Page 85 of To Catch a Viscount

“I was in the wrong,” Andrew said, and he lifted his hand as if to caress her cheek, and then his gaze slid past her shoulder to where Marcia’s father stood. He let his palm fall to his side.

“Bloody right you were,” her father gritted out. “We are leaving.” Her father caught her by the arm and tossed his cloak around her, yanking the hood up into place.

Coward that she was, she let him all but drag her from the pleasure hall. She let herself be tugged from Andrew and this place, wanting to put all of it behind her. Wanting to forget Atbrooke and her father’s arrival. She wanted to forget it all—except that kiss she’d shared with Andrew.

The moment she and her father arrived outside, the viscount led her by the hand in the same way he’d done when she’d been a child. The driver drew open the door of her father’s coach, and her father lifted her gently and set her inside, climbing in behind her.

Marcia had believed there was no greater shame than having all of Polite Society, from friends to acquaintances, witness her being left at the altar.

She’d been wrong.

So very wrong.

This was worse.

In fact, as the driver shut the door, climbed atop the perch of his box, and set the carriage into motion, she was certain this was the absolute worst.

Being discovered in that room in Andrew’s arms by her father was far worse.

Seated across the carriage from her father, Marcia huddled on the bench, trying to make herself as small and as invisible as possible.

All the while, the viscount remained tucked in a similar way against the opposite side of the carriage, his gaze firmly on the slight crack in the curtains.

“You called him a bastard,” she said quietly.

Her father stiffened, and as if it pained him to do so, he looked at her.

But then, mayhap that was how he’d always felt, deep down. Repelled by her. Hating her with some part of himself for the pain she’d brought to her mother.

Her father stared blankly at her.

“You called Andrew a bastard, but he’s not.I’mthe bastard.”

Pain rippled over her father’s face. “Marcia,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t mean—”

She shrugged. “It’s fine. I was just pointing out that you were incorrect in casting those aspersions upon Andrew’s character.” Any of them. Andrew had only ever done what she’d wished, and for that, he had gotten handed a vicious beating. With that, Marcia turned her focus to the passing scenery, the moon’s glow so faint it barely lent any light to the inky-black setting of the Rookeries.

“What were you thinking, Marcia?” he asked, his voice laden with pain and sorrow and anger, all emotions she’d never before seen from him and certainly not directed at her.

“I was thinking as I no longer have a reputation that matters that I may as well enjoy life,” she said simply.

“But it does matter.”

Pain cleaved her chest. “Flora and Maisie,” she whispered, remembering once again the reason she’d known she couldn’t continue this game. Her brothers would one day weather anything, as all men did. But women weren’t afforded those same freedoms.

“Not Flora and Maisie,” Marcus said, and a gentleness had returned to his tones. “You, Marcia.You,” he repeated. “Do you think your name and future and happiness don’t matter?”

“I don’t have a name, Papa. Not one that is true. Collins was the name made up by my mother, for a man who never truly existed.” Marcia’s mother had told the world of hero-husband gone off to war all to conceal the actions of Lord Atbrooke. Now, those lies had been found out.

Her father’s features whitened. At the mention of her true sire’s name?

Marcia sank her fingers into the squabs of her bench. What a sacrifice it must have been for him to love her and care for her when he’d so hated the man who’d given her life. Now, he’d have to contend with Lord Atbrooke’s threats and bribes, too.

Unable to meet his eyes, she looked away.

“Marcia,” Marcus said quietly, and reluctantly she forced her eyes back to his. “You stopped being a Collins the day I met you.” He spoke with a somber insistence. “You stole my heart with your forthright manner and spirit. You are a Gray. You havemyname.”

Her lower lip trembled, and she bit it hard. “Yes.” How thoughtless her words had been. This, when he had only shown her kindness and love. “And I’ve sullied that, too.” God, she did not deserve him or her mother.

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