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Andrew touched his lips to the shell of her ear, and despite knowing he was a rogue, despite knowing he must think she was someone else, she felt her breath quicken.

“I was wondering where you—” He froze. His eyes bulged, and with a curse, he released her like he’d been burned.

“Expecting another?” she drawled.

Even in the dimly lit space, she caught the blush that filled his cheeks. She patted his face the way her Aunt Dorothy had always done to Marcia when she’d been a girl. “The Viscount Waters blushing. I didn’t think it was possible.” That endearing color deepened. “So,” she said, catching the curtains and peeking between the slight slit in the fabric, wondering who he had meant to meet amongst the many ladies he’d spoken to on his way to the alcove. “Who is she?”

“No one,” he said quickly. Too quickly.

Marcia slid him a glance over her shoulder.

He blushed. “Lady Robins.”

“Andrew! She is married.”

“She is unhappy,” he said defensively.

She frowned, unable to account for this… disappointment.

There was no end to the number of people whom Andrew had left disappointed over the years.

Never before had Marcia looked at him the way she did now.

And it shouldn’t matter. But for some unexplainable reason, it did.

“Tell me, Marcia, what does it matter if a lonely woman wants my company?” he asked.

“It matters because she is married.”

“And do you believe those unhappy couples actually have love between them?” he countered, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll spare you from wondering—they don’t. They’re miserable. The wives as well as the husbands.”

“But they spoke a vow to be faithful, Andrew, and when you make that vow, you honor your commitment.”

He opened his mouth to further disabuse her of that idealistic view on commitment, but something in her eyes called the words back.

She was speaking about her betrothed, the blackguard who’d stranded her at the altar. And it didn’t matter how much he reassured Marcia that she was better off. She’d suffered a broken heart, and only time could and would heal that. Someday, however, she’d realize how lucky she’d been to be spared a lifetime of misery with a passionless fellow like the marquess.

“You’re going to find someone who is going to make you truly happy, Marcia,” he said quietly.

“As happy as Lady Robins is with her husband?” she asked dryly. “Or all the others like her?”

“No. As happy as Rutland makes my sister and Huntly makes my other sister. And my stepfather makes—”

“You’ve made your point. But I won’t have those things, Andrew,” she said, shifting closer. “I’m not your sisters, and I’m not even my mother. I’m a bastard.”

He frowned. “You’re a—”

“A bastard,” she interrupted him.

“You’re a lady,” he completed the thought.

“No, I’m not. I’m some by-blow who was conceived by—” Marcia abruptly stopped, biting down hard on her lower lip and looking beyond his shoulder to the alcove wall behind him.

Hearing her speak so about herself, so jaded and harsh and so unlike Marcia, caused a tightening in his chest.

His fingers moved as if of their own volition, coming up to briefly stroke the curve of her cheek. That skin was so satiny soft and warm, and Marcia’s eyelashes fluttered shut as she leaned into his palm.

As he caressed her cheek, he marveled at the feel of her, marveled at the fact that he’d not touched her more in this way. In any—