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“Oh, I do. I have always been proper and lived precisely as a young lady should, but what has that gotten me, Andrew? The cut direct by members of Polite Society because of Charles’s actions.” She paused. “A broken heart.” She added that last part more softly, as if speaking to herself.

It wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned her betrothal to Thornton, but it was the first time she’d spoken plainly and honestly of her heart being broken. The truth of that left him trapped between a place of wanting to pound Thornton for having dared to hurt her and pulling her into his arms and reminding her that her former betrothed wasn’t fit to lick her slippers.

“Marcia,” he began gently. “That is precisely why… this, what you propose here, will not and cannot work. Because if you do the thing you’re speaking of doing, then you won’t have a future. Not one that is respectable,” he added.

“Because an honorable, respectable gentleman will not take me as his wife if I’m engaging in improper activities?” she asked quietly, searching her eyes over his face, and Andrew pounced, so desperate to dissuade her that he’d play on her fears of not finding love again.

“No, they won’t.”

She grinned, slowly, a devilish, impish smile that sent terror clamoring in his brain. “Perfect.”

“Thatisperfect?”

Marcia gave an emphatic nod, slightly dislodging the heart-shaped, diamond-encrusted haircomb tucked in her curls. “Because a man who would so judge me is not any man I should wish to wed. And I’ll have you know, I have you to thank for this decision I’ve reached, Andrew.”

He was the reason for this harebrained plan? “Splendid.”

She frowned. “You’re being facetious.”

“Oh, not at all. I’m sure your father and my brother-in-law and my parents and your mother would all appreciate the fact that I gave you the idea to sin,” he said under his breath and set to work righting the bauble that sparkled even in the dimness of this space. The last thing he could afford was to be discovered with her while her hair was in disarray. This was the one time he’d actually done the honorable thing, but the world would never expect that or believe it. He assessed his handiwork and made a few more adjustments. “There,” he murmured, pinning back into place a stubborn curl intent on escaping.

Alas, the curl proved as obstinate as its mistress. He collected that strand once more and then stilled, noting belatedly—dangerously—the silken texture of that perfect coil. He’d always thought it ridiculous those exaggerated ringlets arranged by lady’s maids everywhere to mark the virtue of their mistress as clearly as a white gown and white gloves. Only, as he continued stroking that curl between his thumb and forefinger, he assessed those tresses in a new way. He’d proven to be a failure as a rake for not noting until now the shimmer of those curls, or the feel of them. Or mayhap it wasn’t just any innocent young woman’s hair that so fascinated him but, rather, this particular woman.

Andrew relinquished that tress and yanked his hand back so quickly he brushed the curtains of the alcove and set them dangerously aflutter.

When he shifted his attention back to Marcia’s face, he found her staring… oddly at him.

“I was fixing it,” he said, his words running together, and he found himself transported back to the time he’d been an uncertain, stumbling, bumbling young man who’d first discovered women. “Your hair,” he clarified when her brow dipped a fraction. “Can’t have you going out looking like you do.”

She touched a hand to the back of her head. “There’s something wrong with how I look?”

“No,” he blurted. Anything but. That, however, was the problem. Except… “Yes.” He swiftly switched course, and Marcia’s brow fell farther.

Bloody hell, end this already.

Andrew took her gently by the shoulders and instantly regretted that decision. The feel of her skin proved even more tempting, even more enticing than those silky strands. He flexed his fingers and hovered them instead just above her shoulders. “Marcia, if we’re discovered, and then you’re seen looking rumpled, the world will assume… They’ll assume…”

She nodded slightly. “Yes?”

He’d opened his mouth when he caught the mischievous sparkle in her pretty brown eyes.

Andrew narrowed his. Why, the imp knew precisely what he was speaking about and was having a deuced good time at his expense. “They’ll assume I was making love to you,” he said bluntly, at last finding his way in this discussion. “They’ll assume I had you in some alcove with your skirts up.” He gripped that material and crushed it noisily in his fingers. “And your back against the wall.” He curved his other hand against the small of her back, guiding her against the wall in question. “As I took you here,” he whispered, “just on the fringe of Polite Society.”

He’d meant to scare her.

By the way her lips parted, and her breath caught, and her skin flushed, he had.

Only, what he’d also managed to do was conjure for the both of them wicked imaginings of the very scene he’d painted.

This time, unlike before, his fingers didn’t comply with reason. He was incapable of unfurling them or releasing her.

Instead, his hands curled reflexively into her hips, and he slowly started to lower his head to claim her mouth.

Marcia’s gaze locked with his, and then with a little laugh, she gave a roll of her eyes.

A roll of her…?

She shoved her palms lightly against his chest. “I know what you are doing,” she said, her voice perfectly steady and even and… calm. Everything Andrew was decidedly not.