped fighting and looked to her. “Furthermore, no one is calling anyone out.” But that isn’t necessarily true. Do you truly believe your father will let it go unchallenged that you were at Cyprian’s Den with Andrew, and in that bedroom, no less? With him kissing you?
Her stomach roiled.
“Marcia looks like she’s going to cast up her biscuits,” Lionel announced, sheathing his sword.
And Marcia felt like she was going to cast up her biscuits. “I am fine,” she reassured them.
“Then why did Lord Rutland’s servant come and Papa shout for his horse and carriage, and why was Mama crying?”
Oh, God. She’d reduced her mother to tears.
What did you expect? And are you really capable of anything but bringing them misery?
Misery that was about to come all the worse when Lord Atbrooke paid a visit, seeking money to stay away from them.
“It is my fault,” Flora whispered, and Marcia and her siblings swung their gazes her way. “I was worried after I saw you going out the other night, and I told Papa and—” A little sob escaped her.
“Shh,” Marcia said, drawing her sister close. She’d not allow Flora that misplaced guilt. “This is not your fault. It is mine.” She’d been the one who’d wronged them. All of them.
As she held her younger sister, and her somber siblings looked on, Marcia stared over the tops of their heads into the flames dancing in the hearth.
What was she going to do?
Chapter 14
Well, this was decidedly not good.
Not good at all.
The next morning, Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, the latest note he’d received from the gaming hell owner, DuMond, seeking to collect his debts, forgotten on his nightstand.
What in hell had he done?
He’d almost made love to Marcia.
Innocent, virtuous Marcia.
And it was a certainty that he would have if her father hadn’t arrived. Andrew would have slipped her gown off her and explored all of her.
What was worse… he still wanted to. He could not rid his mind of the memory of the feel and taste of her—strawberries and honey, and sweeter than any fruit that equally weak Adam had been presented with in the Garden of Eden.
With a groan, Andrew flopped down on his back and dragged a pillow over his head. A good suffocating. That was what he deserved. It would save Marcia’s father the bullet he no doubt intended to put into his black heart.
A knock sounded at the door, and Andrew removed the pillow. “Enter,” he called.
His valet ducked his head in the room. “Lord Rutland and His Grace, the Duke of Huntly, are here to see you.”
Following Wessex’s discovery of Andrew and Marcia, this meeting had been just as certain as the sun rising and setting.
Andrew grabbed his timepiece.
Thirty minutes past five o’clock in the morning.
He’d just not expected it would happen so quickly.
Or that both men should be here.
Rutland, yes.
Huntly, no.
His brothers-in-law.
Bloody hell.
What in blazes had he done?
And what in blazes are you going to do?
What you need to do, of course. The voice of honor he’d thought long dead jabbed at the back of his mind. Andrew could—nay, Andrew had to—offer to do right by…
He balked.
He couldn’t.
That was another certainty he could add to the list of the sun’s patterns and displeased family members.
Because he could not marry Marcia. He’d make her bloody miserable. After all, Andrew hurt everyone who loved him. She’d be no different. It was why he should have never agreed to her madcap scheme.
Andrew groaned.
“I could tell them you aren’t receiving visitors, my lord?” Stanley offered, misunderstanding the reason for Andrew’s misery.
Yes, at any other time, an unannounced visit by his brothers-in-law would be the source of Andrew’s disquiet.
Andrew stared at the ceiling overhead and released a sigh. “We both know that would have no impact, Stanley, but I do appreciate the offer.”
From the corner of his eye, he caught the way his valet inclined his head in taciturn acknowledgment.
With a newly acquired understanding for those poor fellows who found themselves making a march to the gallows, Andrew swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Please, tell them I’ll be down shortly,” he said, heading for his armoire.
As Andrew pulled out garments, Stanley cleared his throat. “Ahem. They said you have no more than ten minutes, or they will commence the meeting in your chambers, my lord.”
And they’d do it, too. Andrew cursed. “I will be down momentarily.”
After hastily tugging on his garments, Andrew was dressed a handful of minutes later and headed downstairs to his office.
His office, another part of Andrew’s inheritance from the miserable man who’d sired him.
Andrew stared at the door.
How many times had he vowed as a young boy to never turn out like that fat, cruel, monstrous man? That had been before Andrew had ultimately realized that he was destined to be him.
