Just Like Heaven (16 page)

“Is it still very painful?” she asked, motioning to his leg, which stuck out from under the covers.

“More of a dull ache.”

“You will have a terrible scar.”

He smiled wryly. “I shall wear it with pride and mendacity.”

“Mendacity?” she echoed, unable to contain her amusement.

He cocked his head to the side as he regarded the huge wound on his leg. “I was thinking I might set it about that I'd wrestled with a tiger.”

“A tiger. In Cambridgeshire.”

He shrugged. “It's more likely than a shark.”

“Wild boar,” she decided.

“Now that's just undignified.”

She pressed her lips together, then let out a little bubble of laughter. He did, too, and it was only then that she allowed herself to believe it: He was going to get better. It was a miracle. She could think of no other word to describe it. The color had returned to his face, and if perhaps he looked a little too thin, that was nothing compared to the clarity in his eyes.

He was going to be all right.

“Honoria?”

She looked up in question.

“You swayed,” he said. “I would help you, but . . .”

“I do feel a little unsteady,” she said, making her way to the chair by his bed. “I think . . .”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes,” she said. “No. Well, some. I probably should do. I think I'm just . . . relieved.” And then, to her utmost horror, she began to sob. It came on suddenly, hitting her like a tall ocean wave. Every bit of her had been wound so tightly. She had pulled herself as long and as far as she could go, and now that she knew he would be well, she fell apart.

She was like a violin string, pulled taut, and then snapped in two.

“I'm sorry,” she said, gasping for breath between the sobs. “I don't know . . . I didn't mean . . . I'm just so happy . . .”

“Shhhh,” he crooned, taking her hand. “It's all right. Everything is going to be all right.”

“I know,” she sobbed. “I know. That's why I'm crying.”

“That's why I'm crying, too,” he said softly.

She turned. There were no tears rolling down his face, but his eyes were wet. She had never seen him show such emotion, never even thought it possible. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched his cheek, then the corner of his eye, drawing her fingers back when one of his tears slid onto her skin. And then she did something so unexpected that it took both of them by surprise.

She threw her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and held tight. “I was so scared,” she whispered. “I don't think I even knew how scared I was.”

His arms came around her, hesitantly at first, but then, as if he needed only that little push, he relaxed into the embrace, holding her softly against him, stroking her hair.

“I just didn't know,” she said. “I didn't realize.” But these were only words now, with meanings even she did not understand. She had no idea what she was talking about—what it was she didn't know or didn't realize. She just . . . She just . . .

She looked up. She just needed to see his face.

“Honoria,” he whispered, looking down at her as if he'd never seen her before. His eyes were warm, chocolaty brown and rich with emotion. Something flared in their depths, something she didn't quite recognize, and slowly, ever so slowly, his lips dipped to meet hers.

M
arcus could never have explained why he kissed Honoria. He didn't
know
why he'd done it. He was holding her while she cried, and it had seemed the most natural, innocent thing to do. There had been no inclination to kiss her, though, no urge to take it further.

But then she looked at him. Her eyes—oh, those amazing eyes—glistening with tears, and her lips, full and trembling. He stopped breathing. He stopped thinking. Something else took over, something deep within him that felt the woman in his arms, and he was lost.

He was changed.

He had to kiss her. He had to. It was as basic and elemental as his breath, his blood, his very soul.

And when he did . . .

The earth stopped spinning.

The birds stopped singing.

Everything in the world came to a halt, everything but him and her and the feather-light kiss that connected them.

Something stirred to life within him, a passion, a desire. And he realized that if he hadn't been so weak, so debilitated, he would have taken it further. He would not have been able to stop himself. He would have pressed her body against his, glorying in her softness, her scent.

He would have kissed her deeply, and he would have touched her. Everywhere.

He would have begged her. He would have begged her to stay, begged her to welcome his passion, begged her to take him within her.

He wanted her. And nothing could have terrified him more.

This was Honoria. He had sworn to protect her. And instead . . .

He lifted his lips from hers, but he couldn't quite pull himself away. Resting his forehead against hers, savoring one last touch, he whispered, “Forgive me.”

She left then. She could not exit the room fast enough. He watched her go, saw her hands shaking, her lips trembling.

