Just Like Heaven

Chapter Eighteen

The truth was, Marcus thought as he sat in his study in his London home, he knew very little about courting young ladies. He knew a great deal about avoiding them, and perhaps even more about avoiding their mothers. He also knew quite a lot about discreetly investigating other men who were courting young ladies (more specifically, Honoria), and most of all he knew how to be quietly menacing while he convinced them to abandon their pursuit.

But as for himself, he had not a clue.

Flowers? He’d seen other men with flowers. Women liked flowers. Hell, he liked flowers, too. Who didn’t like flowers?

He thought he might like to find some of the grape hyacinths that reminded him of Honoria’s eyes, but they were small blooms, and he didn’t think they would work well in a bouquet. And furthermore, was he supposed to hand them to her and tell her that they reminded him of her eyes? Because then he would have to explain that he was talking about a very specific part of the flower, at the bottom of the petal, right near the stem.

He could not imagine anything that might make him feel more foolish.

And the final problem with flowers was that he had never given them to her before. She would be immediately curious, and then suspicious, and if she did not return his feelings (and he had no particular reason to suppose that she did), then he’d be stuck there in her drawing room, looking like a complete ass.

All things considered, this was a scenario he’d rather avoid.

Safer to court her in public, he decided. Lady Bridgerton was hosting a birthday ball the next day, and he knew that Honoria would attend. Even if she didn’t want to, she would still go. There would be far too many eligible bachelors in attendance for her to decline. This included Gregory Bridgerton, about whom Marcus had revised his opinion—he was far too wet behind the ears to take a wife. If Honoria decided that she was interested in the young Mr.

Bridgerton after all, Marcus was going to have to intercede.

In his usual quiet and behind-the-scenes manner, of course. But still, it was another reason why he needed to be in attendance.

He looked down at his desk. On the left was an engraved invitation to Bridgerton House. On the right was the note Honoria had left for him at Fensmore when she’d departed the week before.

It was a stunningly nondescript missive. A salutation, a signature, two ordinary sentences in between. There was nothing that might indicate that a life had been saved, a kiss had occurred, a treacle tart had been stolen. . . .

It was the sort of note one wrote when one wished to thank a hostess for a perfectly correct and polite garden party. It was not the sort one wrote to someone one might consider marrying.

Because that was what he intended. As soon as Daniel got his bloody arse back to England, he was going to ask him for her hand.

But until then, he had to court her himself.

Hence his dilemma.

He sighed. Some men knew instinctively how to talk to women.

It would have been very convenient to have been one of those men.

But he wasn’t. Instead, he was a man who knew only how to talk to Honoria. And lately even that wasn’t working out so well for him.

Thus, the next night, he found himself in one of his least favorite places on earth: A London ballroom.

He assumed his usual position, off to the side, his back to the wall, where he could watch the proceedings and pretend he didn’t care. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he was inordinately fortunate not to have been born female. The young lady to his left was a wallflower; he got to be dark, standoffish, and brooding.

The party was a mad crush—Lady Bridgerton was immensely popular—and Marcus couldn’t tell if Honoria was there or not. He didn’t see her, but then again he also couldn’t see the door through which he himself had entered. How anyone expected to have a fine time amidst so much heat and sweat and crowding he would never know.

He stole another glance at the young lady next to him. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. She was perhaps not quite in the first blush of youth, but he doubted she was much older than he was. She sighed, the sound long and weary, and he could not help but think that he was standing next to a kindred spirit. She, too, was glancing over the crowd, trying to pretend that she was not searching for someone in particular.

He thought about saying good evening, or perhaps asking if she knew Honoria and, if so, had she seen her. But just before he turned to greet her, she turned in the opposite direction, and he could have sworn he heard her mutter, “Blast it all, I’m getting an йclair."

She drifted off, weaving her way through the crowds. Marcus watched her with interest; she seemed to know exactly where she was going. Which meant that if he’d heard her correctly . . .

She knew where one could get an йclair.

He immediately took off after her. If he was going to be stuck here in this ballroom without even seeing Honoria, who was the only reason he’d subjected himself to this crush, he was damned well going to get dessert.

