Page 73 of To Catch a Viscount

“A turban.”

He nodded.

Marcia burst out laughing, and it felt so very good to hear her laugh and to see that sadness fade from her eyes. “You expect me to wearthis?”

“If you expect me to take you along with me, then yes. Yes, I do.” After Stormont’s visit to his table, Andrew had realized he needed to take even more precautions to ensure Marcia went undiscovered.

“This is absolutely ridiculous. Turbans are for grandmothers and old widows and bluestockings who’ve never married, with butlers named Cheevers and dogs named Biscuit.”

The tension of before gone, Andrew found himself grinning. “And now they’re for young innocents who insist on waltzing on the wild side.”

“Waltzing on the wild side,” she repeated contemplatively. “I very much like that.”

“Splendid,” he said dryly. “I’m so happy you approve.” He jutted his chin her way. “On.”

Muttering under her breath, she accepted the turban and pulled a face. “I still don’t see why I have to wear this, Andrew,” she protested. “I have blonde hair.”

“And?”

“AndeveryEnglish lady has blonde hair,” she said in exasperation.

“Not like yours,” he rejoined. “Not glimmering a dozen different shades of spun gold and sunshine.”

She’d oft despised her golden curls, longing for something more exotic, something to set her apart from all the other golden-haired misses: a midnight black, a crimson red, even a strawberry shade. Anything.

Only…

Her lips parted, and her heart danced wildly in her breast. The way he’d spoken, she could almost believe the strands were as glorious as he described.

“Spun gold and sunshine,” she repeated softly.

The moon shining through the crack in the curtains was bright enough to reveal the bright color that suffused his cheeks.

“You’re wearing it, Marcia,” he said gruffly, and this time, he wound the turban about her hair with a gentleness that left her weak kneed.

When he’d finished, he paused to assess his work.

She held her breath. Waiting for him to say… something, unsure of what that something was or could be.

“Come.” He took her by the hand.

A short while later, he was leading her into Cyprian’s Den.

The moment a burly, dark-clad servant drew the front door open, the noise within spilled out, filling the streets with a deafening clamor of laughter and clinking coins.

“Come,” Andrew said, pulling her close in a protective way as he slipped an arm around her waist and led her through the club.

As they went, Marcia’s gaze took in the disheveled lords, with loosened cravats, clustered around gaming tables. A haze of smoke from too many cheroots hung over the room like a thick London fog. Scantily clad women moved about the room with trays in their hands, offering drinks to the boisterous patrons.

“It is no more decadent than Cyprian’s Den,” she remarked. In fact, it looked very much the same.

“Ah, but it’s not,” Andrew whispered, pausing to turn her in his arms and draw her close.

Her entire body trembled, and she tipped her head back to meet his gaze. “I-isn’t it?”

“Only on the gaming floors.” He shifted, placing his mouth close to her ear so that when he spoke, his lips moved in an accidental kiss. “Off the floors is where the greatest sinning happens. Rooms where men and women or men and men and women and women can meet, sometimes with multiple partners.”

She dampened her lips as his words conjured scandalous images in her mind. “In-indeed?”

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