She had kissed her brother’s best friend. She had kissed Marcus . . . who, she supposed, had become one of her own best friends, too.
And that stopped her almost as short as the kiss had done. How had that happened? Marcus had always been Daniel’s friend, not hers. Or rather, Daniel’s friend first, and hers second. Which wasn’t to say—
She stopped. She was making herself dizzy.
Oh, bother. He probably hadn’t even thought of it once. Maybe he’d even still been a little bit delirious. Maybe he wouldn’t even remember.
And could it even really be called a kiss? It had been very, very short. And did it mean anything if the kisser （him） had been feeling terribly grateful to the kissee （her） and possibly even indebted, in the most elemental of ways?
She’d saved his life, after all. A kiss was not entirely out of order.
Plus, he had said, “Forgive me.” Did it count as a kiss if the kisser had asked for forgiveness?
Honoria thought not.
Still, the last thing she wanted was to talk with him about it, so when Mrs. Wetherby told her that he had still been sleeping when she’d gone to check on him, Honoria decided to make her visit posthaste in order to catch him before he awakened.
His door had been left slightly ajar, so she placed her palm against the dark wood and pushed very slowly. It was unfathomable that a house as well run as Fensmore might have creaky hinges on its doors, but one could never be too careful. Once she’d made a head-sized opening, she poked in, turned her neck so that she could see him, and—
He turned and looked at her.
“Oh, you’re awake!” The words popped out of her mouth like the chirp of a small, stunned bird.
Drat it all.
Marcus was sitting up in bed, his blankets tucked neatly around his waist. Honoria noticed with relief that he had finally donned a nightshirt.
He held up a book. “I’ve been trying to read.”
“Oh, then I won’t bother you,” she said quickly, even though the tone of his voice had been clearly of the I’ve-been-trying-to-read-but-I-just-can’t-get-into-it variety.
Then she curtsied.
Curtsied!
Why on earth had she curtsied? She’d never curtsied to Marcus in her life. She’d nodded her head, and she’d even done a little bob at the knees, but good heavens, he would have collapsed laughing if she’d curtsied to him. In fact, he was quite possibly laughing right at that moment. But she would never know, because she fled before he could make a sound.
Still, when she came across her mother and Mrs. Wetherby in the drawing room later that day, she could say with utmost honesty that she had been to visit Marcus and she had found him to be quite improved.
“He’s even reading,” she said, sounding gorgeously casual. “That must be a good sign.”
“What was he reading?” her mother asked politely, reaching forward to pour her a cup of tea.
“Ehrm . . .” Honoria blinked, recalling nothing beyond the dark red leather of the book cover. “I didn’t notice, actually.”
“We should probably bring him some more books from which to choose,” Lady Winstead said, handing Honoria her tea. “It’s hot,” she warned. Then she continued, “It is dreadfully dull to be confined to bed. I speak from experience. I was confined for four months while I was carrying you, and three with Charlotte.”
“I didn’t know.”
Lady Winstead waved it off. “There was nothing to be done about it. It’s not as if I had a choice. But I can tell you that books positively saved my sanity. One can either read or embroider, and I don’t see Marcus picking up a needle and thread.”
“No,” Honoria agreed, smiling at the thought.
Her mother took another sip of her tea. “You should investigate his library and see what you can find for him. And he can have my novel when we leave.” She set down her cup. “I brought that one by Sarah Gorely. I’m almost done with it. It is marvelous thus far.”
“Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron?” Honoria asked dubiously. She’d read it, too, and had found it to be highly diverting, but it was almost farcically melodramatic, and she could not imagine Marcus enjoying it. If Honoria recalled correctly, there was quite a lot of hanging from cliffs. And from trees. And window ledges. “Don’t you think he would prefer something more serious?”
“I’m sure he thinks he would prefer something more serious. But that boy is far too serious already. He needs more levity in his life.”