Page 22 of To Catch a Viscount

Leaving a stunned Wakefield behind, Andrew went in search of Marcia.

Everyone was staring.

Or they had been.

When Marcia had been standing with her parents flanking her in the middle of the ballroom, all pitying eyes had been turned towards her.

The jilted bride.

The bastard daughter.

The humiliated, brokenhearted, no longer betrothed.

The unworthy.

What would they say if they knew the real truth about her?

The unwanted.

The spawn of a devil, a daughter who was and would forever be a constant reminder of the night her mother had been assaulted.

Seated in front of the fireplace in her father’s office now, Marcia shivered, chilled from the inside out. The fire did little to fend off a shaking that had nothing to do with any real cold, that instead came from a self-loathing so potent, so powerful, it threatened to consume her—and she feared it one day would.

After all, how did one reconcile the hideousness of the person who, in a violent act, had cleaved himself to her and Marcia’s mother, a reprehensible act that served as the very basis for Marcia’s very existence?

She buried her face against her skirts, the satin rustling noisily, and drew in a deep breath.

The light tread of footfalls in the corridor reached her, faint but still noisy whispers, and familiar. They grew increasingly louder until the moment they stopped outside her father’s offices.

Marcia hugged her arms around her knees and tried to make herself as small as possible, trying to will the person to leave, wanting to be alone. Not wanting to talk to anyone.

Alas, she was to be denied yet again anything of which she wished.

The door handle jiggled.

“Locked,” one of the young women said loudly.

“Obviously, it is locked.” There came another faint rattle. “We know you’re in there, Marcia. Open up. We won’t be turned away.”

“No,” the other young woman piped in. “If you don’t, we shall leave the townhouse, climb our way up the ivy, and come in through the window. I haven’t climbed trees in many, many years, but I will do so this evening. For you.”

By the dogged determination in that announcement, Marcia knew the other woman meant business. Such was the way when one found oneself lucky enough to have devoted best friends, as she had.

With a sigh, Marcia hastily pushed the bottle of champagne she’d snuck and her barely sipped-from glass under the sofa.

Rap, rap, rap.

“I’m coming,” she mumbled. “I’m coming.”

“What did she say?” one of the ladies whispered. “She’s running?” The young woman didn’t wait for a response, but raised her already slightly elevated voice. “We shall run after you, then, and find you. I’m quite a good runner. I am—”

“She didn’t say ‘run.’ She said—”

Marcia opened the doors.

“She’s coming.”

Miss Faith Brookfield, daughter of the Marquess of Guilford, beamed. “She’s not coming. She’s here!” As if she feared Marcia might change her mind, shut the door, and lock it once more, Faith hastened into the room.

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