Page 16 of To Catch a Viscount

A relief so heady filled her that it left her nearly dizzy. She composed her features in a suitably solemn mask for their offering and cleared her throat to be heard over the din of their quarreling. “I said ahem.” That managed to break up their argument, and her brothers and sisters went silent. Marcia inclined her head. “I am most grateful for your offer. However, I would ask that you not.”

“Because you think I’m not a good shot?” Flora demanded, folding her arms mutinously.

If she had been capable of smiling, her sister’s annoyance at having her shooting skills questioned would have been the moment.

“Oh, just the opposite. I don’t think for a moment you—”

“Hey.”

“Or you,” Marcia added over Lionel and Clarion’s matching interruption, “wouldn’t be capable of felling him on any dueling field.” She shook her head. “But I don’t want that.”

“Because you still love him?” Maisie asked hesitantly.

Did she still love Charles?

She stared wistfully at the seat where he’d gotten down on a knee and asked her to marry him after he’d spoken to her father. She thought of how he’d tangled his fingers with hers and raised them to his lips and then pulled out from behind his back a bouquet of the biggest, most gloriously bright hothouse flowers. As big as they’d been, she’d not known how she could have failed to see them behind his back.

But then, that was because he’d been all that she’d been able to see.

Flora tugged her hand lightly, bringing her back from her musings about a simpler time.

“I don’t know,” Marcia finally said, giving them the first true words she could that day. “Now, run along and practice your swordplay,” she urged, knowing precisely how they loved spending their time and how to get them off and thinking about something other than their elder sister’s humiliation.

As they went scurrying off, she remained there, haunted by just one question:

What now?

Chapter 4

Andrew intended to spend this particular night as he did so many other nights—at his clubs.

Whistling a merry tavern ditty, Andrew danced sideways down the stairs with a jaunty, jig-like step.

His butler, Thomaston, stood at the foot of the steps, his features creased with their perpetual lines of worry.

“Thomaston, my good man,” Andrew called down. The fellow, who was the son of his late father’s butler, had proven to be just as loyal and just as good as the one who’d preceded him. So good that Andrew could never sort out why he’d not found higher-paying work in a more respectable household. “Readied my carriage, have you?”

“Yes, my lord. I’ve seen to it.”

“Ah, you are worth your weight in gold, my good man.” Waiting as he was to see Andrew off.

“Thank you, my lord,” Thomaston said when Andrew reached the foyer. The butler then cleared his throat. “However…”

Oh, bloody hell.

Warning bells chimed.

“Company arrived for you. I took the liberty of showing him to your office.”

Him.

Usually, a pair arrived—a pockmarked fellow and a taller, even tougher-looking brute.

He stilled.

He’d prefer good, respectable creditors to the manner of men who held his vowels.

“Lord Rutland awaits.”

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