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And when she was in his arms, everything was right.

Andrew deepened their kiss, even as he searched his other hand along her body, cupping her breast and stealing her breath with that tender but heady touch. And then he moved his search lower, to her waist and then her hip. Gripping her in a hold that was both gentle and possessive, he drew her against him, and she felt the hard ridge of his length.

She felt him and the magic of this most glorious moment, one like she’d never known and would never know again, and—

Then she felt nothing.

She cried out, dazed, as Andrew left her.

Or rather, as Andrew was ripped from her arms.

Blinking, she tried to make sense of what she was seeing—and then prayed she hadn’t.

Or wished she could pluck out her own eyes.

Or disappear.

Disappearing would be preferable.

Or being invisible.

Scrambling up, she pushed her skirts down past her knees with hands that shook.

“Bastard,” her father hissed. Catching Andrew by the front of his jacket, Marcus slammed him against the wall. Then, drawing his arm back, he punched Andrew square in the face.

“No!” she cried out, and even in the dimly lit room, she caught the streak of crimson that poured from Andrew’s nose.

Andrew staggered, but managed to keep on his feet. He gave his head a slight shake. “Deserved that,” he muttered, his voice sounding thick and garbled.

“No, you didn’t!” she cried and looked desperately to her father. “He didn’t,” she said more insistently.

“Damned right you did, Waters.” Her father buried a fist in Andrew’s stomach; this one managed to knock him down.

Oh, God. This was her fault. She’d all but coerced Andrew into bringing her with him and had begged for a kiss he’d been hesitant to give.

Terror for him and the need to protect him from further pain overwhelmed her mortification as she found her feet and flew across the room.

She caught her father’s arm just as he would have leveled another blow. “Stop,” she pleaded, and when that didn’t penetrate, she firmed her voice with a hard resolve. “I said stop, Papa.”

Her father blinked, and then as if he’d been burned, he yanked his hands off of Andrew and flexed his fingers several times.

Andrew struggled—and failed—to get to his feet.

Releasing her father’s arm, Marcia raced around him and sank to the floor beside Andrew. “It isn’t his fault.” Oh, God. It was all hers.

“Get away from him this instant,” her father thundered.

“I asked him to take me here.” She’d begged him and was responsible for all of this. “I pleaded with him to kiss—”

“Marcia, no,” Andrew said sharply, denying her the rest of that admission. “Go. Just leave.”

As he stood, she searched her eyes over his face, attempting to make sense of what he was feeling.

He should hate her.

She deserved that.

Alas, Andrew had always been a better man than either he or the world had given him credit for. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.