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He should just let her go.

But then an image slithered forward like a serpent sliding around his brain—Marcia against a wall in a tableau different than the one he’d painted for her. Some bounder wasn’t forcing himself upon her. Rather, Rothesby was pleasuring her, wringing breathless cries from her innocent-no-more lips.

A black haze fell over his vision, briefly blinding him, and he shot a fist up.

The carriage immediately rocked forward.

Marcia’s throat wobbled.

For the first time that night, he saw hesitation in her features. “A-Andrew?” A question was there in the uptilt of her voice.

“You want to sin?” he said huskily, reaching for her. He brought her down atop his lap, settling her there. “Then you should be prepared for everything that entails, love.”

With that warning, Andrew tangled his fingers in the hair at her nape and brought her mouth down to meet his.

Several times in her life, Marcia hadalmostbeen kissed.

The day her betrothed had asked for her hand, he’d lowered his lips to brush his mouth over her cheek and nothing more.

And there’d been three instances with Andrew she could—and secretly had—cataloged as the Almost Kiss at Her Betrothal Ball, the Fireside Chat Almost Kiss in her father’s offices, and the On the Fringe of Society Almost Kiss in the alcove.

There’d been so many almost kisses with Andrew, or what she’d believed had been almost kisses, that she’d allowed herself to wonder what kissing Andrew Barrett, the Viscount Waters, would in fact be like.

She knew that, as a notorious rogue and black sheep of Polite Society, a scoundrel of the first order, he’d know precisely what he was doing.

She knew he’d be experienced.

She knew she’d probably even enjoy it some.

In all her wonderings, however, she’d been wrong.

She’d been so very wrong.

She enjoyed it more than justsome.

It was as though she’d come alive for the first time, born of a single flame that licked at every corner of her being, becoming a fiery conflagration that threatened to swallow her in sheer desire and wanting.

Moaning, she tipped her head to better receive his kiss, and he angled her chin a fraction, knowing precisely the amount to shift her to deepen their kiss and better avail himself of her mouth.

All the while, she kissed him back, hesitantly at first.

Then he glided his palm down her body, lingering at her waist, and then cupping her buttock.

She gasped, and he slid his tongue inside her mouth, stroking her in a kiss she’d never known could be a kiss. She’d expected there to be only lips meeting and sparks, but not tongues and pure fire.

There were no words, but then, she didn’t think any were possible, or needed, anyway.

There was simply feeling, and she surrendered herself to it.

She dimly registered the crunch of satin as Andrew gripped the bottom of her skirts, and then she felt the kiss of the nighttime cool upon her heated flesh when he dragged her skirts higher.

“Do you like that, love?” His voice emerged as a gravelly, raspy taunt that belied the affectionate word that fell from his lips.

He didn’t appear to require an answer. Which was good, as Marcia didn’t think she could make her mind or her tongue form words. Nay, her mouth was capable only of this intimate takeover carried out by the man who held her.

And yet, not even her former betrothed had called herlove. She’d simply been Marcia, and only that, after he’d formally asked for her hand. She’d never beensweetheartordear heartor any other endearment.

Until now.