Only Mr. Darcy Will Do - Kara Louise excerpt

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Elizabeth Bennet wrapped the cloak tightly around little Emily, bending down with a smile as she straightened it.

“There! I believe you are ready.”

“Thank you. I am sorry I dawdled and needed you to help me get ready.” She looked up at Elizabeth with pleading blue eyes.

“Will you not join us this morning, Miss Bennet? Why do you never attend church services with us?”

Elizabeth took the little girl’s hands in her own. “You ask me that every week, and every week I tell you. Your mother and father have been so kind to me that on Sundays I am free from my duties so I may visit my family. I accompany my sister, Jane, and my aunt and uncle and little cousins to the church they attend in their neighbourhood.”

The little girl pouted. “But today is Easter! I do not know why you cannot spend the day with us.”

Elizabeth patted Emily’s head. “You have me for six days a week. I would think that you would prefer to have one day without me. Besides, when we are in the country this summer, I shall be with you every day. I dare say you will tire of me then and wish to have some time away from me!”

Before the little girl could respond, her mother called from downstairs. “Emily, we are about to leave. Are you ready?” Emily looked toward the door, then sadly back at Elizabeth. “I think I would enjoy church much better if you were there with me.”

“That means a great deal to me, Emily. And one day I shall join you, but not today. Now walk downstairs like the little lady you are. I will be late if I do not hasten and get myself ready.” Elizabeth smiled and shook her head as she watched her ward turn and skip down the stairs.

Each week Emily’s plea was the same, but Elizabeth knew that once Emily was with her parents, she would be all but forgotten.

As Sunday was her day off, normally Elizabeth did not have any responsibilities with Emily. Today, however, the young girl needed some additional help readying herself, so Elizabeth gladly assisted her. With that task now behind her, Elizabeth could look forward to her day with her family. She would accompany them to church and then visit with them throughout the afternoon and evening. This was the highlight of her week. For the remainder of the week she was governess to six-year-old Emily Willstone. Elizabeth hurried to ready herself. She knew her uncle’s carriage would arrive shortly, and she did not wish to be late.

When she was finished dressing, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes took in the grey dress she wore and how pale her face appeared. It was one of two grey dresses she owned and wore while in half-mourning. She also had two black dresses that had been her complete wardrobe for her days of full-mourning. She still had a little over a month of mourning remaining and she wondered whether she could ever go back to wearing colours again. Her grief was still as fresh and strong as it had been the day her father died.

In the waning of spring last year, just as the days were growing in length and warmth, Mr. Bennet was unexpectedly taken from them. A trip Elizabeth had planned to take with the Gardiners up north was cancelled. Her youngest sister, Lydia, was sent home from Brighton, where she had been staying as a guest of Colonel Forster and his wife. Jane’s loss of Charles Bingley’s affections was now swallowed up in the loss of her father. The family grieved together and consoled one another. Elizabeth, being the one who had the strength of character, was the one everyone turned to, yet it was she who suffered the deepest grief in the loss of her father.

While Elizabeth tried to encourage everyone to be strong, there was an underlying uncertainty that each of the Bennet ladies shared. With Longbourn entailed away to their cousin, Mr. Collins, he now had every right to claim it as his own. Whenever Mrs. Bennet brought up the dreaded subject, Elizabeth and Jane would do their best to assuage her fears that they would not be left homeless and destitute. As was feared, however, several months following Mr. Bennet’s death, the Collinses sent notice that they would indeed be moving to Longbourn at the beginning of the new year. Charlotte Collins, Elizabeth’s good friend, assured the family that they could remain in their home as long as they required, but Elizabeth knew she could never live at Longbourn when it was no longer theirs, and neither could she live under the same roof as Mr. Collins.

With strong urging from Elizabeth, Mrs. Bennet moved into the nearby village of Meryton with her sister and husband, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. She brought her three youngest daughters to live with them. The Phillips’s children were grown and married, and the couple was able to take the Bennet ladies into their home, although there was not as much ample space as they had enjoyed at Longbourn.

Elizabeth suggested early on that Jane move to London with Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, their mother’s brother and wife, as governess for the Gardiners’ four children. Jane was delighted when Elizabeth herself secured employment as a governess for a family in London. With this arrangement, the two close sisters could still occasionally visit.

