Just Like Heaven (3 page)

She looked determinedly straight ahead as she said, “I told you, we're here to listen to lectures.”

He nodded. “In Greek.”

“Marcus
.”

He grinned at that. Except it wasn't really a grin. Marcus was always so serious, so stiff, that a grin for him would be a dry half-smile on anyone else. Honoria wondered how often he smiled without anyone realizing it. He was lucky she knew him so well. Anyone else would think him completely without humor.

“What was that about?” he asked.

She started and looked over at him. “What was what about?”

“You rolled your eyes.”

“Did I?” Honestly, she had no idea if she had or not. But more to the point, why was he watching her so closely? This was
Marcus,
for heaven's sake. She looked out the window. “Do you think the rain has let up?”

“No,” he replied, not turning his head even an inch. Honoria supposed he didn't need to. It had been a stupid question, meant for nothing but changing the subject. The rain was still beating down on the carriage mercilessly.

“Shall I convey you to the Royles'?” he asked politely.

“No, thank you.” Honoria craned her neck a bit, trying to see through the glass and the storm and the next bit of glass into Miss Pilaster's. She couldn't see a thing, but it was a good excuse not to look at him, so she made a good show of it. “I'll join my friends in a moment.”

“Are you hungry?” he inquired. “I stopped at Flindle's earlier and have a few cakes wrapped to take home.”

Her eyes lit up. “Cakes?”

She didn't say the word as much as she sighed it. Or maybe moaned it. But she didn't care. He knew that sweets were her weakness; he was the same way. Daniel had never been particularly fond of dessert, and more than once, she and Marcus had found themselves together as children, huddled over a plate of cakes and biscuits.

Daniel had said they looked like a pack of savages, which had made Marcus laugh uproariously. Honoria never did understand why.

He reached down and drew something out of a box at his feet. “Are you still partial to chocolate?”

“Always.” She felt herself smile in kinship. And perhaps in anticipation, as well.

He started to laugh. “Do you remember that torte Cook made—”

“The one the dog got into?”

“I almost cried.”

She grimaced. “I think I did cry.”

“I got one bite.”

“I got none,” she said longingly. “But it smelled divine.”

“Oh, it was.” He looked as if the memory of it might send him into a rapture. “It was.”

“You know, I always thought Daniel might have had something to do with Buttercup getting into the house.”

“I'm sure he did,” Marcus agreed. “The look on his face . . .”

“I hope you thrashed him.”

“To within an inch of his life,” he assured her.

She grinned, then asked, “But not really?”

He smiled in return. “Not really.” He chuckled at the memory and held out a small rectangle of chocolate cake, lovely and brown atop a crisp piece of white paper. It smelled just like heaven. Honoria took a deep, happy breath and smiled.

Then she looked over at Marcus and smiled anew. Because for a moment she'd felt like herself again, like the girl she'd been just a few years ago, when the world lay before her, a bright shiny ball that glittered with promise. It had been a feeling she hadn't even realized she'd been missing—of belonging, of place, of being with someone who knew you utterly and completely and still thought you were worth laughing with.

Strange that it should be Marcus who should make her feel that way.

And in so many ways, not strange at all.

She took the cake from his hand and looked down at it questioningly.

“I'm afraid I haven't any sort of utensil,” he said apologetically.

“It might make a terrible mess,” she said, hoping that he realized that what she was really saying was
Please tell me that you don't mind if I spread crumbs all over your carriage
.

“I shall have one, too,” he told her. “So that you don't feel alone.”

She tried not to smile. “That is most generous of you.”

“I am quite certain it is my gentlemanly duty.”

“To eat cake?”

“It is one of the more appealing of my gentlemanly duties,” he allowed.

Honoria giggled, then took a bite. “Oh, my.”

“Good?”

“Heavenly.” She took another bite. “And by that I mean
beyond
heavenly.”

He grinned and ate some of his own, devouring half in one bite. Then, while Honoria watched with some surprise, he popped the other half into his mouth and finished it.

The piece hadn't been very large, but still. She took a nibble of her own, trying to make it last longer.

“You always did that,” he said.

She looked up. “What?”

“Ate your dessert slowly, just to torture the rest of us.”

“I like to make it last.” She gave him an arch look, accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug. “If you feel tortured by that, that must be your own problem.”

“Heartless,” he murmured.

“With you, always.”

He chuckled again, and Honoria was struck by how different he was in private. It was almost as if she had the old Marcus back, the one who had practically lived at Whipple Hill. He had truly become a member of the family, even joining their dreadful pantomimes. He had played a tree every time; for some reason that had always amused her.

She liked that Marcus. She had
adored
that Marcus.

But he'd been gone these past few years, replaced by the silent, scowling man known to the rest of the world as Lord Chatteris. It was sad, really. For her, but probably most of all, for him.

She finished her cake, trying to ignore his amused expression, then accepted his handkerchief to wipe the crumbs from her hands. “Thank you,” she said, handing it back.

He nodded his welcome, then said, “When are you—”

But he was cut off by a sharp rap at the window.

Honoria peered past him to see who was knocking.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said a footman in familiar livery. “Is that Lady Honoria?”

“It is.”

