She was weightless. She was breathless. She felt hungry, needy. She wanted something she could not define, and she wanted it with an intensity that should have scared her.
But it didn’t. Not with Marcus’s hand at her back. In his arms she felt safe, even as her own body whipped itself up into a frenzy. The heat from his skin seeped through her clothing like nourishment, a heady brew that made her want to rise to her tiptoes and then take off in flight.
She wanted him. It came to her in an instant. This was desire.
No wonder girls ruined themselves. She had heard of girls who’d “made mistakes.” People whispered that they were wanton, that they had been led astray. Honoria had never quite understood it. Why would someone throw away a lifetime of security for a single night of passion?
Now she knew. And she wanted to do the same thing.
“Honoria?” Marcus’s voice drifted down to her ears like falling stars.
She looked up and saw him gazing at her curiously. The music had begun but she had not moved her feet.
He cocked his head to the side, as if to ask her a question. But he didn’t need to speak, and she didn’t need to answer. Instead, she squeezed his hand, and they began to dance.
The music dipped and swelled, and Honoria followed Marcus’s lead, never taking her eyes off his face. The music lifted her, carried her, and for the first time in her life, she felt as if she understood what it meant to dance. Her feet moved in perfect time to the waltz—one-two-three one-two-three—and her heart soared.
She felt the violins through her skin. The woodwinds tickled her nose. She became one with the music, and when it was done, when they pulled apart, and she curtsied to his bow, she felt bereft.
“Honoria?” Marcus asked softly. He looked concerned. And not whatever-can-I-do-to-make-her-adore-me concerned. No, it was definitely more along the lines of Dear-God-she’s-going-to-be-ill.
He did not look like a man in love. He looked like a man who was concerned that he was standing next to someone with a nasty stomach ailment.
She had danced with him and felt utterly transformed. She, who could not carry a tune or tap her feet to a rhythm, had become magic in his arms. The dance had been just like heaven, and it killed her that he had not felt the same way.
He couldn’t have done. She could barely stand, and he just looked . . .
Like himself.
The same old Marcus, who saw her as a burden. A not wholly unpleasant burden, but a burden nonetheless. She knew why he could not wait for Daniel to return to England. It meant he could depart London and go back to the country, where he was happier.
It meant he would be free.
He said her name again, and she somehow managed to pull herself from her daze. “Marcus,” she said abruptly, “why are you here?”
For a moment he stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “I was invited,” he replied, a little indignantly.
“No.” Her head hurt, and she wanted to rub her eyes, and most of all, she wanted to cry. “Not here at this ball, here in London.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you hate London.”
He adjusted his cravat. “Well, I don’t hate—”
“You hate the season,” she cut in. “You told me so.”
He started to say something, then stopped after half a syllable. That was when Honoria remembered—he was a terrible liar. He always had been. When they were children, he and Daniel had once pulled an entire chandelier from the ceiling. To this day, Honoria still wondered how they’d done it. When Lady Winstead had demanded that they confess, Daniel had lied right to her face, and so charmingly that Honoria could see that their mother had not been sure if he was telling the truth.
Marcus, on the other hand, had gone a bit red in his cheeks, and he’d tugged at his collar as if his neck was itchy.
Just as he was doing right now.
“I have . . . responsibilities here,” he said awkwardly.
Responsibilities.
“I see,” she said, almost choking on the words.
“Honoria, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she snapped, and she hated herself for being so short of temper. It wasn’t his fault that Daniel had burdened him with, well, her. It wasn’t even his fault for accepting. Any gentleman would have done so.
Marcus held still, but his eyes flitted to either side, almost as if he was looking for some explanation as to why she was behaving so strangely. “You’re angry . . .” he said, a little bit placatingly, maybe even condescendingly.