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She wanted to believe him, but wondered if he even believed that assurance or whether he’d sought to convince himself.

“Of course,” she murmured and stared after him as he hastened off, slipping out of the vestibule to go meet the servant.

The servant was now speaking with Lord Stormont, who she could tell, even through the tiny slit in the door and distance between them, appeared to pale.

Her father reached the pair and said something to the men. As the footman handed him a note, Marcia looked away.

Then, Marcus released a black curse, one that made her ears go hot, and she looked through the crack in the door at the man who’d been a father to her in every way but by blood. She found his stare on her.

His cheeks had gone even more wan than Lord Stormont’s.

She curled her toes sharply against the soles of her diamond-encrusted silver slippers.

She caught the sides of her white satin gown, the neckline adorned with the same jewels that were on her footwear, and crushed the fabric, knowing she was hopelessly wrinkling her wedding dress.

Also knowing it mattered not at all, because there’d be no wedding.

This day oranyday.

Her father returned. “Marcia,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “I am so sorry. Thornton is not coming. There will be no wedding.”

She’d gathered as much, but hearing her papa speak those words aloud added a realness to them that hit her like a kick to the belly, and she doubled over from the pain of it.

An agonized groan split the quiet of the vestibule. Was it hers or her father’s?

Mayhap it had come from the both of them.

It was deuced confusing trying to sort through the buzzing in her ears.

Marcia raised tear-filled eyes to her father’s. The crystalline sheen that hazed her vision made his face a blur. “Take me out of here, Papa,” she pleaded.

“Of course,” he said hoarsely, and then, like the hero of a father he’d always been, he caught her by the arm and proceeded to guide her out.

Her breathing grew more and more shallow as she at last gave life to the reality of what had happened this day.

What her betrothed had done.

The betrothed who’d loved her.

Who’d vowed to keep her safe and fill her every days with laughter and to always be the reason she smiled.

Who’d promised there wouldn’t even be a need for him to wipe away her tears, because he’d allow her to know only happiness.

A strangled half laugh bubbled past her lips, and she caught the miserable sound with her hand.

She was aware of her father quickening the pace he’d set for them.

Then they were at the carriage, and he was handing her up and promising to return and shutting the door with a firm click.

At last, Marcia was alone.

She remained seated on the red velvet squabs of her parents’ gleaming black carriage and stared unblinkingly at the tufted bench opposite her.

She’d taken the ride to the church in this carriage just an hour ago, though it seemed forty years ago. As the vehicle had rolled through the crowded London streets, she’d reflected on the fact that it was the last time she’d ever make a journey in her family’s carriage. At least as an unwed woman. For when the ceremony concluded, she’d be handed up into another conveyance by another man.

Marcia’s eyes slid shut. In the gardens on the night of her betrothal ball, she had almost kissed Andrew Barrett, the Viscount Waters.

Andrew was a notorious rake, of course, but also a gentleman, whom she’d known since her arrival in London when she’d been a small girl.