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She’d lost a chunk of her heart to him?

Suddenly, her heart resumed its beat: faster, harder, panicked.

She recoiled. What was this? She didn’tlovelove him. Not in that way. Not in the romantic kind of way.

“Marcia?” Andrew asked, the gentle concern slashing through her panicky musings.

“Hmm? Fine,” she blurted. Had he even asked if she was okay? “I’m just fine.” And God help her, she could not even manage to stop her ramblings. “That’s what you were wondering, were you not?”

He opened his mouth, but she couldn’t manage to let him get a word in edgewise.

“Or was it the other thing? The… the…”

“Marriage?” he supplied, and the right corner of his mouth kicked up in an uneven grin that wrought more havoc upon her heart. “I didn’t think I’d find another person who struggled to get that word out more than me,” he said dryly, misinterpreting the reason for her ramblings. Assuming it was because she, like he, abhorred marriage.

Hmph.

Yes, well, that should be a clear indication of the reason she should soundly reject his offer.

After all, it was hardly a promising beginning to accept the hand of a man who, by his own admission, couldn’t bring himself to speak the wordmarriage.

Andrew laughed, and the relieved-sounding expression of mirth brought her attention over to him.

“I knew you’d feel that way.” He lowered his head, touching his brow to hers.

She frowned. He’d misinterpreted her reaction, and worse, why was he so relieved? “Oh?”

“Because we’re friends, and I know you’re entirely too clever to wed a bounder like me.”

She should be miffed. Hell, she was.

She should remain annoyed with him.

But something in his tone—nay, in those words he’d chosen—gave her pause, tugging at her.

A bounder like me.

That was the light he saw himself in, as a bounder and not much more, when he was so much more.

She knew it because he was her friend. She knew it because she’d known him more years than she hadn’t.

Marcia caught one of his hands and slipped her fingers between his the same way she’d done when she’d measured the size of her hands against his larger ones when they’d been children. “You’re not a bounder, Andrew.”

He stared incredulously at her. “Marcia… I took you to Forbidden Pleasures and Cyprian’s Den. I took you to one of the most dangerous fighting rings.” Then something shifted in his eyes, a glint darkening in those blue depths that sent her belly aflutter. Andrew lowered his lips close to the shell of her ear, and a breathless giggle built in her throat at the way his breath tickled. “I nearly made love to you.”

Her breath hitched.

And there it was, voiced into existence that which had transpired—and what had almost transpired—between them just a few hours ago. “You… did?”

He gave a tight nod.

“I wanted you to,” she said softly.

He blanched, his features pulling, and nothing had the ability to douse a lady’s ardor quite like the horror in his expression.

Marcia folded her arms at her chest once more. “Idid. You are skilled in the art of seduction.” Even if somewhere, not that deep down, she’d wished it was more for him.

“I was not seducing you,” he said, slashing his hands in an upward-downward arc towards the floor. “You are the absolute last, the very last—”