He’d long since perfected the art of moving with purpose, even when he had no particular aim or goal, and he managed to avoid unnecessary conversations simply by keeping his chin high and his gaze sharp and above the crowd.

Until something struck him in the leg. Ouch. “And what’s that face for, Chatteris?” came an imperious female voice. “I barely touched you."

He held himself still, because he knew that voice, and he knew there was no escaping it. With a small smile, he looked down into the wrinkled face of Lady Danbury, who had been terrifying the British Isles since the time of the Restoration.

Or so it seemed. She was his mother’s great-aunt, and he would swear she was a hundred years old.

“An injury to my leg, my lady,” he said, giving her his most respectful bow.

She thumped her weapon (others might call it a cane, but he knew better) against the floor. “Fell off your horse?"

“No, I—"

“Tripped down the stairs? Dropped a bottle on your foot?” Her expression grew sly. “Or does it involve a woman?"

He fought the urge to cross his arms. She was looking up at him with a bit of a smirk. She liked poking fun at her companions; she’d once told him that the best part of growing old was that she could say anything she wanted with impunity.

He leaned down and said with great gravity, “Actually, I was stabbed by my valet.” It was, perhaps, the only time in his life he’d managed to stun her into silence.

Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wide, and he would have liked to have thought that she even went pale, but her skin had such an odd tone to begin with that it was hard to say. Then, after a moment of shock, she let out a bark of laughter and said, “No, really. What happened?” “Exactly as I said. I was stabbed.” He waited a moment, then added, “If we weren’t in the middle of a ballroom, I’d show you."

“You don’t say?” Now she was really interested. She leaned in, eyes alight with macabre curiosity. “Is it gruesome?"

“It was,” he confirmed.

She pressed her lips together, and her eyes narrowed as she asked, “And where is your valet now?"

“At Chatteris House, likely nicking a glass of my best brandy."

She let out another one of her staccato barks of laughter. “You have always amused me,” she pronounced. “I do believe you are my second favorite nephew."

He could think of no reply other than “Really?"

“You know that most people find you humorless, don’t you?"

“You do like to be blunt,” he murmured.

She shrugged. “You’re my great-great-nephew. I can be as blunt as I wish."

“Consanguinity has never seemed to be one of your prerequisites for plain speaking."

“Touchй,” she returned, giving him a single nod of approval. “I was merely pointing out that you are quite stealthy in your good humor. This I applaud wholeheartedly.” “I am aquiver with glee."

She wagged a finger at him. “This is precisely what I am talking about. You’re really quite amusing, not that you let anyone see it."

He thought about Honoria. He could make her laugh. It was the loveliest sound he knew.

“Well,” Lady Danbury declared, thumping her cane, “enough of that. Why are you here?"

“I believe I was invited.” “Oh, pish. You hate these things."

He gave her a little shrug.

“Watching out for that Smythe-Smith girl, I imagine,” she said.

He’d been looking over her shoulder, trying to locate the йclairs, but at that, he turned sharply back.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a dismissive roll of her eyes.

“I’m not going to set it about that you’re interested in her. She’s one of the ones with a violin, isn’t she? Good heavens, you’d go deaf in a week."

He opened his mouth to defend Honoria, to say that she was very much in on the joke, except it occurred to him that it wasn’t a joke to her. She knew perfectly well that the quartet was awful, but she carried on because it was important to her family. That she could take her place on the stage and pretend that she thought she was a virtuoso violinist—it took tremendous courage.

And love.

She loved so deeply, and all he could think was—I want that. “You’ve always been close with that family,” Lady Danbury said, breaking into his thoughts.

He blinked, needing a moment to return to the present conversation. “Yes,” he finally said. “I went to school with her brother."

“Oh, yes,” she said, sighing. “What a farce that was. That boy should never have been chased out of the country. I’ve always said Ramsgate was an ass.” He stared at her in shock.

“As you said,” she said pertly, “consanguinity has never been a prerequisite for blunt speaking."

“Apparently not."

“Oh, look, there she is,” Lady Danbury commented. She tipped her head to the right, and Marcus followed her gaze to Honoria, who was chatting with two other young ladies he could not identify from a distance. She didn’t see him yet, and he took advantage of the moment to drink in the sight of her. Her hair looked different; he could not pinpoint what she’d done to it—he never had understood the finer points of female coiffure—but he thought it was lovely.

