Honoria Smythe-Smith,” Sarah said, positively grinning, “I am
so proud of you.”
“I would ask why,” Honoria replied warily, “but I’m not sure I
want to know the answer
He was not quite sure how to phrase it, so he finally went with,
haltingly, “I don’t enjoy being at the center of attention.”
Her head tilted to the side, she regarded him for a long moment
before saying, “No. You don’t.” And then: “You were always a
tree.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Her eyes grew sentimental. “When we performed our awful
pantomimes as children. You were always a tree.”
“I never had to say anything.”
“And you always got to stand at the back.”
He felt himself smile, lopsided and true. “I rather liked being a
tree.”
“You were a very good tree.” She smiled then, too—a radiant,
wondrous thing. “The world needs more trees.
Marcus’s appearance the
day before had been discussed, dissected, analyzed, and—by Lady
Sarah Pleinsworth, Honoria’s cousin and one of her closest friends
—rendered into poetry.
“He came in the rain,” Sarah intoned. “The day had been plain.”
Honoria nearly spit out her tea.
“It was muddy, this lane—”
Cecily Royle smiled slyly over her teacup. “Have you
considered free verse?”
“—our heroine, in pain—”
“I was cold,” Honoria put in.
Iris Smythe-Smith, another of Honoria’s cousins, looked up with
her signature dry expression. “I am in pain,” she stated.
“Specifically, my ears.”
Honoria shot Iris a look that said clearly, Be polite. Iris just
shrugged.
“—her distress, she did feign—”
“Not true!” Honoria protested.
“You can’t interfere with genius,” Iris said sweetly.
“—her schemes, not in vain—”
“This poem is devolving rapidly,” Honoria stated.
“I am beginning to enjoy it,” said Cecily.
“—her existence, a bane . . .”
Honoria let out a snort. “Oh, come now!”
“I think she’s doing an admirable job,” Iris said, “given the
limitations of the rhyming structure.” She looked over at Sarah, who
had gone quite suddenly silent. Iris cocked her head to the side; so
did Honoria and Sarah.
Sarah’s lips were parted, and her left hand was still outstretched
with great drama, but she appeared to have run out of words.
“Cane?” Cecily suggested. “Main?”
“Insane?” offered Iris.
“Any moment now,” Honoria said tartly, “if I’m trapped here
much longer with you lot.
That sounded good,” Daisy said with surprise.
“It sounded like a fish vomiting,” Sarah said into the piano.
“A charming image,” Honoria remarked.
“I don’t think fish do vomit,” Daisy remarked, “and if they did, I
don’t think it would sound like—
There,” she said triumphantly. “Like that.”
He began to wonder if they were speaking the same language.
“Like what?”
“That! What you just said.”
He crossed his arms. It seemed the only acceptable reply. If she
couldn’t speak in complete sentences, he saw no reason why he
had to speak at all.
Why is everyone complaining?” Daisy asked impatiently. “This
is exciting! We get to perform. Do you know how long I have been
waiting for this day?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Sarah said flatly.
“About as long as I have been dreading it,” Iris muttered.
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.
It is really quite remarkable,” Sarah said, “that the two of you
are sisters.”
“I marvel at it every day,” Iris said flatly.
She thumped her weapon (others might call it a cane, but he
knew better) against the floor. “Fell off your horse?”
“No, I—”
“Tripped down the stairs? Dropped a bottle on your foot?” Her
expression grew sly. “Or does it involve a woman?”
He fought the urge to cross his arms. She was looking up at him
with a bit of a smirk. She liked poking fun at her companions; she’d
once told him that the best part of growing old was that she could
say anything she wanted with impunity.
He leaned down and said with great gravity, “Actually, I was
stabbed by my valet.”
It was, perhaps, the only time in his life he’d managed to stun
her into silence.
Her mouth fell open, her eyes grew wide, and he would have
liked to have thought that she even went pale, but her skin had such
an odd tone to begin with that it was hard to say. Then, after a
moment of shock, she let out a bark of laughter and said, “No,
really. What happened?”
“Exactly as I said. I was stabbed.” He waited a moment, then
added, “If we weren’t in the middle of a ballroom, I’d show you.”
“You don’t say?” Now she was really interested. She leaned in,
eyes alight with macabre curiosity. “Is it gruesome?”
“It was,” he confirmed.
She pressed her lips together, and her eyes narrowed as she
asked, “And where is your valet now?”
“At Chatteris House, likely nicking a glass of my best brandy.”
She let out another one of her staccato barks of laughter.
Consanguinity has never seemed to be one of your
prerequisites for plain speaking.”
“Touché,” she returned, giving him a single nod of approval. “I
was merely pointing out that you are quite stealthy in your good
humor. This I applaud wholeheartedly.”
“I am aquiver with glee.
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