To Catch a Viscount (The Heart of a Duke Book 17), page 19
“Ah, yes, of course,” Huntly drawled. “Because all platonic relationships end with a fellow lifting the skirts of one’s friend.”
Andrew’s ears fired hot a second time, and he fought the urge to wrestle with his cravat. “I didn’t have her skirts up,” he gritted out. He would have gotten there eventually, had her father not arrived. No doubt that was precisely where Andrew and Marcia had been heading with that kiss. Still, that did not change who he was. “I cannot marry her,” Andrew said quietly, as much as for his audience as for himself.
Both men leveled hard looks on him.
Over the years, Andrew had alternately admired and feared the two peers before him. Prior to their marriages to his sisters, they’d been wicked in their own right, and he’d been fascinated by their reputations. Once Rutland and Huntly had married Andrew’s sisters, he’d become fascinated by the older gentlemen for different reasons—they’d proven themselves good in ways Andrew never would or could.
“Oh?” Rutland asked, and that single coolly spoken syllable contained a wealth of warning.
But Andrew would not be dissuaded or influenced by either of them. “The lady deserves more than a bounder like me.”
“Though I do not disagree with you, Andrew,” Rutland said, “the time for what the lady deserves has come and gone. Wessex arrived and dragged her out, and even concealed as she’d been by a cloak—”
“And turban,” Andrew felt inclined to point out.
“It will not take much guessing on Polite Society’s part the reason his carriage was there and the likely identity of the woman he escorted out,” Rutland snapped.
“Are you fine, then, with her being ruined?” Huntly asked, and there was more curiosity to that query than judgment.
Nay. He wasn’t. Because Marcia was the one pure thing in Polite Society. The one lady, who didn’t share his blood, whom he respected and whose company he enjoyed.
He’d fished with her.
Played spillikins with her through the years.
And then danced with her during her Come Out.
To see her dragged by Society if—when—this new scandal was unearthed would cut him like a knife. Because she didn’t deserve that. She deserved so much more. Especially more than a future with you, but then, what is the alternative? a voice niggled.
“I think your silence is answer enough,” Huntly said gently.
Andrew glanced down at his open palms. “You don’t understand. I don’t even have anything to offer her.” He was in debt: with the money he had squandered years earlier in the hands of the men before him. “I’ll make her miserable.”
“Undoubtedly,” Rutland muttered.
Andrew pounced on that, whipping his gaze over to the other man. “Precisely!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger in his direction. “You know that. So why would you put her through that?”
“Because the decision was made when you decided to escort her to Cyprian’s Den,” Rutland said flatly.
Huntly cleared his throat, calling Rutland’s attention over. Some silent exchange occurred between the two men, and then Rutland nodded slightly.
“I do not believe you are incapable of good, Andrew,” the marquess said quietly. “I’ve seen enough signs of it within you.” Reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew an official-looking document, stamped with the Rutland seal.
“What is this?” Andrew asked.
The other man just nodded, silently urging him to take the packet and look at it.
The moment he did, shock knocked Andrew back in his chair as he stared down at the papers before him.
Nay, not just any papers. Deeds of unentailed lands he’d won… and lost.
His ears hummed, and he remained frozen.
Not just deeds.
It was all the money and property Huntly had won from him years and years earlier when, with his previous desire for revenge against Rutland, he’d attempted to use Justina to hurt the marquess. It was also the money and land Andrew desperately needed to cover his debts and establish his future. Only… the euphoria lifted as he was reminded from the hard life he’d lived that nothing was free. “You’re offering me my funds and properties back?” he asked carefully.
“If you do the right thing,” Rutland said bluntly.
And there it was. Just like that, the bubble of eagerness at what that represented burst. Andrew wanted his funds back desperately, but not this way and not at Marcia’s expense. “You are bribing me to marry her?” he asked coldly. Andrew shoved the papers back towards his brother-in-law. “Alas, I must decline.”
Huntly’s brows shot up. With surprise?
No doubt.
No doubt they’d expected Andrew would sell his very soul for the monies to fund his wastrel ways.
Hell, he was surprised with himself.
It appeared, however, that there was some honor still left within him.
“Ah, but do not think of it as a bribe,” Rutland said slowly. “It isn’t that at all.”
“If it isn’t that, then what is it, Rutland?” he asked.
“They are the funds that will be available to you so that you can make both of your lives right. This isn’t just about the young lady. It is as much about you getting yourself on a path of respectability and honor… and it will also ensure that Miss Gray does not suffer.”
A path of respectability and honor. They were oddly tempting possibilities.
They were novel traits at which his late father—God rot his soul—would have loudly guffawed. But Andrew had found he’d begun to tire of his clubs of late.
It was one of the reasons he’d agreed to help Marcia.
That ennui.
That need for change.
Anything different.
Or that was what he’d told himself.
But with this, his brothers-in-law presented him with the opportunity to not just put himself first but, instead, to put another person, a woman whom he cared about and one whom he’d ultimately ruined. In marrying her, there’d be funds to ensure she was comfortable and safe and secure, and money enough to cover Andrew’s debts and… more. Invest as his friends Wakefield and Rothesby did.
