Just Like Heaven (23 page)

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.

Chapter Nineteen

The day of the musicale

Six hours before the performance

“W
here is Sarah?”

Honoria looked up from her music. She had been scribbling notes in the margin. Nothing she wrote made any sense, but it gave her the illusion that she knew a little something about what she was doing, so she made sure to have some sort of notation on every page.

Iris was standing in the middle of the music room. “Where's Sarah?” she said again.

“I don't know,” Honoria said. She looked one way, and then the other. “Where's Daisy?”

Iris waved an impatient arm toward the door. “She stopped to attend to herself after we arrived. Don't worry about
her
. She wouldn't miss this for the world.”

“Sarah's not here?”

Iris looked about ready to explode. “Do
you
see her?”

“Iris!”

“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but where the devil is she?”

Honoria let out an irritated exhale. Didn't Iris have something more important to worry about?
She
hadn't made a complete fool of herself in front of the man she'd only recently realized she loved.

Three days had passed, and she felt ill just thinking about it.

Honoria couldn't remember exactly what she'd said. Instead, she recalled the terrible sound of her voice, all jerky and choked. She remembered her brain begging her mouth to
just stop talking,
and she remembered her mouth having none of it. She'd been completely irrational, and if he had considered her a responsibility before, now he must think her a chore.

And even before that, before she had started spouting nonsense and acting so emotional that the men of the world must surely think themselves justified in considering women the flightier sex, she'd still been a fool. She'd danced with him as if he'd been her salvation, she'd looked up at him with her heart in her eyes, and he'd said—

Nothing. He hadn't said anything. Just her name. And then he'd looked at her as if she'd gone green. He'd probably thought she was going to cast up her accounts and ruin another perfectly good pair of his boots.

That had been three days earlier. Three days. Without a word.

“She should have been here at least twenty minutes ago,” Iris grumbled.

To which Honoria muttered, “
He
should have been here two days ago.”

Iris turned sharply. “What did you say?”

“Perhaps there was traffic?” Honoria asked, making a quick recovery.

“She lives only half a mile away.”

Honoria gave her a distracted nod. She looked down at the notes she'd made on page two of her score and realized she'd written Marcus's name. Twice. No, three times. There was a little M.H. in curlicue script hiding next to a dotted half note. Good Lord. She was pathetic.

“Honoria! Honoria! Are you even listening to me?”

Iris again. Honoria tried not to groan. “I'm sure she'll be here soon,” she said placatingly.

“Are you?” Iris demanded. “Because I'm not. I knew she was going to do this to me.”

“Do what?”

“Don't you understand? She's not coming.”

Honoria finally looked up. “Oh, don't be silly. Sarah would never do that.”

“Really?” Iris gave her a look of utter disbelief. And panic. “
Really
?”

Honoria stared at her for a long moment, and then: “Oh, dear God.”

“I told you you shouldn't have chosen Quartet no. 1. Sarah's actually not that bad on the pianoforte, but the piece is far too difficult.”

“It's difficult for us, as well,” Honoria said weakly. She was beginning to feel sick.

“Not as difficult as on the piano. And besides, it really doesn't matter how difficult the violin parts are, because—” Iris cut herself off. She swallowed, and her cheeks turned pink.

“You won't hurt my feelings,” Honoria told her. “I know I'm dreadful. And I know Daisy is even worse. We'd do an equally bad job with any piece of music.”

“I can't believe her,” Iris said, starting to pace frantically about the room. “I can't believe she would do this.”

“We don't
know
that she isn't going to play,” Honoria said.

Iris spun around. “Don't we?”

Honoria swallowed uncomfortably. Iris was right. Sarah had never been twenty—no, now it was twenty-five—minutes late for a rehearsal.

“This wouldn't have happened if you hadn't chosen such a difficult piece,” Iris accused.

Honoria stomped to her feet. “Do not try to lay the blame on me! I'm not the one who spent the last week complaining about— Oh, never mind. I'm here, and she's not, and I don't see how that is my fault.”

