Just Like Heaven

Chapter Two

“When will he be here?"

“I don’t know,” Honoria replied, for what must have been the seventh time. She smiled politely at the other young ladies in the Royles’ green and gray drawing room. Marcus’s appearance the day before had been discussed, dissected, analyzed, and—by Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, Honoria’s cousin and one of her closest friends —rendered into poetry.

“He came in the rain,” Sarah intoned. “The day had been plain."

Honoria nearly spit out her tea.

“It was muddy, this lane—” Cecily Royle smiled slyly over her teacup. “Have you considered free verse?"

“—our heroine, in pain—"

“I was cold,” Honoria put in.

Iris Smythe-Smith, another of Honoria’s cousins, looked up with her signature dry expression. “I am in pain,” she stated.

“Specifically, my ears."

Honoria shot Iris a look that said clearly, Be polite. Iris just shrugged.

“—her distress, she did feign—” “Not true!” Honoria protested.

“You can’t interfere with genius,” Iris said sweetly.

“—her schemes, not in vain—"

“This poem is devolving rapidly,” Honoria stated.

“I am beginning to enjoy it,” said Cecily.

“—her existence, a bane . . ."

Honoria let out a snort. “Oh, come now!"

“I think she’s doing an admirable job,” Iris said, “given the limitations of the rhyming structure.” She looked over at Sarah, who had gone quite suddenly silent. Iris cocked her head to the side; so did Honoria and Sarah.

Sarah’s lips were parted, and her left hand was still outstretched with great drama, but she appeared to have run out of words.

“Cane?” Cecily suggested. “Main?"

“Insane?” offered Iris.

“Any moment now,” Honoria said tartly, “if I’m trapped here much longer with you lot.” Sarah laughed and flopped down on the sofa. “The Earl of Chatteris,” she said with a sigh. “I shall never forgive you for not introducing us last year,” she said to Honoria.

“I did introduce you!"

“Well, then you should have done so twice,” Sarah added impishly, “to make it stick. I don’t think he said more than two words to me the whole season."

“He barely said more than two words to me,” Honoria replied.

Sarah tilted her head, her brows arching as if to say, Oh, really? “He’s not terribly social,” Honoria said.

“I think he’s handsome,” Cecily said.

“Do you?” Sarah asked. “I find him rather brooding."

“Brooding is handsome,” Cecily said firmly, before Honoria could offer an opinion.

“I am trapped in a bad novel,” Iris announced, to no one in particular.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sarah said to Honoria.

“When will he be here?"

“I do not know,” Honoria replied, for what was surely the eighth time. “He did not say."

“Impolite,” Cecily said, reaching for a biscuit.

“It’s his way,” Honoria said with a light shrug.

“This is what I find so interesting,” Cecily murmured, “that you know ‘his way.’ ” “They have known each other for decades,” Sarah said.

“Centuries.” “Sarah . . .” Honoria adored her cousin, she really did. Most of the time.

Sarah smiled slyly, her dark eyes alight with mischief. “He used to call her Bug."

“Sarah!” Honoria glared at her. She did not need it put about that she had once been likened to an insect by an earl of the realm.

“It was a long time ago,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. “I was seven."

“How old was he?” Iris asked.

Honoria thought for a moment. “Thirteen, most likely."

“Well, that explains it,” Cecily said with a wave of her hand.

“Boys are beasts."

Honoria nodded politely. Cecily had seven younger brothers.

She ought to know.

“Still,” Cecily said, all drama, “how coincidental that he should come across you on the street.” “Fortuitous,” Sarah agreed.

“Almost as if he were following you,” Cecily added, leaning forward with widened eyes.

“Now that is just silly,” Honoria said.

“Well, of course,” Cecily replied, her tone going right back to brisk and businesslike. “That would never happen. I was merely saying that it seemed as if he had."

