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The last thing he could afford to do was lead the girl to break her betrothal. To do so would anger his family and hers, and there’d be questions about why she’d ended it.

With a curse, he reached down and plucked her up from the earthen floor and set her on her feet.

“I do love him, you know,” she said.

“I know,” he said instantly, even though he didn’t know any such thing.

In fact, he didn’t know a deuced thing about her relationship with Thornton, nor did he wish to.

What he wished was to drink his champagne and tup a lonely wife and, for a brief moment, sate his own loneliness.

Andrew briefly contemplated the stairs from the garden to the grand ball taking place and then looked at a motionless Marcia.

“It’s just…” she began, wringing her wrinkled white lace skirts.

The white had begun to show grass stains where she’d gone crawling about that would likely be noted by guests, and as such, he could not be seen with her or near her or exiting the gardens with her or entering the ballroom anywhere close to her.

Perhaps it was their family’s connection. Or perhaps it was that he’d known her since she’d been a girl, a girl who’d been just as vexing as the woman now standing before him, but he found himself asking anyway.

“It is just…?”

“We’ve never embraced.”

Oh, bloody hell.

Grass stains on her gown and now talk of whom she’d kissed or, in this case, not kissed.

“No one’s ever claimed Thornton is any sort of rogue,” he volunteered helpfully.

Or rather, he’d attempted to be helpful.

“No. I know he’s not a rogue.” The way she’d spoken that word indicated she clearly took affront with fellows who possessed Andrew’s reputation.

He bristled. “Many say rogues make the best husbands.”

Marcia gave him a look. “You don’t truly believe that.”

“No.” Absolutely, he did not. “But many do.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people, Andrew.”

He stole a glance upward, confirming that they were still alone and mentally sorting how he could make his escape, when she began to pace.

“I’m logical when it comes to love,” she said.

“When there’s nothing logical about love?” he asked, unable to help himself.

She jabbed a finger his way. “Precisely, Andrew. Which is why, when I was being readied for my betrothal ball this evening, I had a moment of panic.”

“I’m sure all couples have their reservations, Marcia. I’m sure you’ll be as happy as every other happily married lady in London.” Who, with the apparent exceptions of his sisters and mother, appeared to be not at all happy.

“But what if we’re not, Andrew?” she implored. “To make a mistake on something so important…”

This… this was decidedly not a promising union. He opened his mouth to say as much, but caught that distracted and worried glimmer in her eyes once more.

For a second time, he couldn’t bring himself to muster the truest words about the likelihood of a forever happiness—because there was no such thing.

Even his mother and sisters, all in love with their spouses, had known the greatest misery on their paths to that wedded state.