Honoria leaned forward. “That's . . . er . . .” Very well, she had no idea of his name, but he had accompanied the group of girls on their shopping expedition. “He's from the Royles.” She gave Marcus a quick, awkward smile before standing, then crouching so that she might exit the carriage. “I must go. My friends will be waiting for me.”

“I shall call upon you tomorrow.”

“What
?” She froze, bent over like a crone.

One of his brows rose in mocking salute. “Surely your hostess won't mind.”

Mrs. Royle, mind that an unmarried earl not yet thirty planned to pay a call upon her home? It would be all Honoria could do to stop her from organizing a parade.

“I'm sure that would be lovely,” she managed to say.

“Good.” He cleared his throat. “It has been too long.”

She looked at him in surprise. Surely he didn't give her a thought when they were not both in London, swanning about for the season.

“I am glad you are well,” he said abruptly.

Why such a statement was so startling, Honoria couldn't have begun to say. But it was.

It really was.

M
arcus watched as the Royles' footman escorted Honoria into the shop across the street. Then, once Marcus was assured of her safety, he rapped three times on the wall, signaling to the coachman to continue.

He had been surprised to see her in Cambridge. He did not keep close tabs on Honoria when he was not in London, but still, he somehow thought he'd have known if she was going to be spending time so close to his home.

He supposed he ought to start making plans to go down to town for the season. He had not been lying when he'd told her he had business to attend to here, although it probably would have been more accurate to say that he simply preferred to remain in the country. There was nothing that required his presence in Cambridgeshire, just quite a lot that would be made easier by it.

Not to mention that he hated the season. Hated it. But if Honoria was hell-bent on acquiring herself a husband, then he would go to London to make sure she made no disastrous mistakes.

He had made a vow, after all.

Daniel Smythe-Smith had been his closest friend. No, his only friend, his only
true
friend.

A thousand acquaintances and one true friend.

Such was his life.

But Daniel was gone, somewhere in Italy if the latest missive was still current. And he wasn't likely to return, not while the Marquess of Ramsgate still lived, hell-bent on revenge.

What a bloody cock-up the whole thing had been. Marcus had told Daniel not to play cards with Hugh Prentice. But no, Daniel had just laughed, determined to try his hand. Prentice always won. Always. He was bloody brilliant, everyone knew it. Maths, physics, history—he'd ended up teaching the dons at university. Hugh Prentice didn't cheat at cards, he simply won all the time because he had a freakishly sharp memory and a mind that saw the world in patterns and equations.

Or so he'd told Marcus when they'd been students together at Eton. Truth was, Marcus still didn't quite understand what he'd been talking about. And he'd been the second best student at maths. But next to Hugh . . . Well, there could be no comparison.

No one in their right mind played cards with Hugh Prentice, but Daniel hadn't been in his right mind. He'd been a little bit drunk, and a little bit giddy over some girl he'd just bedded, and so he'd sat down across from Hugh and played.

And won.

Even Marcus hadn't been able to believe it.

Not that he'd thought Daniel was a cheat. No one thought Daniel was a cheat. Everyone liked him. Everyone trusted him. But then again, no one ever beat Hugh Prentice.

But Hugh had been drinking. And Daniel had been drinking. And they'd all been drinking, and when Hugh knocked over the table and accused Daniel of cheating, the room went to hell.

To this day Marcus wasn't sure exactly what was said, but within minutes it had been settled—Daniel Smythe-Smith would be meeting Hugh Prentice at dawn. With pistols.

And with any luck, they'd be sober enough by then to realize their own idiocy.

Hugh had shot first, his bullet grazing Daniel's left shoulder. And while everyone was gasping about that—the polite thing would have been to shoot in the air—Daniel raised his arm and fired back.

And Daniel—bloody hell but Daniel had always had bad aim—Daniel had caught Hugh at the top of his thigh. There had been so much blood Marcus still felt queasy just thinking about it. The surgeon had screamed. The bullet had hit an artery; nothing else could have produced such a torrent of blood. For three days all the worry had been whether Hugh would live or die; no one gave much thought to the leg, with its shattered femur.

Hugh lived, but he didn't walk, not without a cane. And his father—the extremely powerful and extremely angry Marquess of Ramsgate—vowed that Daniel would be brought to justice.

Hence Daniel's flight to Italy.

Hence Daniel's breathless, last-minute, promise-me-now-because-we're-standing-at-the-docks-and-the-ship-is-about-to-leave request:

“Watch over Honoria, will you? See that she doesn't marry an idiot
.”

Of course Marcus had said yes. What else could he have said? But he'd never told Honoria of his promise to her brother. Good God, that would have been disaster. It was difficult enough keeping up with her without her knowledge. If she'd known he was acting
in loco parentis,
she'd have been furious. The last thing he needed was her trying to thwart him.

Which she would do. He was sure of it.

It wasn't that she was deliberately willful. She was, for the most part, a perfectly reasonable girl. But even the most reasonable of females took umbrage when they thought they were being bossed about.

So he watched from afar, and he quietly scared off a suitor or two.

Or three.

Or maybe four.

He'd promised Daniel.

And Marcus Holroyd did not break his promises.

Chapter Two

“W
hen 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?”