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She’d expected him to be there for her, the one man she’d thought would find her proposal good fun and welcome her along with him.

Andrew.

Who’d been waiting in an alcove for some other woman when she’d managed to corner him. It shouldn’t have shocked or surprised or disappointed her. She well knew what Andrew was. A scoundrel. A rake. A rogue. Those were words affixed to his name in all the scandal sheets, and he’d even made lighthearted jests about them.

And that was absolutely the only reason she’d been disappointed by him.

Because she’d expected him, as a rogue and as her friend, to not have denied her request.

In her mind, there’d been something freeing about the adventure she’d planned to embark on. But since she’d hatched that plot, her imaginings had always included Andrew at her side. And so there’d been no unease about the course she intended to follow. She’d known Andrew would be there and would dispense with any problems and that he’d show her the ways. In fact, she’d imagined them as two chums partaking in the grandest of fun.

But he had said no, and that rejection had hurt more than she’d expected, because she’d never imagined he’d say no.

Being rejected was becoming an increasingly familiar sentiment. She’d been rejected by Charles. By the bulk of Polite Society.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and she forced herself to shove back those maudlin thoughts.

She’d arrived quicker than she’d thought.

Drawing back the curtains, she peeked out at the building awash in light.

She’d not known what she’d expected. Perhaps for the sin of the establishment to be so great that it all but spilled into the streets in the form of its wastrel patrons.

As it was, the streets proved empty but for the occasional gentleman strolling up to the establishment, knocking, waiting, and then being admitted a moment later.

She’d been nervous until this moment.

Why, this street might as well have been any other respectable London street and the business unfolding inside that establishment not so very scandalous or outrageous after all.

Sitting back in her seat, Marcia removed a book from her reticule, and as she waited, she read.

He’d been granted a reprieve from attending Polite Society functions.

There’d been no requests—also known as demands—put to Andrew, requests that he make an appearance and show support for Marcia.

His services had been exhausted, and his family recognized there was no longer any benefit to his standing shoulder to shoulder with Marcia and her family.

Good.

He should be relieved.

Hell, he was.

Why, now Andrew was free to spend his entire nights at his tables and at some of London’s wickedest clubs. He should be relieved and concentrating on the cards in his hand. His shockingly good hand.

Alas, another thought kept intruding…

I want to know what it is to be wicked.

From another, that admission would have been wicked, sultry.

From her, the words had been matter-of-fact, spoken in her bell-like, clear voice.

He laid down a card, and opposite him, his friends and two others who’d joined their trio tossed down theirs, muttering and cursing as they did.

This should be distraction enough. His luck had turned.

Alas…