Just Like Heaven (17 page)

“Of course,” Marcus murmured. It was for the best, really. He was beyond bored and would miss having them about, but the season would be starting in earnest soon, and Honoria needed to get back to London. She was an unmarried daughter of an earl and thus in search of a suitable husband; there was no other place for her at this time of year.

He would have to go, too, to keep his vow to Daniel and make sure she didn't marry an idiot, but he was stuck in bed—doctor's orders—and would be for at least another week. After that he would be confined to his home for another week, possibly two, until Dr. Winters was confident that he was free of infection. Lady Winstead had made him promise to follow the doctor's directives.

“We did not save your life to have you squander it,” she told him.

It would be close to a month before he could follow them to town. He found that inexplicably frustrating.

“Is Honoria about?” he asked Lady Winstead, even though he knew better than to inquire about an unmarried young lady to her mother—even with those two. But he was so bored. And he missed her company.

Which was not at all the same thing as missing
her
.

“We had tea just a little while ago,” Lady Winstead said. “She mentioned she saw you this morning. I believe she plans to find some books for you in the library here. I imagine she'll be by this evening to bring them.”

“That will be much appreciated. I'm almost done with . . .” He looked over at his bedside table. What
had
he been reading? “
Philosophical Inquiries Into the Essence of Human Freedom
.”

Her brows rose. “Are you enjoying it?”

“Not very much, no.”

“I shall tell Honoria to hurry along with the books, then,” she said with an amused smile.

“I look forward to it,” he said. He started to smile as well, then caught himself and assumed a more serious mien.

“I'm sure she does, too,” Lady Winstead said.

Of this Marcus was not so certain. But still, if Honoria didn't mention the kiss, then neither would he. It was a trifling thing, really. Or if not, then it should be. Easily forgotten. They would be back to their old friendship in no time.

“I think she is still tired,” Lady Winstead said, “although I can't imagine why. She slept for twenty-four hours, did you know that?”

He did not.

“She did not leave your side until your fever broke. I offered to take her place, but she would not have it.”

“I am very much indebted to her,” Marcus said softly. “And to you, too, from what I understand.”

For a moment Lady Winstead said nothing. But then her lips parted, as if she was deciding whether to speak. Marcus waited, knowing that silence was often the best encouragement, and a few seconds later, Lady Winstead cleared her throat and said, “We would not have come to Fensmore if Honoria had not insisted.”

He was not sure what to say to that.

“I told her that we should not come, that it was not proper, since we are not family.”

“I have no family,” he said quietly.

“Yes, that is what Honoria said.”

He felt a strange pang at that. Of course Honoria knew that he had no family; everyone did. But somehow, to hear her say it, or just to hear someone else tell him she'd said it . . .

It hurt. Just a little. And he didn't understand why.

Honoria had seen beyond all that, past his aloneness and into his loneliness. She had seen it—no, seen
him
—in a way even he had not understood.

He had not realized just how solitary his life was until she had stumbled back into it.

“She was most insistent,” Lady Winstead said, breaking into his thoughts. And then, so quietly that he barely heard her: “I just thought you should know.”

Chapter Fifteen

S
everal
hours later, Marcus was sitting in bed, not even pretending to read
Philosophical Inquiries Into the Essence of Human
Freedom
, when Honoria came by for another visit. She held about half
a dozen books in her arms and was accompanied by a maid bearing a supper
tray.

He was not surprised that she'd waited until
someone else had had to come up to his room as well.

“I brought you some books,” she said with a
determined smile. She waited until the maid placed the tray on his bed and then
set the stack down on the bedside table. “Mother said you'd likely need
entertainment.” She smiled again, but her expression was far too resolute to
have been spontaneous. With a little nod, she turned and started to follow the
maid out of the room.

“Wait!” he called out. He couldn't let her go. Not
yet.

She paused, turned, and gave him a questioning
look.

“Sit with me?” he asked, tilting his head toward
the chair. She hesitated, so he added, “I've had only myself for company for the
better part of two days.” She still looked uncertain, so he smiled wryly and
said, “I find myself somewhat dull, I'm afraid.”

“Only somewhat?” she replied, probably before she
remembered she was trying not to enter into a conversation.

“I'm desperate, Honoria,” he told her.

She sighed, but she had a wistful smile as she did
so, and she walked into the room. She left the door to the hallway open; now
that he was not at death's door, there were certain proprieties that must be
obeyed. “I hate that word,” she said.

“ ‘Desperate'?” he guessed. “You find it
overused?”

“No,” she sighed, sitting down in the chair by his
bed. “Too frequently apt. It's a terrible feeling.”

He nodded, although in truth, he didn't think he
understood desperation. Loneliness, certainly, but not desperation.

She sat quietly at his side, her hands folded in
her lap. There was a long silence, not quite awkward, but not comfortable,
either, and then she said rather suddenly, “The broth is beef.”