Everything about her was lovely. Maybe he should have thought of some other, more poetic way to describe her, but sometimes the most simple words were the most heartfelt.

She was lovely. And he ached for her.

“You do love her,” Lady Danbury breathed.

He whipped around. “What are you talking about?"

“It’s written all over your face, trite as the expression may be.

Oh, go ahead and ask her to dance,” she said, lifting her cane and motioning with it toward Honoria. “You could do a great deal worse."

He paused. With Lady Danbury it was difficult to know how to interpret even the most simple of sentences. Not to mention that she still had her cane elevated. One could never be too careful when that cane was in motion.

“Go, go,” she urged. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find some other poor unsuspecting fool to torture. And yes, before you feel the need to protest, I did just call you a fool."

“That, I think, may be the one privilege that consanguinity does allow."

She cackled with delight. “You are a prince among nephews,"

she proclaimed.

“Your second favorite,” he murmured.

“You’ll rise to the top of the list if you find a way to destroy her violin."

Marcus shouldn’t have laughed, but he did.

“It’s a curse, really,” Lady Danbury said. “I’m the only person I know my age who has perfect hearing.” “Most would call that a blessing."

She snorted. “Not with that musicale looming over the horizon."

“Why do you attend?” he asked. “You’re not particularly close with the family. You could easily decline."

She sighed, and for a moment her eyes grew soft. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Someone needs to clap for those poor things."

He watched as her face changed back to its normal, unsentimental visage. “You’re a nicer person than you let on,” he said, smiling.

“Don’t tell anyone. Hmmph.” She thumped her cane. “I’m through with you."

He bowed with all the respect due a terrifying great-great-aunt and made his way toward Honoria. She was dressed in the palest of blue, her gown a frothy confection that he couldn’t possibly describe except that it left her shoulders bare, which he decided he approved of, very much.

“Lady Honoria,” he said once he reached her side. She turned, and he bowed politely.

A flash of happiness lit her eyes and then she gave a polite bob, murmuring, “Lord Chatteris, how lovely to see you.” This was why he hated these things. Her entire life she’d called him by his given name, but put her in a London ballroom and suddenly he was Lord Chatteris.

“You remember Miss Royle, of course,” Honoria said, motioning to the young lady on her right, who was dressed in a darker shade of blue. “And my cousin, Lady Sarah."

“Miss Royle, Lady Sarah.” He bowed to each in turn.

“What a surprise to see you here,” Honoria said.

“A surprise?"

“I had not thought—” She cut herself off, and her cheeks turned curiously pink. “It’s nothing,” she said, quite obviously lying. But he could not press her on it in so public a venue, so instead he said the staggeringly insightful and interesting, “It’s quite a crush this evening, wouldn’t you say?"

“Oh, yes,” the three ladies murmured, with varying degrees of volume. One of them might have even said, “Indeed.” There was a little lull, and then Honoria blurted, “Have you heard anything more from Daniel?"

“I have not,” he replied. “I hope this means that he has already begun his return journey.” “So then you don’t know when he will be back,” she said.

“No,” he replied. Curious. He would have thought that was clear from his previous statement.

“I see,” she said, and then she put on one of those I’m-smiling- because-I-have-nothing-to-say smiles. Which was even more curious.

“I’m sure you cannot wait for him to return,” she said, once several seconds had passed without anyone contributing to the conversation.

It was obvious there was a subtext to her statements, but he had no clue what it was. Certainly not his subtext, which was that he was waiting for her brother to return so that he might ask for his permission to marry her.

“I’m looking forward to seeing him, yes,” he murmured.

“As are we all,” Miss Royle said.

“Oh, yes,” chimed in Honoria’s heretofore silent cousin.

There was another long pause, then Marcus turned to Honoria and said, “I hope you will save me a dance."

“Of course,” she said, and he thought she looked pleased, but he was finding it uncommonly difficult to read her this evening.