It was why he couldn’t marry Marcia.
Hell, it was why he couldn’t marry anyone.
Or shouldn’t.
All things being equal, Andrew was enough of a bastard to realize he’d likely wed at some point, no doubt to a woman who wouldn’t mind that he couldn’t and wouldn’t be more than he was and who would be content with the title of viscountess.
The decision however was made for you the moment you decided to help her sin… a voice taunted.
A sick feeling settled in his gut.
Yes, he knew what was expected of him. He knew what she deserved. Certainly, better than him. But in the absence of that, there was only… he.
“My lord?” His valet’s tentative voice cut through those musings, and Andrew gave his head a shake.
Bringing his shoulders back, Andrew pressed the door handle and let himself inside.
Both men were seated in front of his desk. That was good.
Andrew would have expected a volatile rage that kept them on their feet.
“Gentlemen,” he greeted jovially as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
They stood, their serious eyes following his approach.
Their serious eyes, which contained that all-too-familiar sentiment. Disappointment.
Averting his gaze, Andrew made his way over, taking up a spot on the other side of his desk.
Proving himself the coward he was, he could not meet their stares. He couldn’t face more of that disappointment.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” he said after they’d all been seated.
“Don’t do that, Andrew,” Huntly gently chided.
Huntly, Justina’s husband, who had beggared Andrew some years ago, collecting Andrew’s future inheritance and unentailed properties.
“How could you?” Rutland asked in that gravelly voice of his.
The slightly pained quality of that question the marquess put to him was worse.
Andrew would have preferred him icy cold and threatening and dangerous to this.
He stared beyond his brother-in-law’s shoulder. “It is… complicated.”
With a panther-like stealth, Rutland leaned forward in his seat. “Complicated,” he bit out, and Andrew found greater comfort in that anger. “Complicated. My God, Andrew you took an innocent young lady to a place of sin and ruined her.” A muscle pulsed in the other man’s hard jaw. “The daughter of my friend, at that.”
“The lady asked me to—”
“To ruin her?” Rutland slammed a hand down on the edge of Andrew’s desk in a volatile display at odds with the self-control the marquess was otherwise always in possession of.
Andrew’s ears went hot. “She was determined to… to explore certain ends of London, and I—”
“And you were just so very gallant as to see to the chore yourself?” Rutland interrupted, his lips curling in a frosty smile, and then he gave his head a disgusted shake.
“Be that as it may,” Huntly interjected, and Andrew looked over to his other brother-in-law. “Discussing why or the details of what transpired will not change them, and that is not why we are here.”
“It isn’t?” he could not keep from asking.
Wordlessly, both men shook their heads.
A pit formed low in his belly, sitting there like a great, big stone.
Settling back in the folds of his chair and incapable of words, Andrew nudged his chin forward, urging them to say whatever it was that had brought them here.
“I do not believe you are totally without honor, Andrew,” Rutland said, with more calm and logic restored to his tones.
“Why, thank you,” he said dryly. “I appreciate—”
“I do believe you will offer to do the right thing by the lady.”
Andrew’s smile froze and then slipped.
And there it was.
It was what he’d already realized at the back corners of his mind.
“I have kept tabs on you over the years, Andrew,” Rutland said. “I’m aware that your… pleasures are vast, but that they are reserved for widows and whores and experienced women. Not innocents.”
Yes, in that his brother-in-law was correct. As a rule, Andrew had avoided those off-limits ladies. He’d found the idea of dallying with virgins distasteful and had pledged to keep his pleasures to the wantons.
Until now.
“Which begs the question, why change now? Why make exceptions in your usual pursuits this time?” Rutland murmured. “And do you know what I believe—”
“What we both believe,” Huntly interjected quietly. “There is some fondness on your part for the young lady.”
Andrew stiffened. “You are making more of it than there is,” he said curtly, determined to disabuse either men of any grand illusions that he was somehow good or honorable in any way. He wasn’t.
“Do you care about the lady?” Rutland asked, thinning his eyes into tiny slits as though he searched within Andrew’s soul for the answers he sought.
Did he care about Marcia? More than any other person, but because she was unlike anyone he’d ever known and because he admired her and respected her. “I’ve known the lady a lifetime,” Andrew explained. “I care about her in a platonic way, of course.” Even as he said it, he recognized the ridiculousness of that false assurance.
