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Marianne had always possessed the ability to ferret out any weakness.

“I know everything. Everything. I confess… to some curiosity.”

He stalked over. “If you’ll not move, I’ll do it for you.”

Her eyes glittered. “Do it,” she rasped. “I would like you to, you know.” With that, she raced over and crawled onto the bed. Flipping onto her back, she yanked her skirts up, revealing herself to him. “Take me, Andrew. You know you—”

With a sound of disgust, Andrew raced from the room.

“Andrew!” she cried as he let himself out “Don’t leave—”

The remainder of her pleas fell forgotten on deaf ears as he bolted for the next corridor, searching for Marcia.

Where in hell could she be?

Rushing through halls of Cyprian’s Den, the muted laughter from the gaming hell floor filled Marcia’s ears, coupled with the quiet thud of her slippered footfalls.

She continued on, breathless, her lungs burning, and her side aching as she raced on until there was no sound. And only silence.

Slowing her frantic steps, Marcia pressed her ear against the panel, and detecting only silence, she let herself in.

The moment she’d closed the door behind her, Marica’s entire body dropped, her shoulders sagging, and she folded her arms around her middle, holding herself tightly and struggling to steady the uneven rhythm of her breath.

There would be no escaping him.

Because escaping him would require that Marcia herself escape, and there was no cutting herself free. There was no disentangling herself from the blood that flowed in her veins or the origins of her birth. She was crafted of evil, and that truth would remain forever unchanged.

And then, as if she’d conjured him of her own thoughts, the door opened, and she stared blankly at him.

The Marquess of Atbrooke. The man who’d raped her mother and sired Marcia.

Of course, he’d found her.

Pushing the door shut behind him, he smiled at Marcia. “Hullo, my dear. It’s been… years. Too many.”

She recalled that first meeting: back when she’d been innocent and he’d come to call on her mother, and Marcia had smiled and chatted with him as though he were nothing more than a kindly gentleman.

“How did—?” Marcia stopped herself from completing that question.

He answered anyway. “How did I know it was you? I’ve been watching your townhouse, my dear.”

Oh, God.

He’d been lurking outside her home. The place where her mother lived.

“Worry not. I have no designs upon your mother. Anymore,” he added, and the bile climbed her throat. “I was hoping to catch a glimpse of you, my dearest daughter.” He flared his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Imagine my shock when I saw you sneak out for the first time. As any good father would do, I’ve since made sure to watch after you when you go out.”

Dearest daughter.

That was what she was.

“I’mnotyour daughter,” she said, her voice thick. “I have a father. You are not he.”

He slapped a hand over his heart. “Ah, but you wound me, child of my loins. I am, after all, the one who knows about your new proclivities, while dearest Lord Wessex remains wholly in the dark.”

Fury stole across her vision. “Do not speak so of him. You are not fit to speak his name.”

His features formed a mask of wounded affront. “I’m merely speaking the truth. And I find it endearing that you and I should enjoy the same pastimes.”