Julia Quinn - Just Like Heaven

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.

“I’m not angry,” she bit off.

Most people would have retorted that she sounded angry, but Marcus just looked at her in that annoyingly self-composed manner of his.

“I’m not angry,” she muttered, because his silence practically demanded that she say something.

“Of course not.” Her head snapped up. That had been patronizing. The rest she might have been imagining, but not this.

He said nothing. He wouldn’t. Marcus would never make a scene.

“I don’t feel well,” she blurted out. That, at least, was true. Her head hurt and she was overheated and off-balance and all she wanted was to just go home and crawl into bed and pull her covers over her face.

“I will take you to get some air,” he said stiffly, and he put his hand at her back to lead her to the French doors that opened onto the garden.

“No,” she said, and the word burst forth overly loud and dissonant. “I mean, no, thank you.” She swallowed. “I believe I will go home."

He gave a nod. “I will find your mother.” “I’ll do it."

“I’m happy to—"

“I can do things for myself,” she burst out. Dear God, she hated the sound of her own voice. She knew it was time to shut up. She couldn’t seem to say the right words. And she couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t need to be your responsibility."

“What are you talking about?"

She couldn’t possibly answer that question, so instead she said, “I want to go home."

He stared at her for what felt like an eternity, then gave her a stiff bow. “As you wish,” he said, and he walked away.

So she went home. As she wished. She’d got exactly what she’d asked for.

And it was awful.

“Where is Sarah?"

Honoria looked up from her music. She had been scribbling notes in the margin. Nothing she wrote made any sense, but it gave her the illusion that she knew a little something about what she was doing, so she made sure to have some sort of notation on every page.

Iris was standing in the middle of the music room. “Where’s Sarah?” she said again.

“I don’t know,” Honoria said. She looked one way, and then the other. “Where’s Daisy?"

Iris waved an impatient arm toward the door. “She stopped to attend to herself after we arrived. Don’t worry about her. She wouldn’t miss this for the world."

“Sarah’s not here?"

Iris looked about ready to explode. “Do you see her?"

“Iris!"

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude, but where the devil is she?"

Honoria let out an irritated exhale. Didn’t Iris have something more important to worry about? She hadn’t made a complete fool of herself in front of the man she’d only recently realized she loved.

Three days had passed, and she felt ill just thinking about it.

Honoria couldn’t remember exactly what she’d said. Instead, she recalled the terrible sound of her voice, all jerky and choked.

She remembered her brain begging her mouth to just stop talking, and she remembered her mouth having none of it. She’d been completely irrational, and if he had considered her a responsibility before, now he must think her a chore.

And even before that, before she had started spouting nonsense and acting so emotional that the men of the world must surely think themselves justified in considering women the flightier sex, she’d still been a fool. She’d danced with him as if he’d been her salvation, she’d looked up at him with her heart in her eyes, and he’d said— Nothing. He hadn’t said anything. Just her name. And then he’d looked at her as if she’d gone green. He’d probably thought she was going to cast up her accounts and ruin another perfectly good pair of his boots.

That had been three days earlier. Three days. Without a word.

“She should have been here at least twenty minutes ago,” Iris grumbled.

To which Honoria muttered, “He should have been here two days ago."

Iris turned sharply. “What did you say?"

“Perhaps there was traffic?” Honoria asked, making a quick recovery.

“She lives only half a mile away."

Honoria gave her a distracted nod. She looked down at the notes she’d made on page two of her score and realized she’d written Marcus’s name. Twice. No, three times. There was a little M.H. in curlicue script hiding next to a dotted half note. Good Lord.

She was pathetic.

“Honoria! Honoria! Are you even listening to me?"

Iris again. Honoria tried not to groan. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” she said placatingly.

“Are you?” Iris demanded. “Because I’m not. I knew she was going to do this to me."

“Do what?"

“Don’t you understand? She’s not coming.” Honoria finally looked up. “Oh, don’t be silly. Sarah would never do that."

“Really?” Iris gave her a look of utter disbelief. And panic.

“Really?"

Honoria stared at her for a long moment, and then: “Oh, dear God."

“I told you you shouldn’t have chosen Quartet no. 1. Sarah’s actually not that bad on the pianoforte, but the piece is far too difficult.” “It’s difficult for us, as well,” Honoria said weakly. She was beginning to feel sick.

“Not as difficult as on the piano. And besides, it really doesn’t matter how difficult the violin parts are, because—” Iris cut herself off. She swallowed, and her cheeks turned pink.

“You won’t hurt my feelings,” Honoria told her. “I know I’m dreadful. And I know Daisy is even worse. We’d do an equally bad job with any piece of music."

“I can’t believe her,” Iris said, starting to pace frantically about the room. “I can’t believe she would do this.” “We don’t know that she isn’t going to play,” Honoria said.

Iris spun around. “Don’t we?"

Honoria swallowed uncomfortably. Iris was right. Sarah had never been twenty—no, now it was twenty-five—minutes late for a rehearsal.

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t chosen such a difficult piece,” Iris accused.

Honoria stomped to her feet. “Do not try to lay the blame on me! I’m not the one who spent the last week complaining about— Oh, never mind. I’m here, and she’s not, and I don’t see how that is my fault."

“No, no, of course,” Iris said, shaking her head. “It’s just— Oh!” She let out a loud cry of angry frustration. “I can’t believe she would do this to me.” “To us,” Honoria reminded her quietly.

“Yes, but I’m the one who didn’t want to perform. You and Daisy didn’t care."

“I don’t see what that has to do with it,” Honoria said.

“I don’t know,” Iris wailed. “It’s just that we were all supposed to be in this together. That’s what you said. Every single day you said it. And if I was going to swallow my pride and humiliate myself in front of every single person I know, then Sarah was going to have to do it, too."

Just then Daisy arrived. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why is Iris so upset?"

“Sarah isn’t here,” Honoria explained.

Daisy looked over at the clock on the mantel. “That’s rude of her. She’s almost a half an hour late."

“She’s not coming,” Iris said flatly.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Honoria said.

“What do you mean she’s not coming?” Daisy echoed. “She can’t not come. How are we meant to perform a piano quartet without a piano?” A long silence fell over the room, and then Iris gasped. “Daisy, you’re brilliant."

Daisy looked pleased, but nonetheless said, “I am?” “We can cancel the performance!"

“No,” Daisy said, shaking her head quickly. She turned to Honoria. “I don’t want to do that."

“We’ll have no choice,” Iris went on, her eyes lighting with glee.

“It’s just as you said. We can’t have a piano quartet without a piano. Oh, Sarah is brilliant.” Honoria, however, was not convinced. She adored Sarah, but it was difficult to think of her planning something quite so unselfish, especially under these circumstances. “Do you really think she did this in an attempt to cancel the entire performance?"