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“Hardly,” Andrew answered in an instant. He knew he wasn’t. “But I also know her wishes should be respected.”

Wessex’s brows came together, stitched into a single line.

“I already asked Marcia to marry me, and she said yes.”

Marcia’s father tensed, his entire body jerking as if he’d been shot.

But then, had Andrew a daughter and had a bloke with Andrew’s reputation stated his intent to wed his daughter, he’d have responded in a like way. Hell, he’d have probably not bothered with a duel and instead run the bastard through.

“Over my dead body,” Wessex thundered, exploding to his feet, and Rutland did the same.

Sliding around the desk, Rutland rested a hand on the other man’s arm and spoke a few quiet words to the viscount.

While Rutland and Wessex whispered back and forth, Andrew trained his gaze over their heads, and it occurred to him that Wessex would have preferred to risk death on the dueling field over allowing Andrew to marry Marcia.

Andrew wondered what Rutland’s good friend Wessex would say were he to know about the agreement that had spurred him to make this offer of marriage.

At last, whatever Andrew’s brother-in-law said seemed to penetrate. The Viscount Wessex nodded once and reclaimed his seat. Rutland remained standing next to him.

It also occurred to Andrew, unlike before, that Rutland had positioned himself as he had to be ready if—when—Wessex pounced for a second time.

That was why he’d come. Not just because of his friendship with Wessex, but because he sought to protect Andrew, as he’d done through the years. Andrew didn’t deserve that support, support he expected came solely from Rutland’s intent to spare Phoebe pain.

Wessex folded his hands, steepling them under his chin, and he stared over those digits at Andrew, urging him in silence, if not in words, to speak.

“I understand the harm I’ve done to Marcia’s reputation. After that fiasco with Thornton, she can’t take any more cut directs, and I would not wish to see her suffer.”

There was a long stretch of silence.

He felt his brother-in-law’s piercing stare upon him, and discomfited by that probing look, he resisted the urge to shift in his seat.

Suddenly, Wessex barked with laughter. “Youwould not see her suffer?” the viscount said through his empty, frosty laugh. “You would not see her suffer? Well, it appears we are of like efforts in this. However, between the two of us, I’m the only one wise enough to know that keeping her from suffering means keeping you far away from her.”

Andrew stiffened.

Only, was Wessex really that wrong? In fact, was he anything but right in this?

Andrew invariably hurt all those whom he cared about. He was his father’s son, a wastrel. And it was a certainty that he’d bring that same pain to Marcia, and he’d rather chew off his fingers than do that.

Lord Wessex must have sensed he’d reached him and that Andrew was faltering.

“I know your reputation, Waters,” the viscount said more softly, more evenly, his words not steeped in the same rage he’d turned Andrew’s way throughout the exchange. “You are a rogue—”

“Were you not one, too?” Andrew interjected.

At his side, he detected Rutland’s warning look. Which he ignored.

“As I see it,” Andrew went on, “you are the last person to lecture me.”

The marquess pressed his eyes shut and shook his head.

“The last person to lecture you? Me, the lady’s father?” A ruddy flush suffused Wessex’s cheeks. “Trust me, it isentirelydifferent. I loved my wife then, and I love her even more now, if possible.” He leaned forward. “Can you say you feel the same way for my daughter?”

Andrew grimaced and then, feeling that contortion of his facial muscles, immediately smoothed his features. Andrew didn’t believe in romantic love. After Marianne Carew’s treachery, he had come to appreciate that there’d only been lust and not love, as was the case in all relationships he’d known and all the relationships he’d ever know, including with Marcia. After all, how else to account for the fact that he could not keep his hands off of her? That even against all better judgment, he couldn’t resist taking her in his arms? And yet…

“I care very much about Marcia,” he said. And he did love her. As a friend.

Wessex shook his head. “That isn’t enough. The man who will marry her will love her to distraction. He’ll suffer if it means making her smile. All that will matter is the sound of her laughter, and he’ll lay down his life for her every happiness and would trade his soul to Satan to be the one to do so.”