“He lives nearby,” Honoria said, waving her hand in the direction of nothing in particular. She had a terrible sense of direction; she couldn’t have said which way was north if her life depended on it. And anyway, she had no idea which way one had to travel out of Cambridge to get to Fensmore in the first place.

“His estate adjoins ours,” Cecily said.

“It does?” This, from Sarah. With great interest.

“Or perhaps I should say it surrounds us,” Cecily said with a little laugh. “The man owns half of northern Cambridgeshire. I do believe his property touches Bricstan on the north, south, and west.” “And on the east?” Iris wondered. To Honoria she added, “It’s the logical next question."

Cecily blinked, considering this. “That would probably send you onto his land, as well. You can make your way out through a little section to the southeast. But then you would end up at the vicarage, so really, what would be the point?” “Is it far?” Sarah asked.

“Bricstan?” “No,” Sarah retorted, with no small measure of impatience.

“Fensmore.” “Oh. No, not really. We’re twenty miles away, so he would be only a little farther.” Cecily paused for a moment, thinking. “He might keep a town home here as well. I’m not sure.” The Royles were firm East Anglians, keeping a town home in Cambridge and a country home just a bit to the north. When they went to London, they rented.

“We should go,” Sarah said suddenly. “This weekend."

“Go?” Iris asked. “Where?” “To the country?” Cecily replied.

“Yes,” Sarah said, her voice rising with excitement. “It would extend our visit by only a few days, so surely our families could make no objection.” She turned slightly, sending her words directly toward Cecily. “Your mother can host a small house party. We can invite some of the university students. Surely they will be grateful for a respite from school life."

“I’ve heard the food there is very bad,” Iris said.

“It’s an interesting idea,” Cecily mused.

“It’s a spectacular idea,” Sarah said firmly. “Go ask your mother. Now, before Lord Chatteris arrives."

Honoria gasped. “Surely you don’t mean to invite him?” It had been lovely to see him the day before, but the last thing she wanted was to spend an entire house party in his company. If he attended, she could bid any hopes of attracting the attention of a young gentleman good-bye. Marcus had a way of glowering when he disapproved of her behavior. And his glowers had a way of scaring off every human being in the vicinity.

That he might not disapprove of her behavior never once crossed her mind.

“Of course not,” Sarah replied, turning to Honoria with a most impatient expression. “Why would he attend, when he can sleep in his own bed just down the road? But he will wish to visit, won’t he?

Perhaps come to supper, or for shooting."

It was Honoria’s opinion that if Marcus was trapped for an afternoon with this gaggle of females he’d likely start shooting at them. “It’s perfect,” Sarah insisted. “The younger gentlemen will be so much more likely to accept our invitation if they know Lord Chatteris will be there. They’ll want to make a good impression.

He’s very influential, you know."

“I thought you weren’t going to invite him,” Honoria said.

“I’m not. I mean—” Sarah motioned toward Cecily, who was, after all, the daughter of the one who would be doing the inviting.

“We’re not. But we can put it about that he is likely to call."

“He’ll appreciate that, I’m sure,” Honoria said dryly, not that anyone was listening.

“Who shall we invite?” Sarah asked, ignoring Honoria’s statement entirely. “It should be four gentlemen."

“Our numbers will be uneven when Lord Chatteris is about,"

Cecily pointed out.

“The better for us,” Sarah said firmly. “And we can’t very well invite only three and then have too many ladies when he is not here.” Honoria sighed. Her cousin was the definition of tenacious.

There was no arguing with Sarah when she had her heart set on something.

“I had better talk to my mother,” Cecily said, standing up.

“We’ll need to get to work immediately.” She left the room in a dramatic swish of pink muslin.

Honoria looked over at Iris, who surely recognized the madness that was about to ensue. But Iris just shrugged her shoulders and said, “It’s a good idea, actually."

“It’s why we came to Cambridge,” Sarah reminded them. “To meet gentlemen.” It was true. Mrs. Royle liked to talk about exposing young ladies to culture and education, but they all knew the truth: They had come to Cambridge for reasons that were purely social. When Mrs.

