“It’s quite macabre.” “I cannot wait.” “Oh, please,” she said, “you can’t possibly want to read this."

“Why not?"

“It’s so . . .” She waved a hand through the air as she searched for the right word. “Unserious."

“I can’t read something unserious?"

“Well, of course you can. I just find it difficult to imagine that you would choose to.” “And why is that?"

Her eyebrows rose. “You’re sounding awfully defensive."

“I’m curious. Why wouldn’t I choose to read something unserious?” “I don’t know. You’re you.” “Why does that sound like an insult?” Said with nothing but curiosity.

“It’s not.” She took another piece of treacle tart and nibbled at it. And that was when the strangest thing happened. His eyes fell to her lips, and as he watched, her tongue darted from her mouth to lick an errant crumb.

It was the tiniest movement, over in less than a second. But something electric shot through him, and with a gasp he realized it was desire. Hot, gut-clenching desire.

For Honoria.

“Are you all right?” she asked. No. “Yes, er, why?"

“I thought I might have hurt your feelings,” she admitted. “If I did, please accept my apologies. Truly, it wasn’t meant to be an insult. You’re perfectly nice the way you are.” “Nice?” Such a bland word.

“It’s better than not nice."

It was at this point that a different man might have grabbed her and showed her precisely how “not nice” he could be, and Marcus was actually “not nice” enough to imagine the scene in great detail.

But he was also still suffering the aftereffects of a near-deadly fever, to say nothing of the open door and her mother, who was likely just down the hall. So instead he said, “What else did you bring me to read?” It was a much safer avenue of conversation, especially since he had spent much of the day convincing himself that kissing her had had nothing to do with desire. It had been a complete aberration, a momentary burst of madness brought on by extreme emotion.

This argument, unfortunately, was presently being shot to pieces.

Honoria had shifted her position so that she could reach the books without standing up, and this meant that she’d moved her bottom quite a bit closer to . . . well, to his bottom, or really, his hip if one wanted to put a fine point on it. There was a sheet and a blanket between them, not to mention his nightshirt and her dress and heaven knew what else she had under it, but dear God he had never been as aware of another human being as he was of her right that very moment.

And he still wasn’t sure how it had happened. “Ivanhoe,” she said.

What was she talking about?

“Marcus? Are you listening? I brought you Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott. Although, look at this, isn’t this interesting?"

He blinked, certain he must have missed something. Honoria had opened the book and was flipping through the pages at the beginning.

“His name is not on the book. I don’t see it anywhere.” She turned it over and held it up. “It just says ‘By the Author of Waverley.’ Look, even on the spine."

He nodded, because that was what he thought was expected of him. But at the same time, he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her lips, which were pursed together in that rosebuddish thing she did when she was thinking.

“I haven’t read Waverley, have you?” She looked up, eyes bright.

“I have not,” he answered.

“Perhaps I should,” she murmured. “My sister said she enjoyed it. But at any rate, I didn’t bring you Waverley, I brought you Ivanhoe. Or rather, the first volume. I didn’t see any point in lugging all three."

“I have read Ivanhoe,” he told her.

“Oh. Well, let’s put that one aside, then.” She looked down at the next.

And he looked at her.

Her lashes. How had he never noticed how long they were? It was rather odd, because she hadn’t the coloring that usually accompanied long lashes. Maybe that was why he hadn’t noticed them; they were long, but not dark.

“Marcus? Marcus!"

“Hmmm?"

“Are you all right?” She leaned forward, regarding him with some concern. “You look a bit flushed."

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps some more lemon water.” He took a sip, and then another, for good measure. “Do you find it hot in here?"

“No.” Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t."

“I’m sure it’s nothing. I—"

She already had her hand on his forehead. “You don’t feel warm.” “What else did you bring?” he asked quickly, motioning with his head toward the books.

“Oh, er, here we are . . .” She took hold of another one and read from the cover. “History of the Crusades for the Recovery and Possession of the Holy Land. Oh, dear."

“What is it?"

