Julia Quinn - Just Like Heaven

“I don’t care,” she announced. She grabbed Marcus’s hand.

“Shall we go?"

He looked down at her hand in his. It was an utterly foreign sensation, and a strange and somewhat unpleasant feeling began to flutter in his chest that he belatedly realized was panic. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had held his hand. His nurse, maybe? No, she had liked to grab his wrist. She got a better grip that way, he once heard her tell the housekeeper.

Had his father? His mother, sometime before she had died?

His heart pounded, and he felt Honoria’s little hand grow slick in his. He must be sweating, or she was, although he was fairly certain it was he.

He looked down at her. She was beaming up at him.

He dropped her hand. “Er, we have to go now,” he said awkwardly, “while the light is good."

Both Smythe-Smiths looked at him curiously. “It’s barely noon,"

Daniel said. “How long did you want to go fishing?” “I don’t know,” Marcus said defensively. “It might take a while."

Daniel shook his head. “Father just stocked the lake. You could probably swing a boot through the water and catch a fish."

Honoria gasped with glee.

Daniel turned on her in an instant. “Don’t even think about it."

“But—” “If my boots end up anywhere near the water I swear I will have you drawn and quartered."

She pouted and looked down, muttering, “I was thinking about my boots.” Marcus felt a little laugh bubble over his lips. Honoria immediately looked back up, regarding him with an expression of utter betrayal.

“It would have to be a very small fish,” he said quickly.

This did not seem to satisfy her.

“You can’t eat them when they’re that small,” he tried. “They’re mostly bones."

“Let’s go,” Daniel muttered. And they did, tramping off through the woods, Honoria’s little legs pumping at double speed, just to keep up.

“I’m not fond of fish, actually,” she said, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. “They smell horrid. And they taste fishy . . .” And then, on the way back— “. . . I still think that pink one looked big enough to eat. If you liked fish, which I don’t. But if you did like fish . . ."

“Do not ever invite her to come with us again,” Daniel said to Marcus.

“. . . which I don’t. But I think Mother likes fish. And I am sure she would like a pink fish . . .” “I won’t,” Marcus assured him. It seemed the height of rudeness to criticize a little girl, but she was exhausting.

“. . . although Charlotte wouldn’t. Charlotte hates pink. She won’t wear it. She says it makes her look gaunt. I don’t know what gaunt means, but it sounds unpleasant. I like lavender, myself."

The two boys let out identical sighs and would have kept walking except that Honoria jumped in front of them and grinned.

“It matches my eyes,” she said.

“The fish?” Marcus asked, glancing down at the bucket in his hand. There were three nice-sized trout bumping up against the sides. There would have been more, except that Honoria had accidentally kicked the bucket, sending Marcus’s first two prizes back into the lake.

“No. Haven’t you been listening?” Marcus would always remember that moment. It was to be the first time he would ever be faced with that most vexing of female quirks: the question that had nothing but wrong answers. “Lavender matches my eyes,” Honoria said with great authority. “My father told me so."

“Then it must be true,” Marcus said with relief.

She twirled her hair around her finger, but the curl immediately fell out when she let go. “Brown matches my hair, but I prefer lavender."

Marcus finally set the bucket down. It was growing heavy, and the handle was digging into his palm.

“Oh, no,” Daniel said, grabbing Marcus’s bucket with his free hand and giving it back to Marcus. “We are going home.” He glared at Honoria. “Out of our way.” “Why are you nice to everyone but me?” she asked.

“Because you are a pest!” he fairly yelled.

It was true, but Marcus still felt sorry for her. Some of the time.

She was practically an only child, and he knew precisely how that felt. All she wanted was to be a part of things, to be included in games and parties and all those activities her family was constantly telling her she was too young for.

Honoria took the verbal blow without flinching. She stood still, staring venomously at her brother. Then she sucked in one long, loud breath through her nose.

Marcus wished he had a handkerchief.

“Marcus,” she said. She turned to face him, although it really wasn’t so much that as it was turning her back on her brother.

“Would you like to have a tea party with me?"

Daniel snickered.

