Page 41

Templeton’s cheeks grew redder, and he shoved his chair back, scraping the legs upon the floor as he stood and towered over Andrew. “Make light of it all you want, have your jest, but at the end of the day, you know I’m right. Me and the rest of the world know you’re a wastrel, a pathetic, impoverished viscount who’s as morally bankrupt as your father.”

“You go too far, Templeton,” the duke said quietly. That stern, clipped warning contained all the ducal superiority that terrified the world, and it also managed to penetrate Lord Templeton’s rage.

The young lord went even more flush in the cheeks and then dipped an uneven bow. “Gentlemen,” he murmured to Andrew’s friends and table partners for the evening.

Landon nodded his chin in the other man’s direction. “Get the hell out. You’re done at these tables.”

All that bright crimson color drained from Templeton’s cheeks, leaving the young man pale. With that, he wandered unsteadily through the crowd.

“Ignore him,” Rothesby said quietly, and as the duke dealt the next round of cards, Andrew looked restlessly around the club.

The truth of it was, Templetonwasn’twrong. And Andrew wasn’t himself. Of late, he’d been out of sorts. And, at least in the privacy of his thoughts, he could be honest with himself as to the reason behind it.

Or more specifically, the person behind it.

Oh, it had nothing to do with the insults that had been leveled by Templeton. Andrew was well accustomed to Society’s opinion of him. That was, Society’sunfavorableopinion. Every insult written about Andrew, every wary look tossed at him by protective mamas, every disgusted look sent his way by respectable peers was well earned and deserved. Why, even his friends knew him precisely for what he was—Waters’ son.

As Templeton had needlessly reminded him and the table that night, he was the son of a wastrel, a womanizer, and, worse, a bigamist.

That vile reprobate’s blood flowed freely in his veins, the life-sustaining force tainted and poisoned by the man who’d sired him. It was why Andrew had taken to gaming and bedding beauties as he had.

It was why, back when he’d been innocent enough to believe in love and to believe himself different than his father, he’d given his heart to a woman whose soul was as black as his own. A woman who’d ultimately been intent on revenge for having lost her lover to Andrew’s sister in the name of marriage.

From that moment on, Andrew had given up on the pretenses and accepted—nay, not accepted. He’d fully embraced his reputation and owned his birthright.

Yes, everyone viewed him rightly, just as Templeton did.

That was, everyone except Marcia.

She’d been the only one to see somethingdifferentin Andrew.

And after his exchange with Templeton, Andrew could at last make sense of why he’d been so bothered these past several days.

He couldn’t shake the look of disappointment that had glimmered in her eyes when she’d last looked at him. Oh, he was well used to disappointment from others, but the fact that she’d come to him, that she’d sought his help before anyone else’s?

Granted, she’d enlisted his aid in learning the ropes of sinning, but nonetheless she’d soughthisassistance.

No one ever came to him for assistance, for the very reasons Templeton had raised.

Why, even his closest chums, Rothesby and Landon, supported him and staunchly defended him—as they’d done a short while ago with Templeton—but they also knew better than to seek assistance, in any way, from one such as Andrew.

Andrew grimaced and downed the remainder of his drink.

It was better not to see her anymore. Helping her in the ways she’d wished would have gotten him only a bullet square in the chest at dawn by her father.

Andrew shoved to his feet.

The other men looked up with some surprise.

“I am out,” he explained. “Quitting while I’m ahead.”

“For a change,” Landon drawled, and then his smile faded as his features fell into a somber mask. “You know he’s full of shite,” he said with a greater solemnity than Andrew had previously believed him capable of. “A sore loser and a mama’s boy who is unaccustomed to losing.”

As Andrew raked over his winnings, he felt Rothesby’s intent stare, and then the duke proceeded to do the same. His friends assumed Andrew’s moroseness had to do with Templeton’s insult. Both men were from illustrious families, and even as the best friends they were, the other men couldn’t relate to Andrew, who really didn’t give a damn what people said about him or his father. They didn’t know that this moroseness was a mere continuation of his earlier sentiments about Marcia.

The marquess took his cue from Andrew and Rothesby and hopped up, joining them.

As they made their way through the club, Andrew absently took in the scene of sin unfolding. Lords fondled young beauties, sometimes more than one or two at the same time.