He looked down at the small porcelain tureen on his
tray, still covered by a lid.

“The cook called it
boeuf
consommé
,” she continued, speaking a little faster than she usually
did, “but it's broth, plain and simple. Mrs. Wetherby insists that its curative
powers are beyond compare.”

“I don't suppose I have anything other than broth,”
he said dolefully, looking down at his sparse tray.

“Dry toast,” Honoria said sympathetically. “I'm
sorry.”

He felt his head hang forward another inch. What he
wouldn't give for a slice of Flindle's chocolate cake. Or a creamed apple tart.
Or a shortbread biscuit, or a Chelsea bun, or bloody well anything that
contained a great deal of sugar.

“It smells quite nice,” Honoria said. “The
broth.”

It did smell quite nice, but not as nice as
chocolate would.

He sighed and took a spoonful, blowing on it before
taking a taste. “It's good,” he said.

“Really?” She looked doubtful.

He nodded and ate some more. Or rather, drank some
more. Did one eat soup or drink it? And more to the point, could he get some
cheese to melt on top of it? “What did you have for supper?” he asked her.

She shook her head. “You don't want to know.”

He ate-drank another spoonful. “Probably not.” Then
he couldn't help himself. “Was there ham?”

She didn't say anything.

“There
was,
” he said
accusingly. He looked down at the last dregs of his soup. He supposed he could
use the dry toast to soak it up. He hadn't left enough liquid, though, and after
two bites, his toast really was dry.

Sawdust dry. Wandering-the-desert dry. He paused
for a moment. Hadn't he been wandering the desert thirsty a few days earlier? He
took a bite of his entirely unpalatable toast. He'd never seen a desert in his
life, and likely never would, but as far as geographical habitats went, it did
seem to be offering a multitude of similes lately.

“Why are you smiling?” Honoria asked curiously.

“Am I? It was a sad, sad smile, I assure you.” He
regarded his toast. “Did you truly have ham?” And then, even though he knew he
didn't want to know the answer: “Was there pudding?”

He looked at her. She wore a very guilty
expression.

“Chocolate?” he whispered.

She shook her head.

“Berry? Ca—Oh, Lord, did Cook make treacle
tart?”

No one made treacle tart like Fensmore's cook.

“It was delicious,” she admitted, with one of those
amazingly happy sighs reserved for the memories of the very best of desserts.
“It was served with clotted cream and strawberries.”

“Is there any left?” he asked dolefully.

“I should think there must be. It was served in a
huge—Wait a moment.” Her eyes narrowed, and she speared him with a suspicious
stare. “You're not asking me to steal you a piece, are you?”

“Would you?” He hoped his face looked as pathetic
as his voice. He really needed her to pity him.

“No!” But her lips were pressing together in an
obvious attempt not to laugh. “Treacle tart is not an appropriate food for the
sickbed.”

“I don't see why not,” he replied. With utmost
honesty.

“Because you're supposed to have broth. And
calf's-foot jelly. And cod liver oil. Everyone knows that.”

He forced his stomach not to turn at the mention.
“Have any of those delicacies ever made you feel better?”

“No, but I don't think that's the point.”

“How is it possibly not the point?”

Her lips parted for a quick reply, but then she
went quite comically still. Her eyes tipped up and looked off to the left,
almost as if she were searching her mind for a suitable retort. Finally, she
said, with deliberate slowness, “I don't know.”

“Then you'll steal me a piece?” He gave her his
best smile. His best
I-almost-died-so-how-can-you-deny-me
smile. Or at least that's how
he hoped it appeared. The truth was, he wasn't a very accomplished flirt, and it
might very well have come across as an
I-am-mildly-deranged-so-it's-in-all-of-our-best-interests-if-you-pretend-to-agree-with-me
smile.

There was really no way to know.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get
into?” Honoria asked. She leaned forward in a furtive manner, as if someone
might actually be spying on them.

“Not very much,” he replied. “It's my house.”

“That matters very little when put up against the
collective wrath of Mrs. Wetherby, Dr. Winters, and my mother.”

He shrugged.

“Marcus . . .”

But she had no coherent protest beyond that. So he
said, “Please.”

She looked at him. He tried to look pathetic.

“Oh, all right.” She let out a little snort,
capitulating with a remarkable lack of grace. “Do I have to go right now?”

He clasped his hands together piously. “I would be
most appreciative if you would.”

She didn't move her head, but her eyes turned one
way, and then the other, and he couldn't quite tell if she was trying to act
sneaky. Then she stood, brushing her hands against the pale green fabric of her
skirts. “I will be back,” she said.

“I cannot wait.”

She marched to the door and turned around. “With
tart.”

“You are my savior.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You owe me.”

“I owe you for a great deal more than treacle
tart,” he told her quite seriously.

