“Oh, now I know you’re lying.”
“No, really,” he insisted. “The knowledge of your true feelings will bring an entirely new dimension to the endeavor.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. No matter how much you think you are laughing with me, and not at me, you cannot escape the cacophony.”
“I am pondering discreet balls of cotton for my ears.”
“If my mother catches you, she shall be mortally wounded. And she, who saved you from a mortal wound.”
He looked at her with some surprise. “She still thinks you’re talented?”
“Every one of us,” Honoria confirmed. “I think she is a little sad that I am the last of her daughters to perform. But I suppose the torch will soon pass to a new generation. I have many nieces who are practicing their little fingers off on their tiny little violins.”
“Really? Tiny ones?”
“No. It just sounds better to describe them that way.”
He chuckled at that, then fell silent. They were both silent, just standing there in the drawing room, uncharacteristically awkward and, well, silent.
It was odd. It was not like them at all.
“Would you care to take a stroll?” he asked suddenly. “The weather is fine.”
“No,” she said, a little more brusquely than she would have liked. “Thank you.”
A shadow passed over his eyes and then was gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined it. “Very well,” he said stiffly.
“I can’t,” she added, because she hadn’t really meant to hurt his feelings. Or maybe she had, and now she felt guilty. “My cousins are all here. We’re practicing.”
A faint look of alarm crossed his face.
“You will probably want to find some sort of business that removes you from Mayfair entirely,” she told him. “Daisy has not yet managed pianissimo.” At his blank stare, she added, “She’s loud.”
“And the rest of you aren’t?”
“Touché, but no, not like that.”
“So what you are saying is that when I do attend the musicale, I should endeavor to secure a seat at the back?”
“In the next room, if you can manage it.”
“Really?” He looked remarkably—no, make that comically—hopeful. “Will there be seats in the next room?”
“No,” she replied, rolling her eyes yet again. “But I don’t think the back row is going to save you. Not from Daisy.”
He sighed.
“You should have considered this before you rushed your convalescence.”
“So I am coming to realize.”
“Well,” she said, trying to sound as if she was a very busy young lady with many appointments and quite a few things to do who also happened not to be pining over him in the least, “I really must be going.”
“Of course,” he said, giving her a polite nod of farewell.
“Good-bye.” But she didn’t quite move.
“Good-bye.”
“It was very good seeing you.”
“And you,” he said. “Please give my regards to your mother.”
“Of course. She will be delighted to hear that you are so well.”
He nodded. And stood there. And finally said, “Well, then.”
“Yes,” she said hastily. “I must go. Good-bye,” she said again. This time she did leave the room. And she didn’t even look over her shoulder.
Which was more of an achievement than she would ever have dreamed.
Chapter Eighteen
The truth was, Marcus thought as he sat in his study in his London home, he knew very little about courting young ladies. He knew a great deal about avoiding them, and perhaps even more about avoiding their mothers. He also knew quite a lot about discreetly investigating other men who were courting young ladies （more specifically, Honoria）， and most of all he knew how to be quietly menacing while he convinced them to abandon their pursuit.
But as for himself, he had not a clue.
Flowers? He’d seen other men with flowers. Women liked flowers. Hell, he liked flowers, too. Who didn’t like flowers?
He thought he might like to find some of the grape hyacinths that reminded him of Honoria’s eyes, but they were small blooms, and he didn’t think they would work well in a bouquet. And furthermore, was he supposed to hand them to her and tell her that they reminded him of her eyes? Because then he would have to explain that he was talking about a very specific part of the flower, at the bottom of the petal, right near the stem.