Page 42 of To Catch a Viscount

At one time, there’d been no greater joy for Andrew than that which he’d found in these halls. Now, he felt an ennui. Perhaps because he’d grown older. Perhaps because he’d gotten more jaded. He’d been bored before. He knew the desire to play and sin would return soon enough. It always did.

As Templeton had pointed out, it was in his blood.

They reached the front of the club, where a servant produced their cloaks.

After he’d flung his over his shoulders, he fastened the clasp at his throat and then stepped outside.

At this early-morn hour, the respectable lords and ladies had already sought their beds for the evening, and the reprobates like he and his friends were ensconced at their clubs, seated at tables where they’d remain until the sun began its climb.

Descending the steps, Andrew, Rothesby, and Landon made their way towards their waiting carriages.

“You know,” Rothesby said, “Landon is right. Templeton really is a twat. He—”

A figure stepped from the shadows behind Rothesby’s conveyance.

All three men stiffened, and Andrew reached for the dagger he kept in his boot… before registering the small figure clad in an elegant black satin cloak. The deep hood concealed the lady’s identity, but that cloak proved to be familiar.

He froze.

Impossible.

Absolutely, bloody impossible.

“By God, you are obstinate,” he bit out, sheathing his dagger.

His friends exchanged a look.

“I’ve come to speak with you,” she said, her clear, lyrical soprano so unlike the husky contraltos of the women with whom he usually kept company. She was neither sad-eyed nor appeared brokenhearted, but, rather, she looked resolute.

Andrew marched over. “Yes, I’ve gathered as much. Damn it,” he growled. “I’ve already told you—”

“Not you,” Marcia said tartly, and then he narrowed his eyes as she turned her focus on another. “You.”

It took a long moment for that word to penetrate. Nay, more specifically, it took a moment to register exactly what she was saying and to whom she now pointed.

“Rothesby?” Andrew asked, and in his incredulity, he squeezed several extra syllables into his friend’s name.

His friend inclined his head. “I confess to being intrigued,” he murmured in that silky, rakish whisper he used with any number of women.

That same whisper Andrewhimselfhad used with any number of women.

But fuck and damn, this was entirely different.

Rothesby had used it withthiswoman.

Marcia glanced up at him. “If you will?”

“If I will ‘what’?” he snapped.

“Excuse us, my lord.”

My lordnow, was he? For some reason, eventhatgrated.

And she expected Andrew to excuse her? To leave her alone with Rothesby? Over his bloody dead body. “No,” he said flatly.

Dismissing Andrew anyway, Marcia turned back to Rothesby—the richest man amongst them. The richest of most men in London. “As I was saying,” she said to the duke.

The tall, obscenely wealthy duke. Andrew clenched his jaw.

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