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“Do you know what I think?” he asked softly, and Marcia’s gaze crept over to his, a hesitation in her eyes and in the little shake of her head.

“I believe if you believe in love, and if you believe you love Thornton,” he said, “then ultimately, you are going to have the very happiness you seek with him, Marcia.” He brought his hand up for what he intended to be a supportive, sibling-like pat of her cheek. Except his palm stilled upon her satiny soft skin, and his touch became a caress, fueled by the unexpected heat and warmth of her.

Marcia’s thick golden lashes fluttered, and then she closed her eyes and leaned into his palm.

Being a woman whose family, through Andrew’s brother-in-law, Edmund, the Marquess of Rutland, had a connection to Andrew, she and he invariably always landed at the same functions. He even had distant memories of Marcia as a bright-eyed girl, hiding in corners of ballrooms and parlors, watching affairs, and oftentimes, he’d thought, spying on him.

But then, she’d been a girl. Now, as he slipped his eyes over her heart-shaped face, bathed in the soft glow of the moon, he appreciated for the first time that the golden-haired girl had in fact become that Norse goddess, Sif.

Granted, an innocent goddess. And an almost married one at that.

One with a nipped waist but surprisingly generous hips and a bosom the perfect size to fit in a man’s hands. Despite himself, his gaze lingered on her modest neckline and the slightly olive-hued skin belonging to a woman unafraid of the sunshine.

He found his search shifting higher, but still to a less-safe place. Her strawberry sweet mouth: crimson red, with a slightly fuller top lip than bottom, lent an alluring pout to the flesh.

Desire grew within him, and his breath grew slightly ragged.

The girl had grown up, and at nearly five or so inches shorter than his six feet three inches, he’d need to just tip his head down a fraction, and he’d have her delectable mouth under his.

Since he was a rogue, he didn’t seek to deny himself the feel of her. Nay, desire stirred within, and he lowered his head, bent on tasting of her.

Smack.

He stilled as a noisy kiss landed upon his cheek.

“You are the best of friends, Andrew,” Marcia said with a wide, innocent smile that reached all the way to her fathomless brown eyes that definitely didnotglimmer with passion. “Thank you. I should return.”

With a jaunty little wave, she collected her skirts and rushed back to the betrothal ball and her betrothed… and away from what would have proven to be a disastrous act on his part.

Chapter 1

London, England

Spring 1829

Charles will be here.

He is coming.

Why wouldn’t he?

He is just late.

He is always late, after all.

Granted, Marcia just hadn’t expected he’d also be late—to their wedding. A wedding that was supposed to begin at ten o’clock.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught another flash of movement as her father, Marcus Gray, Lord Wessex, the man who’d adopted her nine years earlier, stormed back and forth, frantically pacing the vestibule of St. Helena’s Church.

All the while, Marcia’s mother sat at the front of the dark stone church with its rows of long stained-glass windows; periodically she stole glances back at the entrance of the church.

A feeling of unease pitted in Marcia’s belly.

Her four siblings chatted and squealed and giggled happily and noisily around their mother.

The normalcy of her sisters and brother at play drove back some of the discomfort of being a bride, standing at the back of a church, waiting for her bridegroom to arrive.

Waiting along with all the members of Polite Society assembled in those narrow, uncomfortable-looking pews.