The Willstones, the family for whom Elizabeth worked, hired her when it became apparent to them in their initial meeting that she and six-year-old Emily seemed to get along quite nicely. Despite Elizabeth’s lack of formal education, she impressed them with her knowledge of the basic accomplishments. While explaining she learned much from her own love of reading and self-teaching, she did have access to a few masters who lived in the nearby town of Meryton.

Richard and Lorraine Willstone were exceptionally kind and generous, allowing Elizabeth time off on Sundays to visit the Gardiners and her sister. While Elizabeth was grateful for the employment, it was not a life she had ever envisioned for herself.

A piercing recollection interrupted her musings of Easter spent in Kent exactly one year ago. She shuddered as she thought how much had changed since then.

What if I had…?

No! She stamped her foot. She would not reproach herself for refusing those two marriage proposals. The first one, Mr. Collins, she could never have agreed to. The second…

A knock at the door announced that the carriage had arrived.

She pushed away that last thought.

As the carriage drove her through the streets of London from the more fashionable neighbourhood to the less fashionable neighbourhood near Cheapside, Elizabeth looked forward with much anticipation to her day. She would listen with joy to all her aunt and sister had to share about their week, and she would recount to them how her own had passed. It would certainly prove to be a more agreeable Easter than last year.

When she arrived at the Gardiners’ home, she handed off her coat and gloves and eagerly walked into the breakfast room, where a warm meal was being served. She was greeted warmly and profusely.

“Good morning, Lizzy! Happy Easter!” her uncle exclaimed, and he rose and walked over to her, wrapping her in his arms.

“Thank you, Uncle. And a joyous Easter to all of you.” When her uncle released her, she walked over to Jane and gave her a hug.

“How are you, Jane?”

“I am well. And how is my dearest sister?” Jane asked.

“Delighted to be here.” Elizabeth let out a soft laugh. “As much as I love Emily, the joy of my week is being with all of you.”

“And how is little Emily?” her aunt asked as Elizabeth motioned for her to remain seated.

“Her usual self,” answered Elizabeth as she walked over and gave her aunt a kiss on the cheek. “She was a little slow this morning getting ready for church, so I gave her some assistance. She went through her usual custom of not wishing to leave without me. I hope I am not late.”

“Dearest Lizzy, do not worry about being late. We have plenty of time,” her aunt reassured her.

Excerpted from Only Mr. Darcy Will Do - Kara Louise. Reprinted from publisher website www.sourcebooks.com.

Darcy's Voyage - Kara Louise excerpt

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From Chapter One

Elizabeth Bennet walked into the parlour at her Aunt Madlyn and Uncle Edmund Gardiner’s empty home in London. She and her father had spent the day travelling from their home in Hertfordshire and were now spending the night at the Gardiners’ home in Cheapside, where they would both depart early the next morning for the harbour on the River Thames. Elizabeth would board a sailing ship, which would take her from her England homeland to America. Her aunt and uncle were already in America, where they had been these past three months, so this evening they had the house to themselves.

Mr. Gardiner’s business had taken on additional work that spanned the two countries separated by the Atlantic Ocean. Elizabeth understood only that it involved some importing and exporting details that needed to be worked out on the American side. The Gardiners had expected to remain there between six to nine months. Elizabeth planned to visit them for the remainder of their stay. The Gardiners and their four children had all made the crossing together, taking advantage of this opportunity to see some of the sights in the New World.

With her uncle’s work taking him to New York, Elizabeth understood that she and her aunt would have sufficient time to tour the area together. When her uncle’s work was completed, they would all travel back together to England.

Elizabeth’s only regret was that her sister, Jane, was not able to join her. She had also been invited, but due to Jane’s tendency for severe motion sickness, she declined. She knew from a past experience on a boat in the English Channel that four to five weeks on a ship out on the ocean would be exceedingly difficult for her. Consequently, Elizabeth was setting off by herself, much to her father’s consternation.

