Page 20 of To Catch a Viscount

Following Thornton’s public shaming of Marcia.

“Nathaniel,” Andrew greeted his stepfather, an older, kinder, more honorable gentleman than the lady’s previous husband, Andrew’s sire.

“I should also addwenoted your absence,” Phoebe said, this time in gentler tones.

“Ah, but it’s not really an absence,” he said, giving a light wag of his eyebrows. “It was merely a tardy arrival, eh? Furthermore, why does it matter so much if I’m—”

“It matters,” Rutland growled, and Andrew swallowed noisily.

Egad, as a young man in university, Andrew had been equally awed and terrified of the dark, menacing marquess, a man with the blackest reputation in London. That hadn’t changed. Well, with the exception of the black reputation.

“Ah, this again,” he said, shifting his attention around the room.

“Yes, this,” Phoebe chided, tapping him on the arm with her delicate wood fan. “We agreed that a show of solidarity is important.”

A show of solidarity?

“When did we agree to this?” And for whatever reason did they need to put on that show?

“We didn’t. You were otherwise occupied and failed to attend the family meeting. As such, we sent word round.”

Ah, yes. Of course.

Understanding dawned in Phoebe’s eyes. “You didn’t read it.”

Andrew put on a good show of indignation. “I’m here, am I not?”

“Probably because Edmund sent round another note this evening ordering you to be here.”

“Ah, but Rutland wouldn’t go about ordering me to join him,” Andrew said, tossing an arm jovially around his brother-in-law. “Isn’t that—”

“I would and I did. And, it wasn’t a note, which you know.”

Swallowing nervously, Andrew drew his hand back. “Er… right.” He did a sweep of the ballroom, searching for the top of Marcia’s head. His gaze landed on her parents. Both looked wan.

“Is she even here?” he asked.

“She is,” Justina piped in. She paused. “Or she has been.” Her eyes softened. “The poor dear.”

The poor dear.

This pitying her again.

“Thornton did her a deuced favor,” he muttered.

His sisters collectively gasped, slapping palms over their mouths and glaring at him over the tops of their hands.

“What?” he protested over their indignation. “He did. The fellow is a stodgy bore and a mama’s boy at that.” A servant approached, and Andrew plucked a glass of champagne from the liveried fellow’s silver tray and downed a quick sip. “Miss Gray would have always been too much for him,” he continued when the footman had walked off, “and is better off without him.” Andrew toasted the truth of that statement and, in one steady swallow, drank what remained in his glass.

Phoebe gave him a peculiar look.

“Yes, well, that’s hardly here nor there,” their mother said quietly. “What matters is that it did happen. And it is not just about her having been left at the altar. There’s the gossip about her parentage. The girl needs all of the friends and support she might find. So you will dance with her, and you will smile and stand by our side and her family’s as they weather this.”

Andrew would maintain with his dying breath that the only atrocity would have been had the lady found herself locked arm in arm with Thornton for the remainder of her days. This time, however, Andrew was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. He inclined his head. “My mission is clear,” he said with a nod to his stepfather, a minister at the Home Office.

At his poor quip, his sisters groaned.

Rutland dropped another arm around his shoulders and squeezed hard enough to earn a wince and slight yelp from Andrew. “Not really the time for jesting, is it.”

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