He was a beast. She had saved his life, and this was what he had done in return?

“Honoria,” he whispered. He touched his fingers to his lips, as if he might somehow feel her there.

And he did. It was the damnedest thing.

He still felt her kiss, still tingled with the light touch of her lips under his.

She was with him still.

And he had the strangest feeling she always would be.

Chapter Fourteen

M
ercifully, Honoria didn't have to spend the next day of her life agonizing over her brief kiss with Marcus.

Instead, she slept.

It was a short walk from Marcus's bedchamber to her own, so she set her mind to the task at hand—namely, putting one foot in front of the other and remaining upright long enough to reach her bedchamber. And once she did that, she lay on her bed and did not rise again for twenty-four hours.

If she dreamed, she remembered nothing.

It was morning when she finally awakened, and she was still in the same frock she'd been wearing since she'd got dressed—how many days ago was it?— in London. A bath seemed in order, and a fresh change of clothing, and then breakfast, of course, where she quite happily insisted that Mrs. Wetherby join her at the table and talk about all sorts of things that had nothing to do with Marcus.

The eggs were extremely interesting, as was the bacon, and the hydrangeas outside the window were absolutely fascinating.

Hydrangeas. Who would have imagined?

All in all, she avoided not just Marcus but all thoughts of Marcus quite well until Mrs. Wetherby asked, “Have you been by to see his lordship yet this morning?”

Honoria paused, her muffin suspended halfway to her mouth. “Er, not yet,” she said. The butter from her muffin was dripping onto her hand. She set it back down and wiped her fingers.

And then Mrs. Wetherby said, “I'm sure he would love to see you.”

Which meant that Honoria had to go. After all the time and effort she'd put into caring for him when he'd been in the depths of his fever, it would have looked very odd if she'd simply waved her hand and said, “Oh, I'm sure he's fine.”

The walk from the breakfast room to Marcus's bedchamber took approximately three minutes, which was three minutes longer than she wanted to spend thinking about a three-second kiss.

She had kissed her brother's best friend. She had kissed
Marcus
. . . who, she supposed, had become one of her own best friends, too.

And that stopped her almost as short as the kiss had done. How had that happened? Marcus had always been Daniel's friend, not hers. Or rather, Daniel's friend first, and hers second. Which wasn't to say—

She stopped. She was making herself dizzy.

Oh, bother. He probably hadn't even thought of it once. Maybe he'd even still been a little bit delirious. Maybe he wouldn't even remember.

And could it even really be called a kiss? It had been very, very short. And did it mean anything if the kisser (him) had been feeling terribly grateful to the kissee (her) and possibly even indebted, in the most elemental of ways?

She'd saved his life, after all. A kiss was not entirely out of order.

Plus, he had said, “Forgive me.” Did it count as a kiss if the kisser had asked for forgiveness?

Honoria thought not.

Still, the last thing she wanted was to talk with him about it, so when Mrs. Wetherby told her that he had still been sleeping when she'd gone to check on him, Honoria decided to make her visit posthaste in order to catch him before he awakened.

His door had been left slightly ajar, so she placed her palm against the dark wood and pushed very slowly. It was unfathomable that a house as well run as Fensmore might have creaky hinges on its doors, but one could never be too careful. Once she'd made a head-sized opening, she poked in, turned her neck so that she could see him, and—

He turned and looked at her.

“Oh, you're awake!” The words popped out of her mouth like the chirp of a small, stunned bird.

Drat it all.

Marcus was sitting up in bed, his blankets tucked neatly around his waist. Honoria noticed with relief that he had finally donned a nightshirt.

He held up a book. “I've been trying to read.”

“Oh, then I won't bother you,” she said quickly, even though the tone of his voice had been clearly of the
I've-been-trying-to-read-but-I-just-can't-get-into-it
variety.

Then she curtsied.

Curtsied!

Why on earth had she curtsied? She'd never curtsied to Marcus in her life. She'd nodded her head, and she'd even done a little bob at the knees, but good heavens, he would have collapsed laughing if she'd curtsied to him. In fact, he was quite possibly laughing right at that moment. But she would never know, because she fled before he could make a sound.

