Page 49

Rejection.

It was fast becoming a familiar sentiment.

Charles.

Andrew.

Andrew was disgusted by her, too.

She’d known as much since she’d raced out of his carriage last night.

And she’d had further confirmation now by the way he’d recoiled after touching her.

His hands. Those were the greatest clue, however. They were tight fists beside him, as if he were repelled by having touched her.

Marcia felt the sudden urge to cry.

Because she shared that disgust. She knew what it was to loathe her own skin, the skin bequeathed to her by a monster.

And Andrew doesn’t even know that,a voice jeered.

What would he think of you if he did know all those ugliest truths about your existence?

That she was a daughter spawned from Satan’s own loins, a vile reminder her mother must face every day about that horrific act and that horrific night.

Turning her face, she stared intently at the black velvet curtain, peeling it back just enough to peek out, and the faint hint of crystal pane revealed the glimmer of tears in her eyes. She blinked several times, willing them back, refusing to cry now. Refusing to cry here, with this man.

Since she’d learned the truth, since her mother had finally shared with Marcia the real story about her father, she’d felt… lost. Lost amongst a family and household that had always been a refuge. Her mother was quiet and sad-eyed whenever Marcia was about now. Lord Wessex, the man whom she referred to as Papa, because he’d been a father to her in every sense, and the brother and sister born to her parents… none of them looked at her the way they had before the day her betrothal had died on the steps of St. Helen’s Church.

She was destined to always live with her family, because none would marry her now.

And the rub of it was, she didn’t want to marry now. She didn’t want to trust her heart to any other respectable gentleman.

What was worse—the only alternative left her was to be a burden.

Perhaps it was perfectly fitting, as that was how her existence had begun—as a burden.

She squeezed her eyes closed so tightly they ached, and the pain proved greater than the sting of sadness that had brought the tears, and those drops faded.

“Second thoughts?”

Andrew’s gruffly spoken question came with a trace of reluctance, like one who resented or regretted having to speak to her.

She gave her head a slight shake.

The springs of his bench squeaked slightly as he shifted, moving nearer.

She felt his nearness, his broad, powerful form shrinking the space of the carriage.

“It’s all right if you do,” he persisted with a greater gentleness that brought tears threatening once more as it occurred to her how very desperate he must be to get her to relent… so that he could be free of her. Because even with this man whom she considered a friend, she was still the unwanted.

“It would be the wise decision,” he went on, and his knuckles came up to brush the curve of her cheek back and forth, a quixotic caress. His touch was tempting, and the words that continued coming were coaxing, but in a way that belied such a touch. “You’ve always been wise.”

Suddenly, her patience snapped.

Straightening, Marcia slapped his hand away. “I know what you are doing, Andrew.”

“And… what is that exactly?” He stared back at her, as wide-eyed and befuddled as he’d been that first time she’d come upon him in her father’s offices, wading through the place in search of spirits.