Page 47 of To Catch a Viscount

He shouldn’t have sat down to any number of hands, ones that had resulted in him losing nearly all but his shirt and leading to his brother-in-law Rutland bailing him out of those messes.

There’d been the time he’d given his heart to a viper of a woman, who all along had intended their affair to be a spot of revenge against his youngest sister and brother-in-law.

That was his most spectacular mistake of all.

Or it had been.

This latest escapade, however, proved to be his greatest folly, a request that, against all better judgment and reason, he had agreed to last evening.

It was why he was seated in his carriage at the end of the Viscount Wessex’s street, doing something he’d done just once in his life—praying.

And for a long while, he rather believed those prayers had worked.

She’d not come.

Rather, she was not coming.

An immense relief, so great, so strong, swept through him the likes of which he’d never before felt.

There was a God, after all.

He’d lifted a hand to knock on the roof when he caught a flash of movement.

Alas, his relief proved short-lived.

Darting quickly, the small figure moved with the stealth of a London pickpocket, and an odd sensation filled his chest.

Bloody hell.

And then she was there. Even as he’d been following her with his gaze, he was unprepared to find her standing outside his carriage below his window. She knocked her hood back to reveal a somber-eyed Marcia.

She had come.

He’d been certain she wouldn’t.

She’d been late enough for him to have his doubts.

And following the volatility of their meeting outside the gaming hell, he’d expected she would abandon her plan, as any other woman would have.

But Marcia was not any other woman.

She waved at him happily. “Hullo, Andrew,” she said.

With a curse that would have shocked the blackest sinner in London, he opened the door and lifted Marcia inside. It was a mistake. It only brought her body flush with his.

“You’re late,” he said flatly. “If you’re late again, we’re all done with this.” The last thing he could afford was lurking outside her family’s household and being seen with her running into his carriage.

Marcia wrinkled her nose. “You’re in a foul mood.”

Yes, he was. “Being coerced into helping a young lady sin has that effect on me. Here, put this on.” He flicked something at her, and Marcia instinctively shot her hands out to catch the scrap of material.

Her hands were encased in white leather gloves.

He groaned. “What the hell are these?” he asked, tugging the gloves free of her fingers. He tossed the gloves onto the bench beside her.

Marcia frowned. “They are gloves.” She pointed to his hands. “The same things on your fingers.”

“They are certainly not the same.”

---