Just Like Heaven (18 page)

“And why is that?”

Her eyebrows rose. “You're sounding awfully
defensive.”

“I'm curious. Why wouldn't I choose to read
something unserious?”

“I don't know. You're
you
.”

“Why does that sound like an insult?” Said with
nothing but curiosity.

“It's not.” She took another piece of treacle tart
and nibbled at it. And that was when the strangest thing happened. His eyes fell
to her lips, and as he watched, her tongue darted from her mouth to lick an
errant crumb.

It was the tiniest movement, over in less than a
second. But something electric shot through him, and with a gasp he realized it
was desire. Hot, gut-clenching desire.

For Honoria.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

No.
“Yes, er, why?”

“I thought I might have hurt your feelings,” she
admitted. “If I did, please accept my apologies. Truly, it wasn't meant to be an
insult. You're perfectly nice the way you are.”

“Nice?” Such a bland word.

“It's better than
not
nice.”

It was at this point that a different man might
have grabbed her and showed her precisely how “not nice” he could be, and Marcus
was actually “not nice” enough to imagine the scene in great detail. But he was
also still suffering the aftereffects of a near-deadly fever, to say nothing of
the open door and her mother, who was likely just down the hall. So instead he
said, “What else did you bring me to read?”

It was a much safer avenue of conversation,
especially since he had spent much of the day convincing himself that kissing
her had had
nothing
to do with desire. It had been a
complete aberration, a momentary burst of madness brought on by extreme
emotion.

This argument, unfortunately, was presently being
shot to pieces. Honoria had shifted her position so that she could reach the
books without standing up, and this meant that she'd moved her bottom quite a
bit closer to . . . well, to his bottom, or really, his hip if one
wanted to put a fine point on it. There was a sheet and a blanket between them,
not to mention his nightshirt and her dress and heaven knew what else she had
under it, but dear
God
he had never been as aware of
another human being as he was of her right that very moment.

And he still wasn't sure how it had happened.

“Ivanhoe
,” she
said.

What was she talking about?

“Marcus? Are you listening? I brought you
Ivanhoe
. By Sir Walter Scott. Although, look at this,
isn't this interesting?”

He blinked, certain he must have missed something.
Honoria had opened the book and was flipping through the pages at the
beginning.

“His name is not on the book. I don't see it
anywhere.” She turned it over and held it up. “It just says ‘By the Author of
Waverley.' Look, even on the spine.”

He nodded, because that was what he thought was
expected of him. But at the same time, he couldn't seem to take his eyes off her
lips, which were pursed together in that rosebuddish thing she did when she was
thinking.

“I haven't read
Waverley,
have you?” She looked up, eyes bright.

“I have not,” he answered.

“Perhaps I should,” she murmured. “My sister said
she enjoyed it. But at any rate, I didn't bring you
Waverley,
I brought you
Ivanhoe
. Or
rather, the first volume. I didn't see any point in lugging all three.”

“I have read
Ivanhoe,
”
he told her.

“Oh. Well, let's put that one aside, then.” She
looked down at the next.

And he looked at her.

Her lashes. How had he never noticed how long they
were? It was rather odd, because she hadn't the coloring that usually
accompanied long lashes. Maybe that was why he hadn't noticed them; they were
long, but not dark.

“Marcus? Marcus!”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you all right?” She leaned forward, regarding
him with some concern. “You look a bit flushed.”

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps some more lemon
water.” He took a sip, and then another, for good measure. “Do you find it hot
in here?”

“No.” Her brow wrinkled. “I don't.”

“I'm sure it's nothing. I—”

She already had her hand on his forehead. “You
don't feel warm.”

“What else did you bring?” he asked quickly,
motioning with his head toward the books.

“Oh, er, here we are . . .” She took hold
of another one and read from the cover. “
History of the
Crusades for the Recovery and Possession of the Holy Land
. Oh,
dear.”

“What is it?”

“I brought only Volume Two. You can't start there.
You'll miss the entire siege of Jerusalem and everything about the
Norwegians.”

Let it be said,
Marcus
thought dryly,
that
nothing cooled a man's ardor like the Crusades
.
Still . . .

He looked at her questioningly. “Norwegians?”

“A little-known crusade at the beginning,” she
said, waving aside what was probably a good decade of history with a flick of
her wrist. “Hardly anyone ever talks about it.” She looked over at him and saw
what must have been an expression of complete amazement. “I like the Crusades,”
she said with a shrug.

“That's . . . excellent.”

“How about
The Life and Death
of Cardinal Wolsey
?” she asked, holding up another book. “No? I also
have
History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the
American Revolution
.”

“You really do think I'm dull,” he said to her.

She looked at him accusingly. “The Crusades are
not
dull.”

“But you brought only Volume Two,” he reminded
her.

“I can certainly go back and look for the first
volume.”

He decided to interpret that as a threat.

“Oh, here we are. Look at this.” She held up a very
slim, pocket-sized book with a triumphant expression. “I have one by Byron. The
least dull man in existence. Or so I'm told. I have never met him myself.” She
opened the book to the title page. “Have you read
The
Corsair
?”

“On the day it was published.”

“Oh.” She frowned. “Here is another by Sir Walter
Scott.
Peveril of the Peak
. It's rather lengthy. It
should keep you busy for some time.”

“I believe I will stick with
Miss Butterworth
.”

“If you wish.” She gave him a look as if to say,
There is no way you are going to like it
. “It
belongs to my mother. Although she did say you may keep it.”

“If nothing else, I'm sure it will rekindle my love
of pigeon pie.”

She laughed. “I'll tell Cook to prepare it for you
after we leave tomorrow.” She looked up suddenly. “You did know that we depart
for London tomorrow?”