Royle had broached the idea to Honoria’s mother, she’d lamented that so many young gentlemen were still at Oxford or Cambridge at the beginning of the season and thus not in London where they should be, courting young ladies. Mrs. Royle had a supper planned for the next evening, but a house party away from town would be even more effective.

Nothing like trapping the gentlemen where they couldn’t get away.

Honoria supposed she was going to need to pen a letter to her mother, informing her that she would be in Cambridge a few extra days. She had a bad feeling about using Marcus as a lure to get other gentlemen to accept, but she knew she could not afford to dismiss such an opportunity. The university students were young— almost the same age as the four young ladies—but Honoria did not mind. Even if none were ready for marriage, surely some had older brothers? Or cousins. Or friends.

She sighed. She hated how calculated it all sounded, but what else was she to do?

“Gregory Bridgerton,” Sarah announced, her eyes positively aglow with triumph. “He would be perfect. Brilliantly well- connected. One of his sisters married a duke, and another an earl. And he’s in his final year, so perhaps he will be ready to marry soon.” Honoria looked up. She’d met Mr. Bridgerton several times, usually when he’d been dragged by his mother to one of the infamous Smythe-Smith musicales.

Honoria tried not to wince. The family’s annual musicale was never a good time to make the acquaintance of a gentleman, unless he was deaf. There was some argument within the family about who, precisely, had begun the tradition, but in 1807, four Smythe- Smith cousins had taken to the stage and butchered a perfectly innocent piece of music. Why they (or rather, their mothers) had thought it a good idea to repeat the massacre the following year Honoria would never know, but they had, and then the year after that, and the year after that.

It was understood that all Smythe-Smith daughters must take up a musical instrument and, when it was their turn, join the quartet.

Once in, she was stuck there until she found a husband. It was, Honoria had more than once reflected, as good an argument as any for an early marriage.

The strange thing was, most of her family didn’t seem to realize how awful they were. Her cousin Viola had performed in the quartet for six years and still spoke longingly of her days as a member. Honoria had half-expected her to leave her groom at the altar when she had married six months earlier, just so she could continue in her position as primary violinist.

The mind boggled.

Honoria and Sarah had been forced to assume their spots the year before, Honoria on the violin and Sarah on the piano. Poor Sarah was still traumatized by the experience. She was actually somewhat musical and had played her part accurately. Or so Honoria was told; it was difficult to hear anything above the violins.

Or the people gasping in the audience.

Sarah had sworn that she would never play with her cousins again. Honoria had just shrugged; she didn’t really mind the musicale—not terribly, at least. She actually thought the whole thing was a bit amusing. And besides, there was nothing she could do about it. It was family tradition, and there was nothing that mattered more to Honoria than family, nothing.

But now she had to get serious about her husband hunting, which meant she was going to have to find a gentleman with a tin ear. Or a very good sense of humor.

Gregory Bridgerton seemed to be an excellent candidate.

Honoria had no idea if he could carry a tune, but they had crossed paths two days earlier, when the four young ladies were out for tea in town, and she had been instantly struck by what a lovely smile he had.

She liked him. He was amazingly friendly and outgoing, and something about him reminded her of her own family, the way they used to be, gathered together at Whipple Hill, loud and boisterous and always laughing.

It was probably because he, too, was from a large family—the second youngest of eight. Honoria was the youngest of six, so surely they would have a great deal in common.

Gregory Bridgerton. Hmmm. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of him before. Honoria Bridgerton. Winifred Bridgerton. (She’d always wanted to name a child Winifred, so it seemed prudent to test this one out on the tongue as well.) Mr. Gregory and Lady Honor— “Honoria? Honoria!"

She blinked. Sarah was staring at her with visible irritation.

“Gregory Bridgerton?” she said. “Your opinion?"

“Er, I think he would be a very nice choice,” Honoria answered, in the most unassuming manner possible.