She exited the room without another word, leaving
Marcus with his empty tureen and bread crusts. And books. He looked over at the
table, where she'd left the books for him. Carefully, so as not to upset the
glass of lukewarm lemon water Mrs. Wetherby had prepared for him, he moved the
tray to the other side of the bed. Leaning over, he grabbed the first book and
took a look.
Striking and Picturesque Delineations of the
Grand, Beautiful, Wonderful, and Interesting Scenery Around
Loch-Earn
.

Good Lord, she'd found that in his library?

He looked at the next.
Miss
Butterworth and the Mad Baron
. It wasn't something he would normally
choose, but compared to the
Striking and Picturesque
Delineations of the Grand, Beautiful Et Cetera, Et Cetera Somewhere in the
Wilds of Scotland I Shall Bore You to Death
, it looked positively
pithy.

He settled in against his pillows, flipped the
pages until he was at the opening chapter, and sat down to read.

It was a dark and windy
night—

Hadn't he heard that before?

—and Miss Priscilla
Butterworth was certain that at any moment the rain would begin, pouring
down from the heavens in sheets and streams . . .

By the time Honoria returned, Miss Butterworth had
been abandoned on a doorstep, survived the plague, and been chased by a wild
boar.

She was quite fleet of foot, Miss Butterworth.

Marcus turned eagerly to Chapter Three, where he
anticipated Miss Butterworth stumbling upon a plague of locusts, and was quite
engrossed when Honoria appeared in the doorway, out of breath and clutching a
tea towel in her hands.

“You didn't get it, then?” he asked, looking at her
over the edge of
Miss Butterworth
.

“Of course I got it,” she replied with disdain. She
set the tea towel down and unfolded it to reveal a somewhat crumbly, but
nonetheless recognizable, treacle tart. “I brought an
entire
pie.”

Marcus felt his eyes go wide. He was tingling.
Honestly. Tingling with anticipation. Miss Butterworth and her locusts were
nothing compared to this. “You are my hero.”

“To say nothing of having saved your life,” she
quipped.

“Well, that, too,” he demurred.

“One of the footmen gave chase.” She looked over
her shoulder toward the open door. “I think he might have thought I was a thief,
although really, if I were coming to burgle Fensmore, I'd hardly start with
treacle tart.”

“Really?” he asked, his mouth full of heaven. “It's
exactly where I'd start.”

She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth.
“Oh, it is good,” she sighed. “Even without the strawberries and cream.”

“I can think of nothing better,” he said with a
happy sigh. “Except, perhaps, chocolate cake.”

She perched on the side of the bed and took another
small piece. “Sorry,” she said, swallowing before she continued, “I didn't know
where to get forks.”

“I don't care,” he said. He didn't. He was just so
damned happy to be eating real food, with real flavor. That required real
chewing. Why people thought that clear liquids were the key to recovering from a
fever he would never know.

He began to fantasize about cottage pie. Dessert
was marvelous, but he was going to need some real sustenance. Beef mince. Sliced
potatoes, lightly crisped from the oven. He could almost taste it.

He looked over at Honoria. Somehow he did not think
she was going to be able to sneak that out of the kitchen in a tea towel.

Honoria reached for another piece of the tart.
“What are you reading?” she asked.

“Miss Butterworth and
the
, er . . .” He looked down at the book, which lay pages
down and open on his bed. “
Mad Baron
,
apparently.”

“Really?” She looked stunned.

“I couldn't bring myself to crack open
Reflections and Illuminations of a Small Unpopulated Area of
Scotland
.”

“What?”

“This one,” he said, handing her the book.

She looked down and he noticed that her eyes had to
move quite a distance to take in the entirety of the title. “It looked quite
descriptive,” she said with a little shrug. “I thought you would enjoy it.”

“Only if I was worried that the fever hadn't done
me in,” he said with a snort.

“I think it sounds interesting.”

“You should read it, then,” he said with a gracious
wave. “I shan't miss it.”

Her lips pressed together peevishly. “Did you look
at anything else I brought you?”

“Actually, no.” He held up
Miss Butterworth
. “This was really quite intriguing.”

“I can't believe you're enjoying it.”

“You've read it, then?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did you enjoy it?”

She did not seem to have a ready reply, so he took
advantage of her distraction and pulled the tea towel closer. Another few inches
and the treacle tart would be entirely out of her reach.

“I did enjoy it,” she finally said, “although I
found some parts to be implausible.”

He flipped over the book and peered down.
“Really?”

“You're not very far into it,” Honoria said,
tugging the tea towel back in her direction. “Her mother is pecked to death by
pigeons.”

Marcus regarded the book with newfound respect.
“Really?”

“It's quite macabre.”

“I cannot wait.”

“Oh, please,” she said, “you can't possibly want to
read this.”

“Why not?”

“It's so . . .” She waved a hand through
the air as she searched for the right word. “Unserious.”

“I can't read something unserious?”

“Well, of course you can. I just find it difficult
to imagine that you would choose to.”