“No, no, of course,” Iris said, shaking her head. “It's just— Oh!” She let out a loud cry of angry frustration. “I can't believe she would do this to me.”

“To us,” Honoria reminded her quietly.

“Yes, but I'm the one who didn't want to perform. You and Daisy didn't care.”

“I don't see what that has to do with it,” Honoria said.

“I don't
know,
” Iris wailed. “It's just that we were all supposed to be in this together. That's what you said. Every single day you said it. And if I was going to swallow my pride and humiliate myself in front of every single person I know, then Sarah was going to have to do it, too.”

Just then Daisy arrived. “What's going on?” she asked. “Why is Iris so upset?”

“Sarah isn't here,” Honoria explained.

Daisy looked over at the clock on the mantel. “That's rude of her. She's almost a half an hour late.”

“She's not coming,” Iris said flatly.

“We don't know that for sure,” Honoria said.

“What do you mean she's not coming?” Daisy echoed. “She can't not come. How are we meant to perform a piano quartet without a piano?”

A long silence fell over the room, and then Iris gasped. “Daisy, you're brilliant.”

Daisy looked pleased, but nonetheless said, “I am?”

“We can cancel the performance!”

“No,” Daisy said, shaking her head quickly. She turned to Honoria. “I don't want to do that.”

“We'll have no choice,” Iris went on, her eyes lighting with glee. “It's just as you said. We can't have a piano quartet without a piano. Oh, Sarah is
brilliant
.”

Honoria, however, was not convinced. She adored Sarah, but it was difficult to think of her planning something quite so unselfish, especially under these circumstances. “Do you really think she did this in an attempt to cancel the entire performance?”

“I don't care why she did it,” Iris said frankly. “I'm just so happy I could—” For a moment she literally could not speak. “I'm free! We're free! We're—”

“Girls! Girls!”

Iris broke off midcheer as they all turned to the door. Sarah's mother, their aunt Charlotte—known to the rest of the world as Lady Pleinsworth—was hurrying into the room, followed by a young, dark-haired woman who was dressed in well-made yet terribly plain clothing that marked her instantly as a governess.

Honoria had a very bad feeling about this.

Not about the woman. She looked perfectly pleasant, if perhaps a little uncomfortable at having been dragged into a family squabble. But Aunt Charlotte had a frightening gleam in her eye. “Sarah has taken ill,” she announced.

“Oh, no,” Daisy cried, sinking dramatically into a chair. “Whatever will we do?”

“I'm going to kill her,” Iris muttered to Honoria.

“Naturally, I could not allow the performance to be cancelled,” Aunt Charlotte went on. “I could never live with myself if such a tragedy came to pass.”

“Her, too,” Iris said under her breath.

“My first thought was that we could break with tradition and have one of our former musicians play with the group, but we have not had a pianist in the quartet since Philippa played in 1816.”

Honoria stared at her aunt in awe. Did she actually remember such details, or had she written them down?

“Philippa is in confinement,” Iris said.

“I know,” Aunt Charlotte replied. “She has less than a month left, poor thing, and she's enormous. She might have managed with a violin, but there is no way she could fit at the piano.”

“Who played before Philippa?” Daisy asked.

“No one.”

“Well, that can't be true,” Honoria said. Eighteen years of musicales, and the Smythe-Smiths had produced only two pianists?

“It is,” Aunt Charlotte confirmed. “I was just as surprised as you. I went through all of our programs, just to be certain. Most years we are two violins, a viola, and a cello.”

“A string quartet,” Daisy said needlessly. “The classic set of four instruments.”

“Do we cancel, then?” Iris asked, and Honoria had to shoot her a look of warning. Iris was sounding a bit too excited at the possibility.

“Absolutely not,” Aunt Charlotte said, and she motioned to the woman next to her. “This is Miss Wynter. She will substitute for Sarah.”

They all turned to the dark-haired woman standing quietly to the side and slightly behind Aunt Charlotte. She was, in a word, gorgeous. Everything about her was perfection, from her shiny hair to her milky-white skin. Her face was heart-shaped, her lips full and pink, and her eyelashes were so long that Honoria thought they must touch her brows if she opened her eyes too wide.

