One of the ton’s diamonds would wed an illustrious marquess with one of the oldest titles in England, a proper fellow with a commitment to his title and deep pockets. Because of that prestige and those deep pockets, he was the catch of the Season.
That’s what all the ton was saying.
And frankly, as long as they weren’t saying anything about Andrew, he should have been satisfied.
Oddly, however, a restlessness had driven him from the ballroom to the viscount and viscountess’ gardens.
With a bottle of champagne in one hand, Andrew loosened his cravat with the other as he walked the length of the graveled path.
He stopped beside the watering fountain and took a long drink.
“You know, it is rude to go sneaking about someone’s home and stealing their spirits.”
Those words filtered from below, and a memory slipped in of the first time she’d put that charge to him. Back when she’d been a young girl, and he’d been a pup still at university, playing at adult.
Andrew glanced down at the earthen floor.
His gaze collided with a familiar stare, in a very unusual place. Those large eyes belonging to an even more familiar person. His connection to her cemented by his brother-in-law’s close friendship with her father.
“Marcia Gray,” he murmured.
As if it were the most natural thing in the world for a respectable young lady—the focus of the night’s gathering—Marcia inclined her head and greeted him. “Andrew.”
She scooched herself out from under the stone bench, grunting as she did so, until she sat before him on the ground and glared up at him. “If you were a gentleman, you’d offer me a hand.”
“No one would accuse me of being a gentleman,” he said, and raising the bottle to his mouth, he took a long drink.
“No, that much is true,” she conceded, studying that decanter.
Following the direction of her stare, he held it out.
The lines of disapproval at the corners of her narrow mouth dipped farther as her frown deepened. “It really is bad form to take your host’s spirits.”
Andrew propped a foot on the stone bench, and resting an elbow on his knee, he leaned down. “And tell me, is it in good form to go sneaking off and hiding during one’s betrothal ball?”
Just then, the thick clouds parted overhead, allowing the glow of the full moon’s light to illuminate her face and reveal the deep red blush blazing across her cheeks.
“I’m not… hiding.”
“Avoiding your betrothed on the night your match is formally announced hardly seems promising,” he drawled. He started to add another teasing comment about her not being at the side of her future bridegroom… but stopped.
The glimmer in her eyes, troubled and sad, reached him.
Ah, damn.
“Second thoughts?”
“No!” she said quickly. “None. How could I have second thoughts about marrying Charles?”
Easy, the way Andrew saw it. Charles, as she referred to him, or the Marquess of Thornton, was outrageously fat in the pockets. Respectable in ways Andrew had never been and would never be. And an absolute bore.
Nay, Thornton could never be good enough for Marcia.
He’d just trusted she was cleverer as to have realized it.
He studied Marcia as she studied the fountain at the back of the gardens.
It wasn’t his business.
He should go.
But she was a friend.
A woman whom he’d known since his early university days, back when she’d been a girl.
“Do you love him?”
“Yes,” she said. “He is kind and respectable and well-read and kind—”
“You said that one already.”
“And he’s a devoted brother to his three sisters, and he has a stellar reputation and a wonderful sense of humor.”
“Thornton?”
She nodded.
“As in the Marquess of Thornton?”
Marcia let out a sound of exasperation. “Yes, as in my betrothed.”
He snorted. “This would be the first that I’ve heard anyone claim the fellow has a sense of humor.” At least not the kind of humor that was clever enough to leave a fellow laughing.
She wrinkled her nose. “Well, he does.”
“Do you know what it sounds like to me, Marcia?”
The lady hesitated and then shook her head.
“It sounds like you’re trying to convince me as much as yourself that he’s the love of your life.”
In reality, she was too young and too innocent to know that there was no such thing as the love of one’s life, or even love.
There was lust.
There was grand passion.
And those base desires merely tricked people, like his siblings and their spouses, and the woman before him, into believing that love was real.
Except now he wished he hadn’t spoken those words as Marcia’s eyes grew stricken.
Oh, bloody hell.
The last thing he could afford to do was lead the girl to break her betrothal. To do so would anger his family and hers, and there’d be questions about why she’d ended it.
With a curse, he reached down and plucked her up from the earthen floor and set her on her feet.
“I do love him, you know,” she said.
“I know,” he said instantly, even though he didn’t know any such thing.
In fact, he didn’t know a deuced thing about her relationship with Thornton, nor did he wish to.
What he wished was to drink his champagne and tup a lonely wife and, for a brief moment, sate his own loneliness.
