Page 17 of To Catch a Viscount

Lord Rutland, though his swell of relief quickly receded. Lord Rutland almost always paid a visit only when Andrew was in trouble.

His brother-in-law inspired only slightly less terror than the men often sent todiscussAndrew’s debt. And only because Andrew knew the marquess loved Phoebe so hopelessly and so desperately that he’d not off Andrew—no matter how much he wished to do so.

“Ahem.” Thomaston again made a throat-clearing noise.

“How does he look?” Andrew ventured.

“His usual way, my lord.”

As in menacing. As in snarling and growling. As in Andrew was in deep shite.

Andrew stared at the front doors, briefly contemplating escape. Very briefly. He knew better, however, than to further raise the ire of the notorious and ruthless Lord Rutland.

Cursing quietly, Andrew shifted course and headed for his office. The moment he reached his rooms, he paused long enough to muster a sense of unaffectedness, donned a grin, and drew the door open.

“Brother-in-law,” he called jovially.

Seated not at the front of the desk but, rather, behind it as though he were in fact the master of this domain, the Marquess of Rutland steepled his fingers and leaned back in Andrew’s chair.

“You’re expected at Lord and Lady Wessex’s,” Rutland said without preamble.

Leave it to Rutland to get to the heart of it. “Let me ask you this.” Walking to the drink cart, Andrew began pouring himself a glass. “You had quite the reputation before marrying my sister. Visiting the same clubs and haunts I enjoy now.” He held the snifter out to his brother-in-law, who narrowed his eyes, but otherwise gave no indication of interest in that offering. Oh, well. More for Andrew.

“But I wasn’t a wastrel,” Rutland said bluntly, his graveled voice dripping with disapproval and disgust.

Two sentiments Andrew was quite familiar with from any number of people.

“No, you were just a scoundrel.” He flashed a half grin. “Fair enough.”

“Do you treat anything with any real seriousness, Andrew?” his brother-in-law asked, and his usual icy tone would have been preferable to this quiet condemnation.

And here Andrew had believed he’d ceased caring what others thought of him.

Andrew’s patience snapped. “Do you truly believe my being around Marcia Gray will somehowhelpthe lady’s reputation?”

“I’m not talking about Miss Gray,” Rutland murmured.

“Then what are you—?”

“I’m talking about your life in general, Andrew,” Rutland cut in. “You’re still drinking and wagering and whoring like you did when I first met you, and it’s time that you think about someoneotherthan yourself.” With that, his brother-in-law stood. “You’ve missed the past two events the lady has attended. I expect you, at the very least, to be at her family’s ball this evening.” His wasn’t a request but, rather, an order, and without so much as a curt goodbye, he left.

After he’d gone, Andrew shook his head. “Lovely talk,” he muttered. Grimacing, Andrew sat in his office chair and slowly sipped his brandy, welcoming the warmth it provided.

His peace proved short-lived.

A new set of footfalls sounded outside.

Bloody hell. What now?

Thomaston knocked and ducked his head inside. “You have additional company.”

“Who now?” Andrew exclaimed, tossing his hands up. “My mother? My stepfather?Huntly?”

Two men appeared at Thomaston’s shoulder, both of them some six inches taller than the butler’s five feet eight inches.

And Andrew was proven wrong. He did prefer Rutland’s company… to this.

Bloody, bloody hell.

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