The other two ladies stood there, utterly still, eyes large and unblinking. It brought to mind a pair of ostriches, actually, and then Marcus realized what was expected of him. “I hope you will all three save dances for me,” he said politely.

Dance cards were immediately brought forth. A minuet was assigned to Miss Royle, a country dance for Lady Sarah, and for Honoria he claimed a waltz. Let gossipmongers do with it what they would. It wasn’t as if he’d never waltzed with her before.

Once the dances had been sorted out, they stood there again, a silent little quartet (all quartets should be so silent, Marcus thought), until Honoria’s cousin cleared her throat and said, “Actually, I think the dancing is beginning right now.” Which meant that it was time for the minuet.

Miss Royle looked over at him and beamed. Belatedly he remembered that her mother had a mind to pair the two of them up.

Honoria looked over at him as if to say—Be very afraid.

And all he could think was—Damn it, I never got one of those éclairs.

“He likes you,” Sarah said, the moment Marcus and Cecily headed off for their minuet.

“What?” Honoria asked. She had to blink. Her eyes had become unfocused from staring at Marcus’s back as he’d walked away.

“He likes you,” Sarah said.

“What are you talking about, of course he does. We have been friends forever.” Well, that was not quite true. They had known each other forever. They had become friends—true friends—quite recently.

“No, he likes you,” Sarah said, with great exaggeration.

“What?” Honoria said again, because clearly she’d been reduced to idiocy. “Oh. No. No, of course not."

But still, her heart leapt.

Sarah shook her head slowly, as if coming to a realization even as she spoke. “Cecily told me she suspected it, back when the two of you went to check on him at Fensmore after he was caught out in the rain, but I thought she was imagining things."

“You should pay attention to your first inclinations,” Honoria said briskly.

Sarah scoffed at that. “Didn’t you see the way he was staring at you?"

Honoria, practically begging to be contradicted, said, “He wasn’t staring at me."

“Oh, yes he was,” Sarah countered. “Oh, and by the way, in case you were worried, I am not interested in him myself."

Honoria could only blink.

“Back at the Royles’,” Sarah reminded her, “when I was pondering the possibility that he might fall rather quickly in love with me?"

“Oh, right,” Honoria recalled, trying not to notice how her stomach turned to acid at the thought of Marcus falling in love with someone else. She cleared her throat. “I’d forgotten."

Sarah shrugged. “It was a desperate hope.” She looked out over the crowd, murmuring, “I wonder if there are any gentlemen here who might be willing to marry me before Wednesday.” “Sarah!"

“I’m joking. Good heavens, you should know that.” And then she said, “He’s looking at you again."

“What?” Honoria actually jumped in surprise. “No, he can’t be.

He’s dancing with Cecily.” “He’s dancing with Cecily and looking at you,” Sarah replied, sounding rather satisfied with her assessment.

Honoria would have liked to have thought that that meant he cared, but after having read Daniel’s letter, she knew better. “It’s not because he cares for me,” she said, shaking her head.

“Really?” Sarah looked as if she might cross her arms. “Then what, pray tell, is it?"

Honoria swallowed, then looked furtively about. “Can you keep a secret?"

“Of course."

“Daniel asked him to ‘watch over me’ while he is gone."

Sarah was unimpressed. “Why is that a secret?” “It’s not, I suppose. Well, yes, it is. Because no one told me about it."

“Then how do you know?"

Honoria felt her cheeks grow warm. “I might have read something I wasn’t meant to,” she muttered.

Sarah’s eyes grew wide. “Really?” she said, leaning in. “That is so unlike you."

“It was a moment of weakness."

“One you now regret?” Honoria thought about that for a moment. “No,” she admitted.

“Honoria Smythe-Smith,” Sarah said, positively grinning, “I am so proud of you."

“I would ask why,” Honoria replied warily, “but I’m not sure I want to know the answer."

“This is probably the most improper thing you’ve ever done."

“That’s not true."

“Oh, perhaps you forgot to tell me about the time you ran naked through Hyde Park?"

“Sarah!"

Sarah chuckled. “Everybody has read something they weren’t meant to at some point in their lives. I’m just glad you have finally chosen to join the rest of humanity."

“I’m not so stiff and proper,” Honoria protested.