Andrew briefly contemplated the stairs from the garden to the grand ball taking place and then looked at a motionless Marcia.
“It’s just…” she began, wringing her wrinkled white lace skirts.
The white had begun to show grass stains where she’d gone crawling about that would likely be noted by guests, and as such, he could not be seen with her or near her or exiting the gardens with her or entering the ballroom anywhere close to her.
Perhaps it was their family’s connection. Or perhaps it was that he’d known her since she’d been a girl, a girl who’d been just as vexing as the woman now standing before him, but he found himself asking anyway.
“It is just…?”
“We’ve never embraced.”
Oh, bloody hell.
Grass stains on her gown and now talk of whom she’d kissed or, in this case, not kissed.
“No one’s ever claimed Thornton is any sort of rogue,” he volunteered helpfully.
Or rather, he’d attempted to be helpful.
“No. I know he’s not a rogue.” The way she’d spoken that word indicated she clearly took affront with fellows who possessed Andrew’s reputation.
He bristled. “Many say rogues make the best husbands.”
Marcia gave him a look. “You don’t truly believe that.”
“No.” Absolutely, he did not. “But many do.”
“Well, I’m not one of those people, Andrew.”
He stole a glance upward, confirming that they were still alone and mentally sorting how he could make his escape, when she began to pace.
“I’m logical when it comes to love,” she said.
“When there’s nothing logical about love?” he asked, unable to help himself.
She jabbed a finger his way. “Precisely, Andrew. Which is why, when I was being readied for my betrothal ball this evening, I had a moment of panic.”
“I’m sure all couples have their reservations, Marcia. I’m sure you’ll be as happy as every other happily married lady in London.” Who, with the apparent exceptions of his sisters and mother, appeared to be not at all happy.
“But what if we’re not, Andrew?” she implored. “To make a mistake on something so important…”
This… this was decidedly not a promising union. He opened his mouth to say as much, but caught that distracted and worried glimmer in her eyes once more.
For a second time, he couldn’t bring himself to muster the truest words about the likelihood of a forever happiness—because there was no such thing.
Even his mother and sisters, all in love with their spouses, had known the greatest misery on their paths to that wedded state.
“Do you know what I think?” he asked softly, and Marcia’s gaze crept over to his, a hesitation in her eyes and in the little shake of her head.
“I believe if you believe in love, and if you believe you love Thornton,” he said, “then ultimately, you are going to have the very happiness you seek with him, Marcia.” He brought his hand up for what he intended to be a supportive, sibling-like pat of her cheek. Except his palm stilled upon her satiny soft skin, and his touch became a caress, fueled by the unexpected heat and warmth of her.
Marcia’s thick golden lashes fluttered, and then she closed her eyes and leaned into his palm.
Being a woman whose family, through Andrew’s brother-in-law, Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, had a connection to Andrew, she and he invariably always landed at the same functions. He even had distant memories of Marcia as a bright-eyed girl, hiding in corners of ballrooms and parlors, watching affairs, and oftentimes, he’d thought, spying on him.
But then, she’d been a girl. Now, as he slipped his eyes over her heart-shaped face, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, he appreciated for the first time that the golden-haired girl had in fact become that Norse goddess, Sif.
Granted, an innocent goddess. And an almost married one at that.
One with a nipped waist but surprisingly generous hips and a bosom the perfect size to fit in a man’s hands. Despite himself, his gaze lingered on her modest neckline and the slightly olive-hued skin belonging to a woman unafraid of the sunshine.
He found his search shifting higher, but still to a less-safe place. Her strawberry sweet mouth: crimson red, with a slightly fuller top lip than bottom, lent an alluring pout to the flesh.
Desire grew within him, and his breath grew slightly ragged.
The girl had grown up, and at nearly five or so inches shorter than his six feet three inches, he’d need to just tip his head down a fraction, and he’d have her delectable mouth under his.
Since he was a rogue, he didn’t seek to deny himself the feel of her. Nay, desire stirred within, and he lowered his head, bent on tasting of her.
Smack.
He stilled as a noisy kiss landed upon his cheek.
“You are the best of friends, Andrew,” Marcia said with a wide, innocent smile that reached all the way to her fathomless brown eyes that definitely did not glimmer with passion. “Thank you. I should return.”
With a jaunty little wave, she collected her skirts and rushed back to the betrothal ball and her betrothed… and away from what would have proven to be a disastrous act on his part.
