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The other man might suspect she would, but Andrew knew Marcia was a woman who knew her own mind. He knew her to be clever and logical and far too smart for a chap like him.

“And if she doesn’t?” he asked. “What then?”

“Then, it is your responsibility to convince her,” Rutland said quietly. “You are a man, and it is time that you either flounder or flourish.”

For the first time in a very long time, Andrew felt a kindling of hope for his future.

A short while later, after his brothers-in-law had taken their leave, Andrew found himself in a hall in the Viscount and Viscountess Wessex’s townhouse.

His gut churned.

Every muscle in his being knotted.

He was going to do the last thing in the world he should—ask a respectable young lady to marry him. He saw the truth in Rutland and Huntly’s insistence. Hell, he’d known as much himself. Whatever he thought about the institution of marriage, and whatever he knew to be his own failings, he also knew that he’d not leave Marcia without the benefit of his name—tattered though it may be. It still ensured her protection and secured her future.

An odd peace settled in his chest.

This was right.

A small figure stepped out at the end of the corridor. He was a serious-looking little fellow. Lionel Gray. “Did you hurt my sister, Waters?”

Andrew touched a hand to his chest. “I thought we were on a first-name basis, Lionel.”

The little boy puckered his brow. “Well, we can be. If you promise you didn’t hurt my sister.”

“I…”

“Andrew did not hurt me.” That announcement came from just beyond his shoulder, and he looked over.

At some point, Marcia had joined them.

He’d expected her to be pale and have swollen eyes.

Instead, she wore the same easy smile she always did around him. Some of the pressure lifted from his chest, and he found himself grinning.

“You are here,” she said softly, surprise contained within those three words.

Andrew frowned. “Did you expect I would not be?”

He deserved those doubts, and yet, for some reason, knowing she had doubted him chafed.

Chapter 15

Marcia had known Andrew Barrett, the Viscount Waters, since she’d been a small girl, and he’d been a young man still in university.

Over the years, she’d come to know him all the more.

It was why she knew in that moment that her question had hurt him, and knowing she’d hurt him felt like a physical pain to her.

He’d come to see her.

She’d known he would.

Upon her return a few hours ago with her father, she’d gone to her rooms, bathed, and changed into new garments, forgoing a night shift for a dress. She’d been waiting for his arrival, standing at her window and observing the streets.

When the sun had crept into the sky, and night had surrendered its hold to morning, and he’d still not been there, she’d not despaired.

She’d known he was coming.