“Of course not. But I wouldn’t call you adventurous."

“I wouldn’t call you adventurous either.” “No.” Sarah’s shoulders drooped. “I’m not."

They stood there for a moment, a little bit sad, a little bit reflective. “Well,” Honoria said, trying to inject a note of levity back into the air, “you’re not going to run naked through Hyde Park, are you?"

“Not without you,” Sarah said slyly.

Honoria laughed at that, then impulsively put her arm around her cousin’s shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “I love you, you know that.” “Of course I do,” Sarah replied.

Honoria waited.

“Oh, yes, and I love you, too,” Sarah said.

Honoria smiled, and for a moment all felt right with the world.

Or if not right, then at least normal. She was in London, at a ball, standing next to her favorite cousin. Nothing could have been more ordinary. She tilted her head a bit to the side, gazing out over the crowd. The minuet really was a lovely dance to watch, so stately and graceful. And maybe it was Honoria’s imagination, but it seemed as if the ladies were dressed in similar colors—shimmering across the dance floor in blues, greens, and silvers.

“It almost looks like a music box,” she murmured.

“It does,” Sarah agreed, then spoiled the moment by saying, “I hate the minuet."

“You do?"

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know why.” Honoria kept looking out at the dancers. How many times had they stood this way together, she and Sarah? Side by side, both staring off at the crowd as they carried on a conversation without ever once looking at each other. They didn’t really need to; they knew each other so well that facial expressions were not necessary to know what the other was feeling.

Marcus and Cecily finally came into view, and Honoria watched as they stepped forward and back. “Do you think Cecily Royle is setting her cap for Marcus?” she asked.

“Do you?” Sarah countered.

Honoria kept her eyes on Marcus’s feet. He was really quite graceful for such a large man. “I don’t know,” she murmured.

“Do you care?"

Honoria thought for a moment about how much of her feelings she was willing to share. “I believe I do,” she finally said.

“It won’t matter if she does,” Sarah replied. “He’s not interested in her."

“I know,” Honoria said softly, “but I don’t think he’s interested in me, either."

“Just you wait,” Sarah said, finally turning to look her in the eye.

“Just you wait.”

An hour or so later, Honoria was standing by an empty platter at the dessert table, congratulating herself for having captured the last йclair, when Marcus came to claim his waltz.

“Did you get one?” she asked him.

“Get what?” “An йclair. They were heavenly. Oh.” She tried not to smile.

“I’m sorry. From your expression I can see that you did not.” “I have been trying to get over here all evening,” he admitted.

“There might be more,” she said, in her best imitation of optimism.

He looked at her with a single raised brow.

“But probably not,” she said. “I’m terribly sorry. Perhaps we can ask Lady Bridgerton where she got them. Or”—she tried to look devious—“if her own chef made them, perhaps we can hire him away."

He smiled. “Or we could dance.” “Or we could dance,” she agreed happily. She placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her toward the center of the ballroom. They had danced before, even the waltz once or twice, but this felt different. Even before the music began, she felt as if she were gliding, moving effortlessly across the polished wooden floor.

And when his hand came to rest at the small of her back, and she looked up into his eyes, something hot and liquid began to unravel within her.

She was weightless. She was breathless. She felt hungry, needy.

She wanted something she could not define, and she wanted it with an intensity that should have scared her.

But it didn’t. Not with Marcus’s hand at her back. In his arms she felt safe, even as her own body whipped itself up into a frenzy.

The heat from his skin seeped through her clothing like nourishment, a heady brew that made her want to rise to her tiptoes and then take off in flight.

She wanted him. It came to her in an instant. This was desire.

No wonder girls ruined themselves. She had heard of girls who’d “made mistakes.” People whispered that they were wanton, that they had been led astray. Honoria had never quite understood it. Why would someone throw away a lifetime of security for a single night of passion?

Now she knew. And she wanted to do the same thing.

“Honoria?” Marcus’s voice drifted down to her ears like falling stars.

She looked up and saw him gazing at her curiously. The music had begun but she had not moved her feet.

He cocked his head to the side, as if to ask her a question. But he didn’t need to speak, and she didn’t need to answer. Instead, she squeezed his hand, and they began to dance.