When the letter from her aunt had arrived, the discussion between herself, her mother, and father had been typical of the conversations that took place in the Bennet home. Elizabeth tried to remain calm as she gave her reasons for desiring to go. Her father was adamant against it and her mother wavered back and forth, giving her nerves full rein as one moment she saw no reason why her daughter could not go, and the next, changed her mind.

It was Elizabeth’s steady, calm, and rational argument that finally persuaded her mother. She knew it would take more to convince her father to allow her to travel unaccompanied, but she knew she could appeal to their mutual love of history, geography, and books. To pass up an opportunity such as this to see America would be something she would always regret if she did not do it now. She appealed to his trust in her character, her wisdom, and her maturity, and in due course, he gave in.

Elizabeth sat down on one of the chairs that occupied the Gardiners’ sitting room. She thought nostalgically of all of the times she had come here to visit her aunt and uncle over the years. She was extremely fond of them and considered them practically a second mother and father. She closely identified with her aunt, and as a young girl scrutinized her closely and tried to imitate her ways. She had never understood her own mother’s ways and knew at a very young age that she did not wish to grow up to be like her.

The Gardiners’ home in London, although neither exceptionally fashionable nor elegant, was very warm. Elizabeth always found it to be a respite from her own home. The Bennet home in the village Longbourn was, by society’s standards, neither modest nor extravagant. Situated in the country on a good parcel of land, it did give Elizabeth a chance to enjoy her favourite pastime, which was to walk. Their own home was a good distance from their nearest neighbour, while her aunt and uncle’s was located on a busy street in Cheapside. Yet she felt the Gardiners’ home was more tranquil because of their easy nature and that of their children. It was far too often that the Bennet household resonated with the nervous ranting of her mother and the uncontrolled outbursts from her youngest sisters. She enjoyed every visit she ever made here. Now, she was looking forward to seeing them again, this time in America. She pulled out the letter that her aunt had written to her and her sister and read it again. From the moment she first read the missive, she knew she had to go.

“Well, my Lizzy, are you still determined to do this?”

Elizabeth looked up. “Yes, Papa. I am so looking forward to it.” She stood up and walked over to him, taking his hand in hers. “Do not worry. All shall be well with me.”

_____ _____ _____

The next morning, Elizabeth pulled her wrap tightly around her as the carriage carrying her and her father drew them closer to the harbour in London. She shivered, not so much because of the cool, foggy mist enveloping them, but because of her realization that the day had finally come. She could admit to herself, but not to her father, that she was indeed nervous about all that was in store for her.

The only way Mr. Bennet had agreed to allow Elizabeth to travel alone was for him to take her onto the ship himself and put her under the protection of the ship’s captain until she reached the foreign shore. But even then, he felt very troubled. The journey would take from four to five weeks, depending on the weather, the winds, and a multitude of conditions. He had heard too many tales of ships that never made it across, sickness spreading throughout the passengers and crew, and other adversities that could befall them. But he also feared for his daughter arriving in this new world and the type of people she might encounter there. He absently shook his head.

“What is it, Papa?” asked Elizabeth.

He turned to her with a sad look in his eyes. “You know what it is, my dearest Lizzy. I would give anything to talk you out of this right now and turn this carriage back around to the safety and security of Longbourn.”

“But Papa, this is an opportunity that I may never get again! Think of it! All of those places I have only read about. Aunt and Uncle Gardiner certainly would not have asked us to come if they did not think it was safe. Do not worry about me. I shall be well.” Elizabeth smiled to reassure him. The only betrayal to her words and her smiling face was her rapidly beating heart.

They soon saw the tall masts of the ships docked along the harbour on the River Thames. One of these very ships would transport Elizabeth out to the eastern coast of England and down around the English Channel. From there it would sail out into the open seas of the Atlantic Ocean, farther from any source of land than either dared comprehend.

“Elizabeth, if anything were to happen to you…”

Elizabeth quickly put her hand over her father’s. “Nothing will happen to me, Papa. Please try not to worry.”

The smile he returned to her was weak. Elizabeth noticed, but did not comment on, the tears that welled up in his eyes. He quickly turned his head to look out the window of the carriage. She knew this was difficult for him, and she wanted to do all she could to set his mind at rest. She could think of nothing else to say. She knew he would not rest easy until she was back here in his sight, in a few months.

