“Honoria?"

She knew that voice. “Marcus?"

Oh, good heavens, her misery only needed this. Marcus Holroyd, the Earl of Chatteris, happy and dry in his plush carriage.

Honoria felt her jaw go slack, although really, she didn’t know why she should be surprised. Marcus lived in Cambridgeshire, not too far from the city. More to the point, if anyone were to see her while she was looking like a wet, bedraggled creature of the rodential variety, it would be he.

“Good God, Honoria,” he said, scowling down at her in that supercilious way of his, “you must be freezing."

She managed the barest of shrugs. “It is a bit brisk."

“What are you doing here?” “Ruining shoes.” “What?"

“Shopping,” she said, motioning across the street, “with friends.

And cousins.” Not that her cousins weren’t also friends. But she had so many cousins they almost seemed a category unto themselves.

The door opened wider. “Get in,” he said. Not Will you please get in or Please, you must dry yourself off. Just: “Get in.” Another girl might have tossed her hair and said, You can’t order me about! Another, slightly less prideful girl might have thought it, even if she’d lacked the courage to say it aloud. But Honoria was cold, and she valued her comfort more than her pride, and more to the point, this was Marcus Holroyd, and she’d known him since she was in pinafores.

Since the age of six, to be precise.

That was also probably the last time she’d managed to show herself to advantage, she thought with a grimace. At seven she’d made such a pest of herself that he and her brother Daniel had taken to calling her Mosquito. When she’d claimed to be complimented, that she’d loved how exotic and dangerous it had sounded, they’d smirked and changed it to Bug.

Bug she’d been, ever since.

He’d seen her wetter than this, too. He’d seen her completely soaked, back when she was eight and she’d thought she’d been completely hidden in the boughs of the old oak tree at Whipple Hill.

Marcus and Daniel had built a fort at its base, no girls allowed.

They had pelted her with pebbles until she’d lost her grip and tumbled down.

In retrospect, she really shouldn’t have chosen the branch that hung over the lake.

Marcus had fished her out of the dunk, though, which was more than she could say for her own brother.

Marcus Holroyd, she thought ruefully. He’d been in her life almost as long as she could remember. Since before he was Lord Chatteris, since before Daniel was Lord Winstead. Since before Charlotte, her closest-in-age sister, had married and left home.

Since before Daniel, too, had left. “Honoria.” She looked up. Marcus’s voice was impatient, but his face held a hint of concern. “Get in,” he repeated.

She nodded and did as he said, taking his large hand in hers and accepting his help into his carriage. “Marcus,” she said, trying to settle herself into her seat with all the grace and nonchalance she might exhibit in a fine drawing room, never mind the puddles at her feet. “What a lovely surprise to see you."

He just stared at her, his dark brows coming ever-so-slightly together. He was trying to decide the most effective way to scold her, she was sure.

“I am staying here in town. With the Royles,” she told him, even though he hadn’t yet asked. “We are here for five days—Cecily Royle, my cousins Sarah and Iris, and I.” She waited for a moment, for some sort of flash of recognition in his eyes, then said, “You don’t remember who they are, do you?"

“You have a great many cousins,” he pointed out.

“Sarah is the one with the thick, dark hair and eyes."

“Thick eyes?” he murmured, cracking a tiny smile. “Marcus.” He chuckled. “Very well. Thick hair. Dark eyes."

“Iris is very pale. Strawberry blond hair?” she prompted. “You still don’t recall."

“She comes from that family of flowers."

Honoria winced. It was true that her uncle William and aunt Maria had chosen to name their daughters Rose, Marigold, Lavender, Iris, and Daisy, but still.

“I know who Miss Royle is,” Marcus said.

“She’s your neighbor. You have to know who she is.” He just shrugged.

“At any rate, we are here in Cambridge because Cecily’s mother thought we could all use a bit of improving."

His mouth tipped into a vaguely mocking smile. “Improving?"

Honoria wondered why females always needed improving, while males got to go to school. “She bribed two professors into allowing us to listen to their lectures."

“Really?” He sounded curious. And dubious.

