Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith Quartet #1)(7)

“No, thank you.” Honoria craned her neck a bit, trying to see through the glass and the storm and the next bit of glass into Miss Pilaster’s. She couldn’t see a thing, but it was a good excuse not to look at him, so she made a good show of it. “I’ll join my friends in a moment.”

“Are you hungry?” he inquired. “I stopped at Flindle’s earlier and have a few cakes wrapped to take home.”

Her eyes lit up. “Cakes?”

She didn’t say the word as much as she sighed it. Or maybe moaned it. But she didn’t care. He knew that sweets were her weakness; he was the same way. Daniel had never been particularly fond of dessert, and more than once, she and Marcus had found themselves together as children, huddled over a plate of cakes and biscuits.

Daniel had said they looked like a pack of savages, which had made Marcus laugh uproariously. Honoria never did understand why.

He reached down and drew something out of a box at his feet. “Are you still partial to chocolate?”

“Always.” She felt herself smile in kinship. And perhaps in anticipation, as well.

He started to laugh. “Do you remember that torte Cook made—”

“The one the dog got into?”

“I almost cried.”

She grimaced. “I think I did cry.”

“I got one bite.”

“I got none,” she said longingly. “But it smelled divine.”

“Oh, it was.” He looked as if the memory of it might send him into a rapture. “It was.”

“You know, I always thought Daniel might have had something to do with Buttercup getting into the house.”

“I’m sure he did,” Marcus agreed. “The look on his face . . .”

“I hope you thrashed him.”

“To within an inch of his life,” he assured her.

She grinned, then asked, “But not really?”

He smiled in return. “Not really.” He chuckled at the memory and held out a small rectangle of chocolate cake, lovely and brown atop a crisp piece of white paper. It smelled just like heaven. Honoria took a deep, happy breath and smiled.

Then she looked over at Marcus and smiled anew. Because for a moment she’d felt like herself again, like the girl she’d been just a few years ago, when the world lay before her, a bright shiny ball that glittered with promise. It had been a feeling she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing—of belonging, of place, of being with someone who knew you utterly and completely and still thought you were worth laughing with.

Strange that it should be Marcus who should make her feel that way.

And in so many ways, not strange at all.

She took the cake from his hand and looked down at it questioningly.

“I’m afraid I haven’t any sort of utensil,” he said apologetically.

“It might make a terrible mess,” she said, hoping that he realized that what she was really saying was Please tell me that you don’t mind if I spread crumbs all over your carriage.

“I shall have one, too,” he told her. “So that you don’t feel alone.”

She tried not to smile. “That is most generous of you.”

“I am quite certain it is my gentlemanly duty.”

“To eat cake?”

“It is one of the more appealing of my gentlemanly duties,” he allowed.

Honoria giggled, then took a bite. “Oh, my.”

“Good?”

“Heavenly.” She took another bite. “And by that I mean beyond heavenly.”

He grinned and ate some of his own, devouring half in one bite. Then, while Honoria watched with some surprise, he popped the other half into his mouth and finished it.

The piece hadn’t been very large, but still. She took a nibble of her own, trying to make it last longer.

“You always did that,” he said.

She looked up. “What?”

“Ate your dessert slowly, just to torture the rest of us.”

“I like to make it last.” She gave him an arch look, accompanied by a one-shouldered shrug. “If you feel tortured by that, that must be your own problem.”

“Heartless,” he murmured.

“With you, always.”

He chuckled again, and Honoria was struck by how different he was in private. It was almost as if she had the old Marcus back, the one who had practically lived at Whipple Hill. He had truly become a member of the family, even joining their dreadful pantomimes. He had played a tree every time; for some reason that had always amused her.

She liked that Marcus. She had adored that Marcus.

But he’d been gone these past few years, replaced by the silent, scowling man known to the rest of the world as Lord Chatteris. It was sad, really. For her, but probably most of all, for him.

She finished her cake, trying to ignore his amused expression, then accepted his handkerchief to wipe the crumbs from her hands. “Thank you,” she said, handing it back.

He nodded his welcome, then said, “When are you—”

But he was cut off by a sharp rap at the window.

Honoria peered past him to see who was knocking.

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said a footman in familiar livery. “Is that Lady Honoria?”

“It is.”