Page 93 of To Catch a Viscount

And he had.

Bruised and battered from the beating her father had dealt him.

Pain twisted in her breast.

Marcia took him by the hand, and he resisted her touch, attempting to pull free. “Oh, do stop. I’ve held your hand plenty of times before this,” she said, tugging him.

His feet remained resolute, planted firmly to the pale-blue carpet that lined her parents’ halls. “Yes, but that was before, when you were a girl and…” He dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “Before I was discovered by your father in a bedroom with you in one of the most scandalous haunts in London.”

“Fair enough,” she muttered. Still, she didn’t release her hold of him. “Then it is best you do hurry, lest we’re seen.”

He hesitated, his features pained as he looked down the hall in the direction of her father’s offices.

Then, with a quiet curse, he allowed her to lead him into the closest room.

A parlor.

The moment they entered the room, Marcia closed the door behind them and leaned against the panel, blocking his ability to escape. She folded her arms at her chest. “You’re here to speak to my father.”

“I’m here to speak to you,” he said, startling her with that pronouncement.

Her arms slipped, falling to her sides. “Me?”

“Yes.” He dusted his knuckles lightly down the curve of her cheek. “You.”

Her lashes fluttered as she reflexively turned into his touch, at last understanding why the household mouser she’d befriended responded so when she caressed him, understanding the power of the human touch.

“About what?”

He was here to apologize. That was the only reason he’d rather speak to her and not her father. And she… didn’t want that apology. Because that would mean what they’d shared, what they’d done together, had been somehow wrong and dirty.

Suddenly, he stopped that back-and-forth glide of his fingers, and she wanted to cry for the loss of that soothing caress.

“Why, about marriage, of course, Marcia.”

About… marriage.Of course?

And there it was.

She knew Andrew as well as she knew herself. She knew he was a rogue who valued his freedom and who had no interest in wedding now. With his reputation, perhaps not ever.

Only… She moved her gaze over the harsh, angular planes of his face. “You came to speak to me first?”

The ghost of a smile dusted the corners of his lips. “I didn’t ruin your father. I ruined you, and it is your future, not your father’s. As such, it seems archaic to not put that question to a grown woman.”

“Are you… asking me to marry you?” she whispered.

His grin turned wry. “I am.”

He’d defy society’s norms and ask her first and not her father? As Charles had done? As all gentlemen did?

In that moment, she lost another large chunk of her heart to the man before her.

Lost her heart?

She’d always loved him… as a friend.

Her mind balked. Her entire being stilled. Her heart stalled.

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