“Yes, your mother told me.”

“We wouldn't go unless we were certain you were
recovering,” she assured him.

“I know. I'm sure you have much to attend to in
town.”

She grimaced. “Rehearsals, actually.”

“Rehearsals?”

“For the—”

Oh, no.

“—musicale.”

The Smythe-Smith musicale. It finished off what the
Crusades had begun. There wasn't a man alive who could maintain a romantic
thought when faced with the memory—or the threat—of a Smythe-Smith musicale.

“You're still playing the violin?” he asked
politely.

She gave him a funny look. “I've hardly taken up
the cello since last year.”

“No, no, of course not.” It had been a silly thing
to ask. But quite possibly the only polite question he might have come up with.
“Er, do you know yet when the musicale is scheduled for this year?”

“The fourteenth of April. It's not so very far off.
Only a bit more than two weeks.”

Marcus took another piece of treacle tart and
chewed, trying to calculate how long he might need to recuperate. Three weeks
seemed exactly the right length of time. “I'm sorry I'll miss it,” he said.

“Really?” She sounded positively disbelieving. He
was not sure how to interpret this.

“Well, of course,” he said, stammering slightly.
He'd never been a terrifically good liar. “I haven't missed it for years.”

“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “It has been
a magnificent effort on your part.”

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

He looked at her more closely. “What are you
saying?” he asked carefully.

Her cheeks turned ever so slightly pink. “Well,”
she said, glancing off toward a perfectly blank wall, “I realize that we're not
the most . . . er . . .” She cleared her throat. “Is there
an antonym for
discordant
?”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Are you saying you
know. . . . ehrm, that is to say—”

“That we're awful?” she finished for him. “Of
course I know. Did you think me an idiot? Or deaf?”

“No,” he said, drawing out the syllable in order to
give himself time to think. Although what good that was going to do him, he had
no idea. “I just thought . . .”

He left it at that.

“We're terrible,” Honoria said with a shrug of her
shoulders. “But there is no point in histrionics or sulking. There's nothing we
can do about it.”

“Practice?” he suggested, but very carefully.

He wouldn't have thought a person could be both
disdainful and amused, but if Honoria's expression was any indication, she had
managed it. “If I thought that practice might actually make us better,” she
said, her lip curling ever so slightly even as her eyes danced with laughter,
“believe me, I would be the most diligent violin student the world has ever
seen.”

“Perhaps, if—”

“No,” she said, quite firmly. “We're awful. That's
all there is to it. We haven't a musical bone in our bodies, and especially none
in our ears.”

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He'd been
to so many Smythe-Smith musicales it was a wonder he could still appreciate
music. And last year, when Honoria had made her debut on the violin, she had
looked positively radiant, performing her part with a smile so wide one could
only assume she'd been lost in a rapture.

“Actually,” she continued, “I find it all somewhat
endearing.”

Marcus was not sure she would be able to locate
another living human being who would agree with that assessment, but he saw no
reason to say that out loud.

“So I smile,” Honoria went on, “and I pretend I
enjoy it. And in a way I do enjoy it. The Smythe-Smiths have been putting on
musicales since 1807. It's quite a family tradition.” And then, in a quieter,
more contemplative voice, she added, “I consider myself quite fortunate to have
family traditions.”

Marcus thought of his own family, or rather, the
great big gaping hole where a family never had been. “Yes,” he said quietly,
“you are.”

“For example,” she said, “I wear lucky shoes.”

He was quite certain he could not have heard her
correctly.

“During the musicale,” Honoria explained with a
little shrug. “It is a custom specific to my branch of the family. Henrietta and
Margaret are always arguing over who started it, but we always wear red
shoes.”

Red shoes. That little curl of desire that had been
stamped out by thoughts of crusading amateur musicians sprang back to life.
Suddenly nothing in this world could have been more seductive than red shoes.
Good Lord.

“Are you sure you're all right?” Honoria asked.
“You're looking somewhat flushed.”

“I'm fine,” he said hoarsely.

“My mother doesn't know,” she said.

What?
If he hadn't been
flushed before, he was now. “I beg your pardon?”

“About the red shoes. She has no idea that we wear
them.”

He cleared his throat. “Is there any particular
reason you keep it a secret?”

Honoria thought for a moment, then reached out and
broke off another piece of treacle tart. “I don't know. I don't think so.” She
popped it in her mouth, chewed, and shrugged. “Actually, now that I think about
it, I don't know why it's red shoes. It could just as easily be green. Or blue.
Well, not blue. That wouldn't be the least bit out of the ordinary. But green
would work. Or pink.”

Nothing would work as well as red. Of this Marcus
was certain.

“I imagine we'll begin rehearsing as soon as I get
back to London,” Honoria said.

“I'm sorry,” Marcus said.

“Oh, no,” she told him, “I
like
the rehearsals. Especially now that all of my siblings are
gone, and my house is nothing but ticking clocks and meals on trays. It's
lovely
to gather together and have someone to talk
to.” She looked over at him with a sheepish expression. “We talk at least as
much as we rehearse.”

“This does not surprise me,” Marcus murmured.

She gave him a look that said she had not missed
his little dig. But she did not take offense; he had known she would not.

And then he realized: he rather liked that he had
known she would not take offense. There was something wonderful about knowing
another person so well.

“So,” she continued, quite determined to finish the
topic, “Sarah will be at the pianoforte again this year, and she really is my
closest friend. We have a grand time together. And Iris will be joining us at
the cello. She's almost exactly my age, and I have always meant to spend more
time with her. She was at the Royles', too, and I—” She stopped.