“I will bring my best dolls,” she said with complete gravity. Dear God, anything but this. “And there will be cakes,” she added, in a prim little voice that scared him to death.

Marcus shot a panicked look at Daniel, but he was no help whatsoever.

“Well?” Honoria demanded.

“No,” Marcus blurted out.

“No?” She gave him an owlish stare.

“I can’t. I’m busy."

“Doing what?"

Marcus cleared his throat. Twice. “Things."

“What kinds of things?” “Things.” And then he felt terrible, because he hadn’t meant to be so adamant. “Daniel and I have plans.” She looked stricken. Her lower lip began to tremble, and for once Marcus did not think she was faking.

“I’m sorry,” he added, because he hadn’t wanted to hurt her feelings. But for heaven’s sake, it was a tea party! There wasn’t a twelve-year-old boy alive who wanted to attend a tea party.

With dolls.

Marcus shuddered.

Honoria’s face grew red with rage as she swung around to face her brother. “You made him say that."

“I didn’t say a word,” Daniel replied.

“I hate you,” she said in a low voice. “I hate you both.” And then she yelled it. “I hate you! Especially you, Marcus! I really hate you!"

And then she ran to the house as fast as her skinny little legs could carry her, which wasn’t very fast at all. Marcus and Daniel just stood there, silently watching her go.

When she was nearly to the house, Daniel nodded and said, “She hates you. You are officially a member of the family."

And he was. From that moment on, he was.

Until the spring of 1821, when Daniel went and ruined it all.

Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith was desperate.

Desperate for a sunny day, desperate for a husband, desperate —she thought with an exhausted sigh as she looked down at her ruined blue slippers—for a new pair of shoes.

She sat down heavily on the stone bench outside Mr. Hilleford’s Tobacco Shoppe for Discerning Gentlemen and pressed herself up against the wall behind her, desperately (there was that awful word again) trying to wedge her entire body under the awning. It was pouring. Pouring. Not drizzling, not merely raining, but pouring proverbial cats, dogs, sheep, and horses.

At this rate, she wouldn’t have been surprised if an elephant tumbled down from the sky.

And it stank. Honoria had thought that cheroots produced her least favorite smell, but no, mold was worse, and Mr. Hilleford’s Tobacco Shoppe for Gentlemen who Did Not Mind if Their Teeth Turned Yellow had a suspicious black substance creeping along its outer wall that smelled like death.

Really, could she possibly be in a worse situation?

Why, yes. Yes, she could. Because she was (of course) quite alone, the rain having taken thirty seconds to go from drip to downpour. The rest of her shopping party was across the street, happily browsing in the warm and cozy Miss Pilaster’s Fancy Emporium of Ribbons and Trinkets, which, in addition to having all sorts of fun and frilly merchandise, smelled a great deal better than Mr. Hilleford’s establishment.

Miss Pilaster sold perfume. Miss Pilaster sold dried rose petals and little candles that smelled like vanilla.

Mr. Hilleford grew mold.

Honoria sighed. Such was her life.

She had lingered too long at the window of a bookshop, assuring her friends that she would meet them at Miss Pilaster’s in a minute or two. Two minutes had turned to five, and then, just as she’d been preparing to make her way across the street, the heavens had opened and Honoria had had no choice but to take refuge under the only open awning on the south side of the Cambridge High Street.

She stared mournfully at the rain, watching it pummel the street.

The drops were pelting the cobblestones with tremendous force, splashing and spraying back into the air like tiny little explosions.

The sky was darkening by the second, and if Honoria was any judge of English weather, the wind was going to pick up at any moment, rendering her pathetic spot under Mr. Hilleford’s awning completely useless.

Her mouth slipped into a dejected frown, and she squinted up at the sky.

Her feet were wet.

She was cold.

And she’d never once, not in her entire life, left the boundaries of England, which meant that she was a rather good judge of English weather, and in about three minutes she was going to be even more miserable than she was right now.

Which she really hadn’t thought possible.

“Honoria?"

She blinked, bringing her gaze down from the sky to the carriage that had just rolled into place in front of her.