A blatant lie, but it was the best she could come up with so quickly.
“Well, I suppose,” her mother conceded. “But there is always next year.” Then, with a flash of panic in her eyes, she added, “Although you won’t be playing, I’m sure.” When it became obvious she would have to explain, she turned to Mrs. Wetherby and said, “Each Smythe-Smith daughter must leave the quartet when she marries. It is tradition.”
“Are you engaged to be married, Lady Honoria?” Mrs. Wetherby asked, her brow knit with confusion.
“No,” Honoria replied, “and I—”
“What she means to say,” her mother interrupted, “is that we expect her to be engaged by the end of the season.”
Honoria could only stare. Her mother had not shown such determination or strategy during her first two seasons.
“I do hope we’re not too late for Madame Brovard,” her mother mused.
Madame Brovard? The most exclusive modiste in London? Honoria was stunned. Just a few days ago her mother had told her to go shopping with her cousin Marigold and “find something pink.” Now she wanted to get Honoria in to see Madame Brovard?
“She will not use the same fabric twice if it is at all distinctive,” her mother was explaining to Mrs. Wetherby. “It is why she is considered the best.”
Mrs. Wetherby nodded approvingly, clearly enjoying the conversation.
“But the downside is that if one sees her too late in the season”—Lady Winstead held up her hands in a fatalistic manner—“all the good fabrics are gone.”
“Oh, that is terrible,” Mrs. Wetherby replied.
“I know, I know. And I want to make sure we find the right colors for Honoria this year. To bring out her eyes, you know.”
“She has beautiful eyes,” Mrs. Wetherby agreed. She turned to Honoria. “You do.”
“Er, thank you,” Honoria said automatically. It was strange, seeing her mother act like . . . well, like Mrs. Royle, to be completely honest. Disconcerting. “I think I will go to the library now,” she announced. The two older ladies had entered into a spirited discussion about the distinction between lavender and periwinkle.
“Have a good time, dear,” her mother said without even looking her way. “I tell you, Mrs. Wetherby, if you had a lighter shade of periwinkle . . .”
Honoria just shook her head. She needed a book. And maybe another nap. And a slice of pie. And not necessarily in that order.
Dr. Winters stopped by that afternoon and declared Marcus well on his way to recovery. His fever had cleared entirely, his leg was mending splendidly, and even his sprained ankle—which they’d all quite forgotten about—no longer showed signs of swelling.
With Marcus’s life no longer in danger, Lady Winstead announced that she and Honoria would be packing their things and leaving for London immediately. “It was highly irregular to make the trip in the first place,” she told Marcus privately. “I doubt there will be talk, given our previous connection and the precariousness of your health, but we both know that society will not be so lenient if we linger.”
“Of course,” Marcus murmured. It was for the best, really. He was beyond bored and would miss having them about, but the season would be starting in earnest soon, and Honoria needed to get back to London. She was an unmarried daughter of an earl and thus in search of a suitable husband; there was no other place for her at this time of year.
He would have to go, too, to keep his vow to Daniel and make sure she didn’t marry an idiot, but he was stuck in bed—doctor’s orders—and would be for at least another week. After that he would be confined to his home for another week, possibly two, until Dr. Winters was confident that he was free of infection. Lady Winstead had made him promise to follow the doctor’s directives.
“We did not save your life to have you squander it,” she told him.
It would be close to a month before he could follow them to town. He found that inexplicably frustrating.
“Is Honoria about?” he asked Lady Winstead, even though he knew better than to inquire about an unmarried young lady to her mother—even with those two. But he was so bored. And he missed her company.
Which was not at all the same thing as missing her.
“We had tea just a little while ago,” Lady Winstead said. “She mentioned she saw you this morning. I believe she plans to find some books for you in the library here. I imagine she’ll be by this evening to bring them.”