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
“When 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.