Still, when she came across her mother and Mrs. Wetherby in the drawing room later that day, she could say with utmost honesty that she had been to visit Marcus and she had found him to be quite improved.

“He's even reading,” she said, sounding gorgeously casual. “That must be a good sign.”

“What was he reading?” her mother asked politely, reaching forward to pour her a cup of tea.

“Ehrm . . .” Honoria blinked, recalling nothing beyond the dark red leather of the book cover. “I didn't notice, actually.”

“We should probably bring him some more books from which to choose,” Lady Winstead said, handing Honoria her tea. “It's hot,” she warned. Then she continued, “It is dreadfully dull to be confined to bed. I speak from experience. I was confined for four months while I was carrying you, and three with Charlotte.”

“I didn't know.”

Lady Winstead waved it off. “There was nothing to be done about it. It's not as if I had a choice. But I can tell you that books positively saved my sanity. One can either read or embroider, and I don't see Marcus picking up a needle and thread.”

“No,” Honoria agreed, smiling at the thought.

Her mother took another sip of her tea. “You should investigate his library and see what you can find for him. And he can have my novel when we leave.” She set down her cup. “I brought that one by Sarah Gorely. I'm almost done with it. It is marvelous thus far.”

“Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron
?” Honoria asked dubiously. She'd read it, too, and had found it to be highly diverting, but it was almost farcically melodramatic, and she could not imagine Marcus enjoying it. If Honoria recalled correctly, there was quite a lot of hanging from cliffs. And from trees. And window ledges. “Don't you think he would prefer something more serious?”

“I'm sure he
thinks
he would prefer something more serious. But that boy is far too serious already. He needs more levity in his life.”

“He's hardly a boy any longer.”

“He will always be a boy to me.” Lady Winstead turned to Mrs. Wetherby, who had remained silent during the entire exchange. “Don't you agree?”

“Oh, indeed,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. “But of course I have known him since he was in nappies.”

Honoria was
certain
Marcus would not approve of this conversation.

“Perhaps you can choose some books for him, Honoria,” her mother said. “I am sure you know his taste better than I.”

“I'm not sure that I do, actually,” Honoria said, looking down at her tea. For some reason that bothered her.

“We have a comprehensive library here at Fensmore,” Mrs. Wetherby said with pride.

“I'm sure I'll find something,” Honoria said, pasting a bright smile on her face.

“You shall have to,” her mother said, “unless you wish to teach him to embroider.”

Honoria shot her a panicked look, then saw the laughter in her eyes. “Oh, can you imagine?” Lady Winstead said with a chuckle. “I know that men make marvelous tailors, but I am sure they have teams of needlewomen hiding in their back rooms.”

“Their fingers are too big,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. “They can't hold the needles properly.”

“Well, he couldn't be any worse than Margaret.” Lady Winstead turned to Mrs. Wetherby and explained, “My eldest daughter. I have never seen anyone less skilled with a needle.”

Honoria looked over at her mother with interest. She had never realized that Margaret was so dismal at needlework. But then again, Margaret was seventeen years older than she was. She had been married and out of the Smythe-Smith household before Honoria had even been old enough to form memories.

“It's a good thing she had such talent for the violin,” Lady Winstead continued.

Honoria looked up sharply at that. She'd heard Margaret play. “Talent” was not a word she'd have used to describe it.

“All my daughters play the violin,” Lady Winstead said proudly.

“Even you, Lady Honoria?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

Honoria nodded. “Even me.”

“I wish you had brought your instrument. I should have loved to have heard you play.”

“I'm not as capable as my sister Margaret,” Honoria said. Which, tragically, was true.

“Oh, don't be silly,” her mother said, giving her a playful pat on the arm. “I thought you were magnificent last year. You need only to practice a bit more.” She turned back to Mrs. Wetherby. “Our family hosts a musicale every year. It is one of the most sought-after invitations in town.”

“Such a treasure to come from such a musical family.”

“Oh,” Honoria said, because she wasn't sure she'd be able to manage much of anything else. “Yes.”

“I do hope your cousins are rehearsing in your absence,” her mother said with a worried expression.