“Who else?” Sarah said, rising to her feet. “Perhaps I should make a list."

“For four names?” Honoria could not help but ask.

“You’re terribly determined,” Iris murmured.

“I have to be,” Sarah retorted, her dark eyes flashing.

“Do you really think you’re going to find a man and then marry him in the next two weeks?” Honoria asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sarah replied in a clipped voice.

Honoria glanced toward the open door to make sure that no one was approaching. “It’s just the three of us right now, Sarah."

“Does one have to play at the musicale if one is engaged?” Iris asked.

“Yes,” Honoria answered.

“No,” Sarah said firmly.

“Oh, yes, you do,” Honoria said.

Iris sighed.

“Don’t you complain,” Sarah said, turning on her with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t have to play last year."

“For which I am eternally grateful,” Iris told her. She was due to join the quartet this year on cello.

“You want to find a husband just as badly as I do,” Sarah said to Honoria.

“Not in the next two weeks! And not,” she added, with a bit more decorum, “merely to get out of playing in the musicale.” “I am not saying that I would marry someone awful,” Sarah said with a sniff. “But if Lord Chatteris just happened to fall desperately in love with me . . ."

“He’s not going to,” Honoria said baldly. Then, realizing how unkind that sounded, she added, “He’s not going to fall in love with anyone. Trust me."

“Love works in mysterious ways,” Sarah said. But she sounded more hopeful than certain.

“Even if Marcus did fall in love with you, which isn’t going to happen, not that it has anything to do with you, he’s just not the sort to fall in love with someone quickly.” Honoria paused, trying to remember where she had started her sentence because she was fairly certain she had not completed it.

Sarah crossed her arms. “Was there a point in there, hidden amid the insults?"

Honoria rolled her eyes. “Just that even if Marcus did fall in love with someone, he would do it in the most ordinary, regular manner."

“Is love ever ordinary?” Iris asked.

The statement was just philosophical enough to silence the room. But only for a moment.

“He would never rush a wedding,” Honoria continued, turning back to Sarah. “He hates drawing attention to himself. Hates it,” she repeated, because frankly, it bore repeating. “He’ll not get you out of the musicale, that is for certain."

For a few seconds Sarah stood still and straight, and then she sighed, her shoulders falling into a slump. “Maybe Gregory Bridgerton,” she said dejectedly. “He seems like he might be a romantic."

“Enough to elope?” Iris asked.

“No one is eloping!” Honoria exclaimed. “And you are all playing in the musicale next month."

Sarah and Iris stared at her with identical expressions—two parts surprise and one part indignation. With a healthy dash of dread.

“Well, you are,” Honoria muttered. “We all are. It’s our duty."

“Our duty,” Sarah repeated. “To play terrible music?"

Honoria stared at her. “Yes."

Iris burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Sarah said.

Iris wiped her eyes. “But it is."

“It won’t be,” Sarah warned, “once you have to play."

“Which is why I shall take my laughter now,” Iris replied.

“I still think we should have a house party,” Sarah said.

To which Honoria replied, “I agree.” Sarah looked at her suspiciously.

“I just think that it would be ambitious to think of it as a means to getting out of playing at the musicale.” Foolish more than ambitious, but Honoria wasn’t about to say that. Sarah sat at a nearby writing desk and picked up a pen. “We agree on Mr. Bridgerton, then?” Honoria looked over at Iris. They both nodded.

“Who else?” Sarah asked.

“Don’t you think we should wait for Cecily?” Iris asked.

“Neville Berbrooke!” Sarah said firmly. “He and Mr. Bridgerton are related."

“They are?” Honoria asked. She knew quite a lot about the Bridgerton family—everyone did—but she didn’t think they’d ever married any Berbrookes.

“Mr. Bridgerton’s brother’s wife’s sister is married to Mr.

