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“Second thoughts?” Rothesby said from the corner of his mouth.

Second, third, and fourth ones. Plus some numbers after that.

Andrew, however, knew better than to voice as much before a room full of guests, most of whom now glared at him.

He slid his gaze over to the sharpest glare of all.

The Earl of Wakefield scowled blackly at Andrew, wearing the same stamp of fury on his features as he had when he’d stormed out of Andrew’s offices days earlier.

Seated at the end of the makeshift aisle next to his sister-in-law the Countess of Stanhope, Wakefield had been the last guest to arrive.

There came a flurry at the entrance of the room, and as one, all the guests—including Wakefield—looked back.

Lady Faith Brookfield and Miss Anwen Kearsley, Marcia’s closest friends, came rushing in.

Andrew tensed as they all but pranced like mice down the aisle, and he braced for them to join him and announce that their friend was, in fact, not coming, delivering the news that would end this farce and save him from a future of respectability.

Only, as they shimmied into the row of seats alongside Faith’s parents, the Marquess and Marchioness of Guilford, he felt an odd relief, when the only relief he should feel that day would be if the wedding was called off, and he was spared the leg shackles he was about to don.

Another commotion came at the front of the room.

His mother and stepfather and youngest siblings, George and Georgina, rushed into the room.

His mother and her husband, Nathan, wore somber expressions that made them perfect additions to the company that day.

Bloody hell. Given they’d been traveling, Andrew had anticipated he’d be spared at least the maternal disapproval.

Alas…

His mother held his stare. “Andrew,” she mouthed, and he was not so much a fool as to believe that was an affectionate greeting.

He managed a sheepish smile.

His youngest brother, George, and his sister Georgina, however, waved excitedly.

Not all were unhappy to see him.

Andrew stole another glance at the clock.

She wasn’t coming.

And he’d not blame her.

There’d be a scandal, but he’d never been one to care much about that.

And this time, there was a rush of relief, because her leaving him at the altar would be the best for the both of them. But especially for her.

He’d be spared from adding one more person to the always growing list of people he disappointed.

He’d not have to bear witness to the day Marcia went from smiling friend to sad-eyed and regretful wife because of some sin he’d invariably commit.

He—

The office doors opened once more, and like a rolling wave, the guests angled in their seats as one.

And she was there.

On the arm of Lord Wessex, whose face revealed no fury or disappointment, instead remaining a perfectly stoic mask.