That, however, requires you to offer to marry Marcia, a voice taunted.
She wouldn’t be so foolish as to agree.
But what if she was?
What if she said yes?
Doing so would allow her the freedom she wanted in life. It would get her out of her household, which she’d been yearning to do, and by her own admission, she’d already loved and lost, so risk to her heart wouldn’t be a danger.
Andrew continued to sit there, silently debating with himself. “I will speak to the young lady later this morning. I do not suspect she will say yes.”
The ghost of a smile played at the corners of Huntly’s mouth. “Oh, I rather suspect she will, Andrew.”
The other man might suspect she would, but Andrew knew Marcia was a woman who knew her own mind. He knew her to be clever and logical and far too smart for a chap like him.
“And if she doesn’t?” he asked. “What then?”
“Then, it is your responsibility to convince her,” Rutland said quietly. “You are a man, and it is time that you either flounder or flourish.”
For the first time in a very long time, Andrew felt a kindling of hope for his future.
A short while later, after his brothers-in-law had taken their leave, Andrew found himself in a hall in the Viscount and Viscountess Wessex’s townhouse.
His gut churned.
Every muscle in his being knotted.
He was going to do the last thing in the world he should—ask a respectable young lady to marry him. He saw the truth in Rutland and Huntly’s insistence. Hell, he’d known as much himself. Whatever he thought about the institution of marriage, and whatever he knew to be his own failings, he also knew that he’d not leave Marcia without the benefit of his name—tattered though it may be. It still ensured her protection and secured her future.
An odd peace settled in his chest.
This was right.
A small figure stepped out at the end of the corridor. He was a serious-looking little fellow. Lionel Gray. “Did you hurt my sister, Waters?”
Andrew touched a hand to his chest. “I thought we were on a first-name basis, Lionel.”
The little boy puckered his brow. “Well, we can be. If you promise you didn’t hurt my sister.”
“I…”
“Andrew did not hurt me.” That announcement came from just beyond his shoulder, and he looked over.
At some point, Marcia had joined them.
He’d expected her to be pale and have swollen eyes.
Instead, she wore the same easy smile she always did around him. Some of the pressure lifted from his chest, and he found himself grinning.
“You are here,” she said softly, surprise contained within those three words.
Andrew frowned. “Did you expect I would not be?”
He deserved those doubts, and yet, for some reason, knowing she had doubted him chafed.
Chapter 15
Marcia had known Andrew Barrett, the Viscount Waters, since she’d been a small girl, and he’d been a young man still in university.
Over the years, she’d come to know him all the more.
It was why she knew in that moment that her question had hurt him, and knowing she’d hurt him felt like a physical pain to her.
He’d come to see her.
She’d known he would.
Upon her return a few hours ago with her father, she’d gone to her rooms, bathed, and changed into new garments, forgoing a night shift for a dress. She’d been waiting for his arrival, standing at her window and observing the streets.
When the sun had crept into the sky, and night had surrendered its hold to morning, and he’d still not been there, she’d not despaired.
She’d known he was coming.
And he had.
Bruised and battered from the beating her father had dealt him.
Pain twisted in her breast.
Marcia took him by the hand, and he resisted her touch, attempting to pull free. “Oh, do stop. I’ve held your hand plenty of times before this,” she said, tugging him.
His feet remained resolute, planted firmly to the pale-blue carpet that lined her parents’ halls. “Yes, but that was before, when you were a girl and…” He dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “Before I was discovered by your father in a bedroom with you in one of the most scandalous haunts in London.”
“Fair enough,” she muttered. Still, she didn’t release her hold of him. “Then it is best you do hurry, lest we’re seen.”
He hesitated, his features pained as he looked down the hall in the direction of her father’s offices.
Then, with a quiet curse, he allowed her to lead him into the closest room.
A parlor.
The moment they entered the room, Marcia closed the door behind them and leaned against the panel, blocking his ability to escape. She folded her arms at her chest. “You’re here to speak to my father.”
“I’m here to speak to you,” he said, startling her with that pronouncement.
Her arms slipped, falling to her sides. “Me?”
“Yes.” He dusted his knuckles lightly down the curve of her cheek. “You.”
Her lashes fluttered as she reflexively turned into his touch, at last understanding why the household mouser she’d befriended responded so when she caressed him, understanding the power of the human touch.
“About what?”
He was here to apologize. That was the only reason he’d rather speak to her and not her father. And she… didn’t want that apology. Because that would mean what they’d shared, what they’d done together, had been somehow wrong and dirty.
Suddenly, he stopped that back-and-forth glide of his fingers, and she wanted to cry for the loss of that soothing caress.
“Why, about marriage, of course, Marcia.”
About… marriage. Of course?
And there it was.
She knew Andrew as well as she knew herself. She knew he was a rogue who valued his freedom and who had no interest in wedding now. With his reputation, perhaps not ever.