Berbrooke’s brother.” It was just the sort of statement that begged for a sarcastic comment, but Honoria was too dumbfounded by the speed at which Sarah had rattled it off to do anything but blink.

Iris, however, was not as impressed. “And this makes them . . .

casual acquaintances?"

“Cousins,” Sarah said, shooting Iris a peevish glance. “Brothers.

In-law."

“Thrice removed?” Iris murmured.

Sarah looked over at Honoria. “Make her stop.” Honoria burst out laughing. Iris did, too, and then finally Sarah succumbed to her own giggles. Honoria rose and gave Sarah an impulsive hug. “Everything will be all right, you’ll see."

Sarah smiled sheepishly in return. She started to say something, but just then Cecily sailed back into the room, her mother at her heels. “She loves the idea!” Cecily announced.

“I do,” Mrs. Royle affirmed. She strode across the room to the writing table, sliding into the chair as Sarah quickly hopped out.

Honoria watched her with interest. Mrs. Royle was such a medium woman—medium height, medium build, medium brown hair and medium brown eyes. Even her dress was of a medium shade of purple, with a medium-sized ruffle circling the bottom.

But there was nothing medium about her expression at that moment. She looked ready to command an army, and it was clear that she would take no prisoners.

“It’s brilliant,” Mrs. Royle said, frowning slightly as she looked for something on her desk. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. We will have to work quickly, of course. We shall send someone down to London this afternoon to notify your parents that you will be detained.” She turned to Honoria. “Cecily says that you can ensure that Lord Chatteris makes an appearance?” “No,” Honoria answered with alarm. “I can try, of course, but —"

“Try hard,” Mrs. Royle said briskly. “That will be your job while the rest of us plan the party. When is he coming, by the way?"

“I have no idea,” Honoria replied, for what had to be—oh, bother it all, it did not matter how many times she had answered that question. “He did not say."

“You don’t think he’s forgotten?"

“He is not the sort to forget,” Honoria told her.

“No, he doesn’t seem as if he would,” Mrs. Royle murmured.

“Still, one can never count upon a man to be as devoted to the mechanics of courtship as a female.” The alarm that had been percolating inside Honoria exploded into full-form panic. Dear heavens, if Mrs. Royle was thinking to pair her up with Marcus . . .

“He’s not courting me,” she said quickly.

Mrs. Royle gave her a calculating look.

“He’s not, I promise you.” Mrs. Royle turned her gaze to Sarah, who immediately straightened in her seat.

“It does seem unlikely,” Sarah said, since it was clear that Mrs.

Royle wished for her to chime in. “They are rather like brother and sister."

“It’s true,” Honoria confirmed. “He and my brother were the closest of friends."

The room went silent at the mention of Daniel. Honoria wasn’t sure if this was out of respect, awkwardness, or regret that a perfectly eligible gentleman was lost to the current crop of debutantes.

“Well,” Mrs. Royle said briskly. “Do your best. It is all we can ask of you."

“Oh!” Cecily yelped, stepping back from the window. “I think he’s here!” Sarah jumped to her feet and began smoothing her perfectly unwrinkled skirts. “Are you certain?"

“Oh, yes.” Cecily practically sighed with delight. “Oh, my, but that’s a gorgeous carriage."

They all stood still, awaiting their guest. Honoria thought Mrs.

Royle might actually be holding her breath.

“Won’t we feel foolish,” Iris whispered in her ear, “if it is not even he?"

Honoria bit back a laugh, shoving her cousin with her foot.

Iris only grinned.

In the silence it was easy to hear the knock at the door, followed by the slight creak as the butler opened it.

“Stand straight,” Mrs. Royle hissed at Cecily. And then, as an afterthought: “The rest of you, too."

But when the butler appeared in the doorway, he was alone.

“Lord Chatteris has sent his regrets,” he announced.

Everyone slumped. Even Mrs. Royle. It was as if they’d each been pricked by a pin, the air squeezed right out of them.

“He sent a letter,” the butler said.

