Page 118 of To Catch a Viscount

It did not help.

Her body did not understand or care about the difference. At some point, a great shift had occurred in her relationship with Andrew, and their friendship had morphed into something more. Something that made her aware of him in ways she’d not been aware of even her own betrothed.

The stick slid from her fingers, scraping the table.

“Worry not, love,” he assured, thankfully misunderstanding the reason for her wayward shot. “Soon it’ll become as natural as breathing.”

Marcia gave a shaky nod and took in another slow, equally uneven breath.

She forced her focus away from the powerful pull of being in Andrew’s arms and allowed him to teach her.

He was methodical in his approach, more matter-of-fact than Lord Rothesby had been, but precise in his directions. With each detail he imparted, he not only displayed the shot himself, but he also helped guide her through the particular motions.

As she stood back, observing his latest lesson, she noted that, attired only in his trousers, white lawn shirt, and boots, he was a sight to behold. The gape at the top of his shirt revealed the hint of tight golden coils that matted his chest.

She’d seen him in even less clothing.

As a girl and then even as a young woman, when they’d swum together at Lord and Lady Rutland’s annual summer house parties.

So why should she prove so fascinated, so hopelessly fixed on—

“I propose a friendly wager now that the lady has been sufficiently trained.”

Lord Landon’s casual drawl pulled Marcia back from her wicked musings, and she studiously studied the table, more than half-certain those present—including her husband—had read the wayward direction of her thoughts.

“How about a match between the happy bride and bridegroom and the remaining bachelors?” Rothesby offered.

Marcia was already making a sound of protest. “I cannot. I would only bring Andrew down.”

Andrew slid his spare fingers through hers, interlocking the digits and squeezing lightly, causing her pulse to race. “Worry not. Landon’s game play is beneath even that of a first-time player.”

She laughed, the expression of her mirth sounding breathless to her own ears. Marcia was thankful that the boisterous, echoing amusement from Andrew and Lord Rothesby and the over-the-top pretend outrage from the earl drowned out that breathy little sound.

“One hundred pounds,” Andrew said, tapping the edge of the table and appearing wholly oblivious to the effect he was having on her senses.

Her amusement immediately died. It was a deuced fortune. And on a playful game between friends. “One hundred—?”

Rothesby scoffed. “Five hundred.”

Marcia blanched and gave Andrew’s sleeve a light tug. “An—”

“One thousand,” Landon said.

She strangled on her swallow. “One thousand?” she squawked. “Andrew, that is folly,” she said on a whisper.

He took her palm in his once more and dropped a kiss upon the knuckles of first her left hand and then her right. “I have faith in our game play, love.”

“Well, that is bloody stupid,” she hissed. “Andrew, I’ve never played, and that really is rude of them to suggest such a wager,” she said for his ears only.

“It is a game between friends,” he insisted.

“Andrew,” she protested.

“Your wife is far cleverer than you, ol’ chap,” Landon called over. “Heed her advice and make this one of the rare wagers you do forgo.”

Marcia frowned in the earl’s direction, and he touched a finger to his bow.

“My apologies, my lady.”

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