Only… She moved her gaze over the harsh, angular planes of his face. “You came to speak to me first?”
The ghost of a smile dusted the corners of his lips. “I didn’t ruin your father. I ruined you, and it is your future, not your father’s. As such, it seems archaic to not put that question to a grown woman.”
“Are you… asking me to marry you?” she whispered.
His grin turned wry. “I am.”
He’d defy society’s norms and ask her first and not her father? As Charles had done? As all gentlemen did?
In that moment, she lost another large chunk of her heart to the man before her.
Lost her heart?
She’d always loved him… as a friend.
Her mind balked. Her entire being stilled. Her heart stalled.
She’d lost a chunk of her heart to him?
Suddenly, her heart resumed its beat: faster, harder, panicked.
She recoiled. What was this? She didn’t love love him. Not in that way. Not in the romantic kind of way.
“Marcia?” Andrew asked, the gentle concern slashing through her panicky musings.
“Hmm? Fine,” she blurted. Had he even asked if she was okay? “I’m just fine.” And God help her, she could not even manage to stop her ramblings. “That’s what you were wondering, were you not?”
He opened his mouth, but she couldn’t manage to let him get a word in edgewise.
“Or was it the other thing? The… the…”
“Marriage?” he supplied, and the right corner of his mouth kicked up in an uneven grin that wrought more havoc upon her heart. “I didn’t think I’d find another person who struggled to get that word out more than me,” he said dryly, misinterpreting the reason for her ramblings. Assuming it was because she, like he, abhorred marriage.
Hmph.
Yes, well, that should be a clear indication of the reason she should soundly reject his offer.
After all, it was hardly a promising beginning to accept the hand of a man who, by his own admission, couldn’t bring himself to speak the word marriage.
Andrew laughed, and the relieved-sounding expression of mirth brought her attention over to him.
“I knew you’d feel that way.” He lowered his head, touching his brow to hers.
She frowned. He’d misinterpreted her reaction, and worse, why was he so relieved? “Oh?”
“Because we’re friends, and I know you’re entirely too clever to wed a bounder like me.”
She should be miffed. Hell, she was.
She should remain annoyed with him.
But something in his tone—nay, in those words he’d chosen—gave her pause, tugging at her.
A bounder like me.
That was the light he saw himself in, as a bounder and not much more, when he was so much more.
She knew it because he was her friend. She knew it because she’d known him more years than she hadn’t.
Marcia caught one of his hands and slipped her fingers between his the same way she’d done when she’d measured the size of her hands against his larger ones when they’d been children. “You’re not a bounder, Andrew.”
He stared incredulously at her. “Marcia… I took you to Forbidden Pleasures and Cyprian’s Den. I took you to one of the most dangerous fighting rings.” Then something shifted in his eyes, a glint darkening in those blue depths that sent her belly aflutter. Andrew lowered his lips close to the shell of her ear, and a breathless giggle built in her throat at the way his breath tickled. “I nearly made love to you.”
Her breath hitched.
And there it was, voiced into existence that which had transpired—and what had almost transpired—between them just a few hours ago. “You… did?”
He gave a tight nod.
“I wanted you to,” she said softly.
He blanched, his features pulling, and nothing had the ability to douse a lady’s ardor quite like the horror in his expression.
Marcia folded her arms at her chest once more. “I did. You are skilled in the art of seduction.” Even if somewhere, not that deep down, she’d wished it was more for him.
“I was not seducing you,” he said, slashing his hands in an upward-downward arc towards the floor. “You are the absolute last, the very last—”
“Those mean the same.”
“—woman I’d ever deliberately seduce,” he finished over her droll interruption.
Marcia kept her features deadpan. “So you accidentally seduced me?”
“Yes,” he exclaimed. “No!”
Marcia laughed and swatted his arm. “I’m teasing. It was just a kiss, Andrew. Only one more kiss we shared.” She’d just wanted it to be more.
“Marcia,” Andrew began again, his voice strained, and he stole a look at the door. “All of this was a mistake.” He spoke in tones more solemn than she’d ever heard from him.
A vise gripped her heart. He’d call everything that transpired between them a mistake? In a bid for nonchalance, she rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “Why, thank you.”
“I did not mean to offend you,” he said on a rush and proceeded to explain, but as he did, she gave her head a shake.
This hardly seemed a promising start to a marriage.
He was determined that they should be no more than friends.
Well, that was fine. As he’d said, they were friends, and well, friendship was more than most couples had.
Not her parents and not most of her parents’ friends.
She went absolutely motionless as an idea slipped in.
And… you would be free of your parents’ home.
Andrew offered her a way out of this household, and if Atbrooke thought to use her to access her father’s money, then he’d be without that opportunity. There’d be no reason for him to darken this doorstep. Rather, she’d have her own doorstep for him to visit—along with her own servants to throw him out on his arse. There would be no reason to tell her parents and worry them with Atbrooke’s presence. Nay, he’d have no ability to leverage her against her parents.