The music dipped and swelled, and Honoria followed Marcus’s lead, never taking her eyes off his face. The music lifted her, carried her, and for the first time in her life, she felt as if she understood what it meant to dance. Her feet moved in perfect time to the waltz —one-two-three one-two-three—and her heart soared.

She felt the violins through her skin. The woodwinds tickled her nose. She became one with the music, and when it was done, when they pulled apart, and she curtsied to his bow, she felt bereft.

“Honoria?” Marcus asked softly. He looked concerned. And not whatever-can-I-do-to-make-her-adore-me concerned. No, it was definitely more along the lines of Dear-God-she’s-going-to- be-ill. He did not look like a man in love. He looked like a man who was concerned that he was standing next to someone with a nasty stomach ailment.

She had danced with him and felt utterly transformed. She, who could not carry a tune or tap her feet to a rhythm, had become magic in his arms. The dance had been just like heaven, and it killed her that he had not felt the same way.

He couldn’t have done. She could barely stand, and he just looked . . .

Like himself.

The same old Marcus, who saw her as a burden. A not wholly unpleasant burden, but a burden nonetheless. She knew why he could not wait for Daniel to return to England. It meant he could depart London and go back to the country, where he was happier.

It meant he would be free.

He said her name again, and she somehow managed to pull herself from her daze. “Marcus,” she said abruptly, “why are you here?” For a moment he stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “I was invited,” he replied, a little indignantly.

“No.” Her head hurt, and she wanted to rub her eyes, and most of all, she wanted to cry. “Not here at this ball, here in London."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why do you ask?"

“Because you hate London.” He adjusted his cravat. “Well, I don’t hate—” “You hate the season,” she cut in. “You told me so.” He started to say something, then stopped after half a syllable.

That was when Honoria remembered—he was a terrible liar. He always had been. When they were children, he and Daniel had once pulled an entire chandelier from the ceiling. To this day, Honoria still wondered how they’d done it. When Lady Winstead had demanded that they confess, Daniel had lied right to her face, and so charmingly that Honoria could see that their mother had not been sure if he was telling the truth.

Marcus, on the other hand, had gone a bit red in his cheeks, and he’d tugged at his collar as if his neck was itchy.

Just as he was doing right now.

“I have . . . responsibilities here,” he said awkwardly.

Responsibilities.

“I see,” she said, almost choking on the words.

“Honoria, are you all right?"

“I’m fine,” she snapped, and she hated herself for being so short of temper. It wasn’t his fault that Daniel had burdened him with, well, her. It wasn’t even his fault for accepting. Any gentleman would have done so.

Marcus held still, but his eyes flitted to either side, almost as if he was looking for some explanation as to why she was behaving so strangely. “You’re angry . . .” he said, a little bit placatingly, maybe even condescendingly.

“I’m not angry,” she bit off.

Most people would have retorted that she sounded angry, but Marcus just looked at her in that annoyingly self-composed manner of his.

“I’m not angry,” she muttered, because his silence practically demanded that she say something.

“Of course not.” Her head snapped up. That had been patronizing. The rest she might have been imagining, but not this.

He said nothing. He wouldn’t. Marcus would never make a scene.

“I don’t feel well,” she blurted out. That, at least, was true. Her head hurt and she was overheated and off-balance and all she wanted was to just go home and crawl into bed and pull her covers over her face.

“I will take you to get some air,” he said stiffly, and he put his hand at her back to lead her to the French doors that opened onto the garden.

“No,” she said, and the word burst forth overly loud and dissonant. “I mean, no, thank you.” She swallowed. “I believe I will go home."

He gave a nod. “I will find your mother.” “I’ll do it."

“I’m happy to—"

“I can do things for myself,” she burst out. Dear God, she hated the sound of her own voice. She knew it was time to shut up. She couldn’t seem to say the right words. And she couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t need to be your responsibility."

“What are you talking about?"

She couldn’t possibly answer that question, so instead she said, “I want to go home."

He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, then gave her a stiff bow. “As you wish,” he said, and he walked away.

So she went home. As she wished. She’d got exactly what she’d asked for.

And it was awful.