Page 127 of To Catch a Viscount

“I am your aunt, dearest.”

Her aunt?

The only aunt she’d ever known was Aunt Dorothy.

Marcia stilled as the meaning slammed into her.

“It is a shame we have been kept from one another.” For a second time, the voluptuous beauty dabbed at the corners of dry eyes and sniffled twice. “My brother Lord Atbrooke is your father.”

Marcia went cold inside, that frost touching on every corner of her person, chilling her on the inside and freezing her on the out. “Lord Atbrooke is not my father,” she said quietly. Not in the ways that mattered. Marcia knew that now. Andrew had helped her to see that she was more than the man who’d sired her and that night of evil.

Lady Carew’s lips formed a pouty moue. “How very rude. Of course he is.” She trilled a laugh. “Though he is a bounder with a”—her eyes glazed over as something scandalous and dark lit her eyes—“wicked reputation.” She paused. “I understand you have been entertaining yourself at some of London’s most scandalous escapes.”

She had.

Doing so hadn’t made her happy. Andrew had helped her see that, too.

“You think I should disapprove,” Lady Carew said. “I don’t. Just the opposite in fact, my dear.”

“I do not have an opinion one way or another as to what you think about me,” Marcia said flatly.

The lady froze and then tossed her head back and laughed. “The kitten does have claws,” she praised, patting Marcia’s hand. “So perhaps there is more of me inside you. You see, Marcia”—she shifted closer, angling her body so their knees touched, and they faced each other—“so much unites us, dear Marcia. So much.” She paused. “That is quite an atrocious name, though,” she said with a gentleness that belied the unkindness of that statement. “Your mother really did you no favors with it.”

Marcia stiffened. “The name belongs to my father,” she said coolly, finding herself and finding her voice.

She might be young and innocent, but she was not incapable of spotting an enemy when she saw one.

“I am so very disappointed that I have not had a chance to meet you before today. We have so much in common.”

“What exactly do we have in common?” Marcia asked frostily.

“Why, we share the same blood, and we both share the atrocious, hideous Atbrooke marking.” She gestured to the top of Marcia’s hand.

Marcia reflexively covered that spot, her mind conjuring the day years earlier when Lord Atbrooke had arrived at Aunt Dorothy’s, back when Marcia had been too innocent to understand the power of evil.

“We both enjoy visiting scandalous hells and clubs. And,” Lady Carew murmured, letting that word dangle in the air, “we’ve also shared the same lover.”

Marcia’s mind went blank. “I don’t know what you are—?”

“Why, Lord Andrew, of course,” the woman said with a roll of her eyes, as if Marcia had spoken aloud. As if Marcia were capable of joining in this discussion.

Marcia remained still, feeling like she’d taken a fist to the belly. Preferring she had, to this.

The woman wasn’t done with her. “He always was such a dear boy.” She leaned in and motioned discreetly at her breast. “Dearest Andrew said he did not mind my mark at all. He felt it added to my interest and beauty and was even particular about worshiping it with his mouth.” The baroness’s gaze grew distant, and her breath grew slightly labored as she touched herself obscenely, as if recalling Andrew’s mouth and hand upon her.

Marcia’s stomach churned, and all her muscles tensed as jealousy so powerful and real ripped through her, like a poison touching every corner of her person and turning it black within.That is what she wants, a voice at the back of her mind reminded. Lady Carew and her brother Lord Atbrooke were cut of the same cloth.Whereas I? I am my mother…

That remembrance, that realization steadied her: firmed her.

“Does he do the same for you?” the baroness asked, her voice throaty and ragged. Marcia’s hesitation brought a triumphant grin from the other woman. “I take it by your silence he’s not even noted your mark, which is good.” She let her hand fall from her breast. “In its own way, I suppose,” she added, patting Marcia’s marked hand. “Tell me, dear niece, is my dear sweet Andrew still as impatient a lover as he always was?”

Even knowing what the baroness intended to do, Marcia could not contain that vicious jealousy as it snaked through her entire being. She curled her fingers sharply into balls.

“Or does he take his time?” The woman’s gaze grew distant as if she recalled those past moments shared with Marcia’s husband. “Because I taught him to go slow,” she said, her voice a breathy whisper. “He was always so eager. Too eager. But he was also an eager student. I taught him to worship my body the whole night through, until the sun rose in a new sky.”

“Is this why you’ve come?” Marcia said, infusing a thread of false pity into her query. “To trade stories about my husband’s prowess? How very sad for you. You must miss him dreadfully.”

Lady Carew recoiled, and triumph had a satisfying taste. “I don’t have any interest in that child,” she snapped. “Rather, I thought you might give him this?”

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