In a very soft, sad voice he suddenly said, “We are almost to the port. Are you sure, Lizzy, that I cannot talk you out of this?”

“This is something I have to do.” Elizabeth looked out the window. She saw the masts of the ships, some with sails completely unfurled and already sailing, and others with the sails still furled tightly about their masts. Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat as she suddenly felt a wave of excitement pour through her. Yes, this will be a life-changing adventure. I will not be the same when I come back!

Excerpted from Darcy's Voyage - Kara Louise. Reprinted from publisher website www.sourcebooks.com.

Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase excerpt

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The instant the interval began—and before the other audience members had risen from their seats—the Duke of Clevedon entered the opera box with the Comte d'Orefeur.

The first thing Clevedon saw was the rear view of the brunette: smooth shoulders and back exposed a fraction of an inch beyond what most Parisian women dared, and the skin, pure cream. Disorderly dark curls dangled enticingly against the nape of her neck.

He looked at her neck and forgot about Clara and Madame St. Pierre and every other woman in the world.

A lifetime seemed to pass before he was standing in front of her, looking down into brilliant dark eyes, where laughter glinted . . . looking down at the ripe curve of her mouth, laughter, again, lurking at its corners. Then she moved a little, and it was only a little—the slightest shift of her shoulders—but she did it in the way of a lover turning in bed, or so his body believed, his groin tightening.

The light caught her hair and gilded her skin and danced in those laughing eyes. His gaze drifted lower, to the silken swell of her breasts . . . the sleek curve to her waist . . .

He was vaguely aware of the people about him talking, but he couldn't concentrate on anyone else. Her voice was low, a contralto shaded with a slight huskiness.

Her name, he learned, was Noirot.

Fitting.

Having said to Mademoiselle Fontenay all that good manners required, he turned to the woman who'd disrupted the opera house. Heart racing, he bent over her gloved hand.

"Madame Noirot," he said. "Enchanté." He touched his lips to the soft kid. A light but exotic scent swam into his nostrils. Jasmine?

He lifted his head and met a gaze as deep as midnight. For a long, pulsing moment, their gazes held.

Then she waved her fan at the empty seat nearby. "It's uncomfortable to converse with my head tipped back, your grace," she said.

"Forgive me." He sat. "How rude of me to loom over you in that way. But the view from above was . . . "

He trailed off as it belatedly dawned on him: She'd spoken in English, in the accents of his own class, no less. He'd answered automatically, taught from childhood to show his conversational partner the courtesy of responding in the latter's language.

"But this is diabolical," he said. "I should have wagered anything that you were French." French, and a commoner. She had to be. He'd heard her speak to Orefeur in flawless Parisian French, superior to Clevedon's, certainly. The accent was refined, but her friend—forty if she was a day—was an actress. Ladies of the upper ranks did not consort with actresses. He'd assumed she was an actress or courtesan.

Yet if he closed his eyes, he'd swear he conversed at present with an English aristocrat.

"You'd wager anything?" she said. Her dark gaze lifted to his head and slid down slowly, leaving a heat trail in its wake, and coming to rest at his neckcloth. "That pretty pin, for instance?"

The scent and the voice and the body were slowing his brain. "A wager?" he said blankly.

"Or we could discuss the merits of the present Figaro, or debate whether Rosina ought properly to be a contralto or a mezzo-soprano," she said. "But I think you were not paying attention to the opera." She plied her fan slowly. "Why should I think that, I wonder?"

He collected his wits. "What I don't understand," he said, "is how anyone could pay attention to the opera when you were in the place."

"They're French," she said. "They take art seriously."

"And you're not French?"

She smiled. "That's the question, it seems."

"French," he said. "You're a brilliant mimic, but you're French."

"You're so sure," she said.

"I'm merely a thickheaded Englishman, I know," he said. "But even I can tell French and English women apart. One might dress an Englishwoman in French fashion from head to toe and she'll still look English. You . . . "

He trailed off, letting his gaze skim over her. Only consider her hair. It was as stylish as the precise coifs of other Frenchwomen . . . yet, no, not the same. Hers was more . . . something. It was as though she'd flung out of bed and thrown herself together in a hurry. Yet she wasn't disheveled. She was . . . different.