“I brought only Volume Two. You can’t start there. You’ll miss the entire siege of Jerusalem and everything about the Norwegians.” Let it be said, Marcus thought dryly, that nothing cooled a man’s ardor like the Crusades. Still . . .

He looked at her questioningly. “Norwegians?"

“A little-known crusade at the beginning,” she said, waving aside what was probably a good decade of history with a flick of her wrist. “Hardly anyone ever talks about it.” She looked over at him and saw what must have been an expression of complete amazement. “I like the Crusades,” she said with a shrug.

“That’s . . . excellent."

“How about The Life and Death of Cardinal Wolsey?” she asked, holding up another book. “No? I also have History of the Rise, Progress, and Termination of the American Revolution.” “You really do think I’m dull,” he said to her.

She looked at him accusingly. “The Crusades are not dull."

“But you brought only Volume Two,” he reminded her.

“I can certainly go back and look for the first volume.” He decided to interpret that as a threat.

“Oh, here we are. Look at this.” She held up a very slim, pocket-sized book with a triumphant expression. “I have one by Byron. The least dull man in existence. Or so I’m told. I have never met him myself.” She opened the book to the title page. “Have you read The Corsair?” “On the day it was published."

“Oh.” She frowned. “Here is another by Sir Walter Scott. Peveril of the Peak. It’s rather lengthy. It should keep you busy for some time."

“I believe I will stick with Miss Butterworth.” “If you wish.” She gave him a look as if to say, There is no way you are going to like it. “It belongs to my mother. Although she did say you may keep it."

“If nothing else, I’m sure it will rekindle my love of pigeon pie.” She laughed. “I’ll tell Cook to prepare it for you after we leave tomorrow.” She looked up suddenly. “You did know that we depart for London tomorrow?"

“Yes, your mother told me."

“We wouldn’t go unless we were certain you were recovering,"

she assured him.

“I know. I’m sure you have much to attend to in town."

She grimaced. “Rehearsals, actually."

“Rehearsals?"

“For the—” Oh, no. “—musicale."

The Smythe-Smith musicale. It finished off what the Crusades had begun. There wasn’t a man alive who could maintain a romantic thought when faced with the memory—or the threat—of a Smythe- Smith musicale.

“You’re still playing the violin?” he asked politely.

She gave him a funny look. “I’ve hardly taken up the cello since last year.” “No, no, of course not.” It had been a silly thing to ask. But quite possibly the only polite question he might have come up with.

“Er, do you know yet when the musicale is scheduled for this year?"

“The fourteenth of April. It’s not so very far off. Only a bit more than two weeks.” Marcus took another piece of treacle tart and chewed, trying to calculate how long he might need to recuperate. Three weeks seemed exactly the right length of time. “I’m sorry I’ll miss it,” he said.

“Really?” She sounded positively disbelieving. He was not sure how to interpret this.

“Well, of course,” he said, stammering slightly. He’d never been a terrifically good liar. “I haven’t missed it for years."

“I know,” she said, shaking her head. “It has been a magnificent effort on your part."

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

He looked at her more closely. “What are you saying?” he asked carefully.

Her cheeks turned ever so slightly pink. “Well,” she said, glancing off toward a perfectly blank wall, “I realize that we’re not the most . . . er . . .” She cleared her throat. “Is there an antonym for discordant?” He stared at her in disbelief. “Are you saying you know. . . .

ehrm, that is to say—"

“That we’re awful?” she finished for him. “Of course I know.

Did you think me an idiot? Or deaf?” “No,” he said, drawing out the syllable in order to give himself time to think. Although what good that was going to do him, he had no idea. “I just thought . . .” He left it at that.

“We’re terrible,” Honoria said with a shrug of her shoulders.

“But there is no point in histrionics or sulking. There’s nothing we can do about it."

“Practice?” he suggested, but very carefully.

He wouldn’t have thought a person could be both disdainful and amused, but if Honoria’s expression was any indication, she had managed it. “If I thought that practice might actually make us better,” she said, her lip curling ever so slightly even as her eyes danced with laughter, “believe me, I would be the most diligent violin student the world has ever seen."