Page 161 of To Catch a Viscount

“Isn’t that right, Andrew?” Lord Wessex prodded.

“I… I expect we will play together sometime in the future,” he said, his voice thick.

Lady Wessex gave a pleased nod. “There you have it. From Andrew’s mouth itself. Now, come along, little ones,” she urged for a second time. She relinquished the hands she held to add another clap, as she and Lord Wessex gathered their younger children. “I trust Marcia would like to speak to Andrew.”

“About what?” Lionel chimed in. “Why can’t they talk with us here?”

“Because they’re talking about the fact that Marcia is packing,” Flora said in an exasperated way, and as the noisy siblings filed from the room, Andrew might have smiled, if everything hadn’t hurt inside.

After the children were ushered out, Lord Wessex shut the door in their wake with a quiet click, leaving Marcia and Andrew alone.

The moment she’d gone, Andrew and Marcia spoke at the same time.

“Andrew—”

“Marcia—”

He stopped and gestured to her. “Please, you go ahead.”

He’d give her the first word, his soul, his heart, and anything and everything she wished if she’d just give him a chance at a new beginning.

She shook her head, and her gaze dipped briefly to take in his wrinkled garments. “You were gone this morning,” she said softly. “And I thought—”

“I was meeting with my brothers-in-law this morning,” he said on a rush, determined to fight for her and their marriage. “That is why I was locked away. I requested their help in dealing with Atbrooke and his sister. Huntly’s good friend, Lord Chilton’s brother is an investigator, and I wanted to be sure I employed people to… see that they are dealt with, and you safe,” he finished weakly, forcing himself to quit his rambling.

Marcia darted her tongue out and trailed the tip over her lips, dampening her mouth, a mouth he ached to kiss. The only mouth he ever wanted to kiss.

She’d quite ruined him beyond all thought for any other woman.

He stopped before her, only a pace away, and she tipped her head back enough to meet his gaze.

“Andrew, I—”

“Why are you packing?” Andrew blurted.

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t… think I’m leaving you?”

“No!” he exclaimed. He tugged at his cravat. “You… aren’t. Right?” Andrew stretched a palm out, caressing her cheek with his fingers. “Because, damn it, Marcia, I’m a selfish cad, and I want you in my life forever. I love you. I love you as I never believed myself capable of loving another person, and not because I don’t believe in love, just that… I never thought I would experience”—he gestured frantically at himself—“this.”

“Andrew—”

“I love you, Marcia,” he said, his voice hoarse as he interrupted her again, needing her to hear him and know everything in his heart. “I have never loved anyone the way I love you.” He touched a fist to the center of his chest. “It’s a love that consumes me and alternately awes me and terrifies me. And I never knew I could feel like this.”

Her lips trembled, and he took another step closer, trying to persuade her with his words and his eyes to believe in him. To trust in him. “But I do. When you’re with me, I’m capable of only smiling and laughing, and I want to be a better man, not just for you, but because of you. Because you helped me see that I’m not my father, and I’ve made a muck of so many things.” He knew he rambled, his words coming quickly, and he paused only long enough to drag a shaky hand through his hair.

“I’m not leaving you, Andrew,” she said, exasperation rich in her voice. Marcia took his hands in hers. “When I was a girl, my mother… She left the viscount. She thought it was for the better, to spare him from Lord Atbrooke. He put that fear in my mother and attempted to drive a wedge between her and Lord Wessex, just as he and his sister attempted to drive a wedge between me and you.” Her eyes hardened, and she firmed her jaw. “I would never leave you, Andrew. I told you that last evening, and it is not changing. I love you,” she said simply.

He remained motionless, afraid if he so much as moved slightly or breathed, he’d find this was only a dream conjured of his own yearnings. “But you are packing,” he whispered.

“Yes,” she murmured, drifting over to him, and then she stopped so close, he could breathe in the lemon and honey scent that clung to her. “You said several times that your siblings and sister have been to the Cook Islands and that you have never gone, and I sent word to your parents asking if they might help me coordinate travel arrangements. I thought we might have a proper honeymoon.”

“A honeymoon,” he said dumbly, incapable of doing anything more than echoing her.

She nodded.

“A honeymoon,” he repeated.

She’d arranged for a honeymoon trip for them, to a place she recalled him speaking of, and she wished to make a journey to those islands with him.

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