He could not imagine anything that might make him feel more foolish.
And the final problem with flowers was that he had never given them to her before. She would be immediately curious, and then suspicious, and if she did not return his feelings （and he had no particular reason to suppose that she did）， then he’d be stuck there in her drawing room, looking like a complete ass.
All things considered, this was a scenario he’d rather avoid.
Safer to court her in public, he decided. Lady Bridgerton was hosting a birthday ball the next day, and he knew that Honoria would attend. Even if she didn’t want to, she would still go. There would be far too many eligible bachelors in attendance for her to decline. This included Gregory Bridgerton, about whom Marcus had revised his opinion—he was far too wet behind the ears to take a wife. If Honoria decided that she was interested in the young Mr. Bridgerton after all, Marcus was going to have to intercede.
In his usual quiet and behind-the-scenes manner, of course. But still, it was another reason why he needed to be in attendance.
He looked down at his desk. On the left was an engraved invitation to Bridgerton House. On the right was the note Honoria had left for him at Fensmore when she’d departed the week before. It was a stunningly nondescript missive. A salutation, a signature, two ordinary sentences in between. There was nothing that might indicate that a life had been saved, a kiss had occurred, a treacle tart had been stolen. . . .
It was the sort of note one wrote when one wished to thank a hostess for a perfectly correct and polite garden party. It was not the sort one wrote to someone one might consider marrying.
Because that was what he intended. As soon as Daniel got his bloody arse back to England, he was going to ask him for her hand. But until then, he had to court her himself.
Hence his dilemma.
He sighed. Some men knew instinctively how to talk to women. It would have been very convenient to have been one of those men.
But he wasn’t. Instead, he was a man who knew only how to talk to Honoria. And lately even that wasn’t working out so well for him.
Thus, the next night, he found himself in one of his least favorite places on earth: A London ballroom.
He assumed his usual position, off to the side, his back to the wall, where he could watch the proceedings and pretend he didn’t care. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he was inordinately fortunate not to have been born female. The young lady to his left was a wallflower; he got to be dark, standoffish, and brooding.
The party was a mad crush—Lady Bridgerton was immensely popular—and Marcus couldn’t tell if Honoria was there or not. He didn’t see her, but then again he also couldn’t see the door through which he himself had entered. How anyone expected to have a fine time amidst so much heat and sweat and crowding he would never know.
He stole another glance at the young lady next to him. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. She was perhaps not quite in the first blush of youth, but he doubted she was much older than he was. She sighed, the sound long and weary, and he could not help but think that he was standing next to a kindred spirit. She, too, was glancing over the crowd, trying to pretend that she was not searching for someone in particular.
He thought about saying good evening, or perhaps asking if she knew Honoria and, if so, had she seen her. But just before he turned to greet her, she turned in the opposite direction, and he could have sworn he heard her mutter, “Blast it all, I’m getting an éclair.”
She drifted off, weaving her way through the crowds. Marcus watched her with interest; she seemed to know exactly where she was going. Which meant that if he’d heard her correctly . . .
She knew where one could get an éclair.
He immediately took off after her. If he was going to be stuck here in this ballroom without even seeing Honoria, who was the only reason he’d subjected himself to this crush, he was damned well going to get dessert.
He’d long since perfected the art of moving with purpose, even when he had no particular aim or goal, and he managed to avoid unnecessary conversations simply by keeping his chin high and his gaze sharp and above the crowd.
Until something struck him in the leg.
Ouch.
“And what’s that face for, Chatteris?” came an imperious female voice. “I barely touched you.”
He held himself still, because he knew that voice, and he knew there was no escaping it. With a small smile, he looked down into the wrinkled face of Lady Danbury, who had been terrifying the British Isles since the time of the Restoration.