“I'm not sure how they could,” Honoria said. “It's a quartet. One can't really rehearse with one of the violins missing.”

“Yes, I suppose so. It's just that Daisy is so green.”

“Daisy?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“My niece,” Lady Winstead explained. “She is quite young and”—her voice dropped to a whisper, although for the life of her, Honoria couldn't figure out why—“she's not very talented.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Wetherby gasped, one of her hands rising to her chest. “Whatever will you do? Your musicale will be ruined.”

“I am quite certain Daisy will keep up with the rest of us,” Honoria said with a weak smile. Truthfully, Daisy
was
bad. But it was difficult to imagine her actually making the quartet
worse
. And she would bring some badly needed enthusiasm to the group. Sarah was still claiming that she'd rather have her teeth pulled than perform with the quartet again.

“Has Lord Chatteris ever been to the musicale?” Mrs. Wetherby asked.

“Oh, he comes every year,” Lady Winstead replied. “And sits in the front row.”

He was a saint, Honoria thought. At least for one night a year.

“He does love music,” Mrs. Wetherby said.

A saint. A martyr, even.

“I suppose he will have to miss it this year,” Lady Winstead said with a sad sigh. “Perhaps we can arrange for the girls to come here for a special concert.”

“No!” Honoria exclaimed, loudly enough that both the other women turned to look at her. “I mean, he wouldn't like that, I'm sure. He doesn't like people going out of their way for him.” She could see from her mother's expression that she was not finding this to be a strong argument, so she added, “And Iris doesn't travel well.”

A blatant lie, but it was the best she could come up with so quickly.

“Well, I suppose,” her mother conceded. “But there is always next year.” Then, with a flash of panic in her eyes, she added, “Although
you
won't be playing, I'm sure.” When it became obvious she would have to explain, she turned to Mrs. Wetherby and said, “Each Smythe-Smith daughter must leave the quartet when she marries. It is tradition.”

“Are you engaged to be married, Lady Honoria?” Mrs. Wetherby asked, her brow knit with confusion.

“No,” Honoria replied, “and I—”

“What she means to say,” her mother interrupted, “is that we expect her to be engaged by the end of the season.”

Honoria could only stare. Her mother had not shown such determination or strategy during her first two seasons.

“I do hope we're not too late for Madame Brovard,” her mother mused.

Madame Brovard? The most exclusive modiste in London? Honoria was stunned. Just a few days ago her mother had told her to go shopping with her cousin Marigold and “find something pink.” Now she wanted to get Honoria in to see Madame Brovard?

“She will not use the same fabric twice if it is at all distinctive,” her mother was explaining to Mrs. Wetherby. “It is why she is considered the best.”

Mrs. Wetherby nodded approvingly, clearly enjoying the conversation.

“But the downside is that if one sees her too late in the season”—Lady Winstead held up her hands in a fatalistic manner—“all the good fabrics are gone.”

“Oh, that is terrible,” Mrs. Wetherby replied.

“I know, I know. And I want to make sure we find the right colors for Honoria this year. To bring out her eyes, you know.”

“She has beautiful eyes,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. She turned to Honoria. “You do.”

“Er, thank you,” Honoria said automatically. It was strange, seeing her mother act like . . . well, like Mrs. Royle, to be completely honest. Disconcerting. “I think I will go to the library now,” she announced. The two older ladies had entered into a spirited discussion about the distinction between lavender and periwinkle.

“Have a good time, dear,” her mother said without even looking her way. “I tell you, Mrs. Wetherby, if you had a
lighter
shade of periwinkle . . .”

Honoria just shook her head. She needed a book. And maybe another nap. And a slice of pie. And not necessarily in that order.

D
r. Winters stopped by that afternoon and declared Marcus well on his way to recovery. His fever had cleared entirely, his leg was mending splendidly, and even his sprained ankle—which they'd all quite forgotten about—no longer showed signs of swelling.

With Marcus's life no longer in danger, Lady Winstead announced that she and Honoria would be packing their things and leaving for London immediately. “It was highly irregular to make the trip in the first place,” she told Marcus privately. “I doubt there will be talk, given our previous connection and the precariousness of your health, but we both know that society will not be so lenient if we linger.”