“Well,” Honoria murmured to Iris, “at least no one will be looking at
us
.”

“She is our governess,” Aunt Charlotte explained.

“And she plays?” Daisy asked.

“I wouldn't have brought her over if she did not,” Aunt Charlotte said impatiently.

“It's a difficult piece,” Iris said, her tone bordering on truculence. “A very difficult piece. A very
very
—”

Honoria elbowed her in the ribs.

“She already knows it,” Aunt Charlotte said.

“She does?” Iris asked. She turned to Miss Wynter in disbelief and, to be completely honest, despair. “You do?”

“Not very well,” Miss Wynter answered in a soft voice, “but I have played parts of it before.”

“The programs have already been printed,” Iris tried. “They have Sarah listed for the piano.”

“Hang the program,” Aunt Charlotte said irritably. “We will make an announcement at the beginning. They do it all the time at the theater.” She waved her hand toward Miss Wynter, accidentally batting her in the shoulder. “Consider her Sarah's understudy.”

There was a slightly impolite moment of silence, and then Honoria stepped forward. “Welcome,” she said, firmly enough so that Iris and Daisy would understand that they were to follow her lead or else. “I am delighted to meet you.”

Miss Wynter dipped into a tiny curtsy. “And I you, er . . .”

“Oh, I'm terribly sorry,” Honoria said. “I am Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith, but please, if you are to play with us, you must use our given names.” She motioned to her cousins. “This is Iris, and this is Daisy. Also Smythe-Smiths.”

“As I once was,” Aunt Charlotte put in.

“I am Anne,” Miss Wynter said.

“Iris plays cello,” Honoria continued, “and Daisy and I are both violinists.”

“I shall leave the four of you to your rehearsals,” Aunt Charlotte said, making toward the door. “You have a very busy afternoon ahead of you, I'm sure.”

The four musicians waited until she was gone, and then Iris pounced. “She's not really sick, is she?”

Anne started, clearly surprised by the fervor in Iris's voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“Sarah,” Iris said, and not kindly. “She's faking. I know it.”

“I really couldn't say,” Anne said with great diplomacy. “I didn't even see her.”

“Maybe she has a rash,” Daisy said. “She wouldn't want anyone to see her if she had spots.”

“Nothing less than permanent disfigurement would satisfy me,” Iris growled.

“Iris!” Honoria scolded.

“I don't know Lady Sarah very well,” Anne said. “I was hired only this year, and she doesn't need a governess.”

“She wouldn't listen to you, anyway,” Daisy said. “Are you even older than she is?”

“Daisy!” Honoria scolded. Dear heavens, she was doing a lot of scolding.

Daisy shrugged. “If she is using our Christian names I think I can ask her how old she is.”

“Older than
you
are,” Honoria said, “which means that no, you cannot ask.”

“It's of no concern,” Anne said, giving Daisy a small smile. “I am twenty-four. I have charge of Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances.”

“God help you,” Iris murmured.

Honoria could not bring herself to contradict. Sarah's three younger sisters were, when taken one by one, perfectly lovely. Together, however . . . There was a reason the Pleinsworth household never lacked for drama.

Honoria sighed. “I suppose we should rehearse.”

“I must warn you,” Anne said, “I'm not very good.”

“That's all right. Neither are we.”

“That's not true!” Daisy protested.

Honoria leaned over so that the others couldn't hear and whispered to Miss Wynter, “Iris is actually quite talented, and Sarah was adequate, but Daisy and I are dreadful. My advice to you is to put on a brave face and muddle through.”

Anne looked slightly alarmed. Honoria responded with a shrug. She would learn soon enough what it meant to perform at a Smythe-Smith musicale.

And if not, she'd go insane trying.

M
arcus arrived early that night, although he wasn't quite sure whether it was to secure a seat in the front, or one at the back. He'd brought flowers—not grape hyacinths, no one had those, anyway—but rather two dozen cheerful-looking tulips from Holland.