Mrs. Royle held out her hand, but the butler said, “It is addressed to Lady Honoria."

Honoria straightened and, aware that every eye was now trained on her, worked a little harder to suppress the relief that she was sure showed on her face. “Er, thank you,” she said, taking the folded sheet of parchment from the butler.

“What does it say?” Sarah asked, before Honoria could even break the seal.

“Just one moment,” Honoria murmured, taking a few steps toward the window so that she might read Marcus’s letter in relative privacy. “It’s nothing, really,” she said, once she’d finished the three short sentences. “There was an emergency at his home, and he is unable to visit this afternoon."

“That’s all he said?” Mrs. Royle demanded.

“He’s not one for lengthy explanations,” Honoria said.

“Powerful men do not explain their actions,” Cecily announced dramatically.

There was a moment of silence while everyone digested that, and then Honoria said, in a purposefully cheerful voice, “He wishes all well."

“Not well enough to grace us with his presence,” Mrs. Royle muttered.

The obvious question of the house party hung in the air, with the young ladies glancing back and forth between them, silently wondering who would step forward to ask it. Finally, all eyes settled on Cecily. It had to be her. It would have been rude coming from anyone else.

“What shall we do about the party at Bricstan?” Cecily asked.

But her mother was lost in thought, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

Cecily cleared her throat and then said, a bit louder, “Mother?"

“It’s still a good idea,” Mrs. Royle said suddenly. Her voice was loud with determination, and Honoria almost felt the syllables echo off her ears.

“Then we shall still invite the students?” Cecily said.

“I had thought of Gregory Bridgerton,” Sarah put in helpfully, “and Neville Berbrooke."

“Good choices,” Mrs. Royle said, marching across the room to her desk. “Good family, the both of them.” She pulled out several sheets of cream-colored paper, then flipped through the corners, counting them out. “I shall write the invitations immediately,” she said, once she had the correct number of sheets. She turned to Honoria, arm outstretched. “Except this one."

“I beg your pardon?” Honoria said, even though she knew exactly what Mrs. Royle meant. She just didn’t want to accept it.

“Invite Lord Chatteris. Just as we planned. Not for the entire party, just for an afternoon. Saturday or Sunday, whichever he prefers."

“Are you sure the invitation should not come from you?” Cecily asked her mother.

“No, it is better from Lady Honoria,” Mrs. Royle stated. “He will find it more difficult to decline, coming from such a close family friend.” She took another step forward, until there was no way Honoria could avoid taking the paper from her hand. “We are good neighbors, of course,” Mrs. Royle added. “Do not think we are not."

“Of course,” Honoria murmured. There was nothing else she could have said. And, she thought as she looked down at the paper in her hand, nothing else she could do. But then her luck turned.

Mrs. Royle sat at the desk, which meant Honoria had no choice but to retire to her room to pen the invitation.

Which meant that no one besides Honoria—and Marcus, of course—knew that what it actually said was:

Marcus— Mrs. Royle has asked me to extend an invitation to Bricstan this weekend. She plans a small house party, with the four ladies I mentioned, along with four young gentlemen from the university. I beg of you, do not accept.

You shall be miserable, and then I shall be miserable, fretting over your misery.

With affection, et cetera & et cetera,

Honoria

A different sort of gentleman would take such an “invitation” as a dare and accept immediately. But not Marcus. Honoria was certain of that. He might be supercilious, he might be disapproving, but one thing he was not was spiteful. And he wasn’t going to make himself miserable just to make her miserable.

He was occasionally the bane of her existence, but he was, at heart, a good person. Reasonable, too. He would realize that Mrs.

Royle’s gathering was exactly the sort of event that made him want to gouge his eyes out. She’d long wondered why he ever went to London for the season; he always looked so bored.

Honoria sealed the letter herself and brought it downstairs, handing it to a footman to deliver to Marcus. When Marcus’s reply arrived several hours later, it was addressed to Mrs. Royle.