“The life and times of Queen Elizabeth,” Honoria recited dutifully. “And after that, something in Greek."

“Do you speak Greek?” “Not a one of us,” she admitted. “But the professor was the only other one who was willing to speak to females.” She rolled her eyes. “He intends to deliver the lecture twice in a row. We must wait in an office until the students leave the lecture hall, lest they see us and lose all sense of reason."

Marcus nodded thoughtfully. “It is nearly impossible for a gentleman to keep his mind upon his studies in the presence of such overwhelming female loveliness."

Honoria thought he was serious for about two seconds. She managed one sideways glance in his direction before she burst out with a snort of laughter. “Oh, please,” she said, giving him a light punch in the arm. Such familiarities were unheard of in London, but here, with Marcus . . .

He was practically her brother, after all.

“How fares your mother?” he asked.

“She is well,” Honoria replied, even though she wasn’t. Not really. Lady Winstead had never quite recovered from the scandal of Daniel being forced to leave the country. She alternated between fussing over supposed slights and pretending her only son had never existed.

It was . . . difficult.

“She hopes to retire to Bath,” Honoria added. “Her sister lives there, and I think the two of them would get on well together. She doesn’t really like London."

“Your mother?” Marcus asked, with some surprise.

“Not as she used to,” Honoria clarified. “Not since Daniel . . .

Well. You know.” Marcus’s lips tightened at the corners. He knew.

“She thinks people are still talking about it,” Honoria said.

“Are they?” Honoria shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea. I don’t think so.

No one has given me the cut direct. Besides, it was nearly three years ago. Wouldn’t you think everyone has something else to talk about?"

“I would have thought that everyone would have had something else to talk about when it happened,” he said darkly.

Honoria lifted a brow as she regarded his scowl. There was a reason he scared off so many debutantes. Her friends were terrified of him.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. They were only scared while in his presence. The rest of the time they sat at their escritoires, writing their names entwined with his—all in ridiculous loopy script, adorned with hearts and cherubs.

He was quite the matrimonial catch, Marcus Holroyd.

It wasn’t that he was handsome, because he wasn’t, not exactly.

His hair was a nice dark color; his eyes, too, but there was something about his face that Honoria found harsh. His brow was too heavy, too straight, his eyes set a bit too deeply.

But still, there was something about him that caught the eye. An aloofness, a tinge of disdain, as if he simply did not have the patience for nonsense.

It made the girls mad for him, even though most were nonsense personified.

They whispered about him as if he were some dark storybook hero, or if not that, then the villain, all gothic and mysterious, needing only to be redeemed.

Whereas to Honoria he was simply Marcus, which wasn’t anything simple at all. She hated the way he patronized her, watching her with that disapproving stare. He made her feel as she’d been years ago, as an annoying child, or gawky adolescent.

And yet at the same time, there was something so comforting in having him about. Their paths did not cross as often as they used to —everything was different now that Daniel was gone—but when she walked into a room, and he was there . . .

She knew it.

And oddly enough, that was a good thing.

“Do you plan to come down to London for the season?” she asked politely.

“For some of it,” he replied, his face inscrutable. “I have matters to attend to here."

“Of course."

“And you?” he asked.

She blinked.

“Do you plan to go down to London for the season?"

Her lips parted. Surely he could not be serious. Where else would she possibly go, given her unmarried state? It wasn’t as if— “Are you laughing?” she asked suspiciously.

“Of course not.” But he was smiling.

“It’s not funny,” she told him. “It’s not as if I have a choice. I have to go for the season. I’m desperate."

“Desperate,” he repeated, and he looked dubious. It was a frequent expression on his face.

“I have to find a husband this year.” She felt her head shaking back and forth, even though she wasn’t sure what she might be objecting to. Her situation was not so very different from most of her friends’. She wasn’t the only young lady hoping for marriage.

But she wasn’t looking for a husband so that she could admire the ring on her finger or bask in the glory of her status as a dashing young matron. She wanted a house of her own. A family—a large, noisy one that didn’t always mind their manners.