“What does it say?” Cecily asked breathlessly, rushing to her mother’s side as she opened it. Iris, too, crowded in, trying to peer over Cecily’s shoulder.

Honoria hung back and waited. She knew what it would say.

Mrs. Royle broke the seal and unfolded the missive, her eyes moving quickly across the writing as she read. “He sends his regrets,” she said flatly.

Cecily and Sarah let out wails of despair. Mrs. Royle looked over at Honoria, who hoped she was doing a good job at looking shocked as she said, “I did ask. It’s just not his sort of entertainment, I think. He’s really not terribly sociable."

“Well, that much is true,” Mrs. Royle grumbled. “I can’t remember more than three balls last season at which I saw him dancing. And with so many young ladies without partners. It was downright rude.” “He’s a good dancer, though,” Cecily said.

All eyes turned to her.

“He is,” she insisted, looking a bit surprised that her statement had garnered so much attention. “He danced with me at the Mottram Ball.” She turned to the other girls, as if to offer an explanation. “We are neighbors, after all. It was only polite."

Honoria nodded. Marcus was a good dancer. Better than she was, that was for certain. She never could understand the intricacies of rhythm. Sarah had tried endlessly to explain the difference between a waltz and common time, but Honoria had never been able to grasp it.

“We shall persevere,” Mrs. Royle said loudly, placing a hand over her heart. “Two of the other four gentlemen have already accepted, and I am certain that we will hear from the others in the morning."

But later that night, as Honoria was heading upstairs to bed, Mrs. Royle took her aside and quietly asked, “Do you think there is any chance Lord Chatteris will change his mind?"

Honoria swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Mrs. Royle shook her head and made a little clucking sound.

“Such a pity. He really would have been the feather in my cap.

Well, good night, dear. Pleasant dreams.”

Twenty miles away, Marcus was sitting alone in his study with a hot cup of cider, mulling over his recent missive from Honoria. He had burst out laughing upon reading it, which he imagined had been her intention. Perhaps not her primary intention—that had certainly been to stop him from attending Mrs. Royle’s party—but she would have known that her words would amuse him to no end.

He looked down at the paper again, smiling as he reread it. Only Honoria would write him such a note, begging him to decline the invitation that she had put forth but two sentences prior.

It had been rather nice, seeing her again. It had been an age. He did not count the numerous times their paths had crossed in London. Such meetings could never be like the carefree times he had spent with her family at Whipple Hill. In London he was either dodging the ambitious mamas who were absolutely certain their daughters were born to be the next Lady Chatteris, or he was trying to keep an eye on Honoria. Or both.

In retrospect, it was remarkable that no one thought he was interested in her himself. He’d certainly spent enough time discreetly meddling in her business. He’d scared off four gentlemen the previous year—two of them fortune hunters, one with a cruel streak, and the last an aging, pompous ass. He was fairly certain that Honoria would have had the sense to refuse the last, but the one with the cruel streak hid it well, and the fortune hunters were, he was told, charming.

Which he supposed was a prerequisite for the position.

She was probably interested in one of the gentlemen who would be attending Mrs. Royle’s party and didn’t want him there to ruin things for her. He didn’t particularly want to be there, either, so in that they were in agreement.

But he needed to know on whom she had set her sights. If it wasn’t someone with whom he was familiar, inquiries would have to be made. It wouldn’t be too difficult to obtain the guest list; the servants always knew how to get hold of things like that.

And maybe if the weather was fine, he would go for a ride. Or a walk. There was a path in the woods that wandered back and forth across the property line between Fensmore and Bricstan. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d walked it. It was irresponsible of him, really. A landowner ought to know his property in intimate detail.

A walk it would be, then. And if he happened along Honoria and her friends, he could converse with them just long enough to get the information he needed. He could avoid the party and find out who she planned to set her cap for.

Marcus finished off his cider and smiled. He couldn’t imagine a more pleasing outcome.