"You're French, through and through," he said. "If I'm wrong, the stickpin is yours."

"And if you're right?" she said.

He thought quickly. "If I'm right, you'll do me the honor of riding with me in the Bois de Boulogne tomorrow," he said.

"That's all?" she said, in French this time.

"It's a great deal to me."

She rose abruptly in a rustle of silk. Surprised—again—he was slow coming to his feet.

"I need air," she said. "It grows warm in here."

He opened the door to the corridor and she swept past him. He followed her out, his pulse racing.

* * *

Marcelline had seen him countless times, from as little as a few yards away. She'd observed a handsome, expensively elegant English aristocrat.

At close quarters . . .

She was still reeling.

The body first. She'd surreptitiously studied that while he made polite chitchat with Sylvie. The splendid physique was not, as she'd assumed, created or even assisted by fine tailoring, though the tailoring was exquisite. His broad shoulders were not padded, and his tapering torso wasn't cinched in by anything but muscle.

Muscle everywhere—the arms, the long legs. And no tailor could create the lithe power emanating from that tall frame.

It's hot in here, was her first coherent thought.

Then he was standing in front of her, bending over her hand, and the place grew hotter still.

She was aware of his hair, black curls gleaming like silk and artfully tousled.

He lifted his head.

She saw a mouth that should have been a woman's, so full and sensuous it was. But it was pure male, purely carnal.

An instant later she was looking up into a eyes of a rare color—a green like jade—while a low masculine voice caressed her ear and seemed to be caressing parts of her not publicly visible.

Good grief.

She walked quickly as they left the box, thinking quickly, too, as she went. She was aware of the clusters of opera-goers in the corridor making way for her. That amused her, even while she pondered the unexpected problem walking alongside.

She'd known the Duke of Clevedon was a handful.

She'd vastly underestimated.

Still, she was a Noirot, and the risks only excited her.

She came to rest at last in a quieter part of the corridor, near a window. For a time, she gazed out of the window. It showed her only her own reflection: a magnificently dressed, alluring woman, a walking advertisement for what would one day—soon, with a little help from him—be London's foremost dressmaking establishment. Once they had the Duchess of Clevedon, royal patronage was sure to follow: the moon and the stars, almost within her grasp.

"I hope you're not unwell, madame," he said in his English-accented French.

"No, but it occurs to me that I've been absurd," she said. "What a ridiculous wager it is!"

He smiled. "You're not backing down? Is riding with me in the Bois de Boulogne so dreadful a fate?"

It was a boyish smile, and he spoke with a self-deprecating charm that must have slain the morals of hundreds of women.

She said, "As I see it, either way I win. No matter how I look at it, this wager is silly. Only think, when I tell you whether you're right or wrong, how will you know I'm telling the truth?"

"Did you think I'd demand your passport?" he said.

"Were you planning to take my word for it?" she said.

"Of course."

"That may be gallant or it may be naïve," she said. "I can't decide which."

"You won't lie to me," he said.

Had her sisters been present, they would have fallen down laughing.

"That's an exceptionally fine diamond," she said. "If you think a woman wouldn't lie to have it, you're catastrophically innocent."

The arresting green gaze searched her face. In English he said, "I was wrong, completely wrong. I see it now. You're English."

She smiled. "What gave me away? The plain speaking?"

"More or less," he said. "If you were French, we should be debating what truth is. They can't let anything alone. They must always put it under the microscope of philosophy. It's rather endearing, but they're so predictable in that regard. Everything must be anatomized and sorted. Rules. They need rules. They make so many."

"That wouldn't be a wise speech, were I a Frenchwoman," she said.

"But you're not. We've settled it."

"Have we?"

He nodded.

"You wagered in haste," she said. "Are you always so rash?"

"Sometimes, yes," he said. "But you had me at a disadvantage. You're like no one I've ever met before."

"Yet in some ways I am," she said. "My parents were English."

"And a little French?" he said. Humor danced in his green eyes, and her cold, calculating heart gave a little skip in response.

Damn but he was good.

"A very little," she said. "One purely French great-grandfather. But he and his sons fancied Englishwomen."

"One great-grandfather is too little to count," he said. "I'm stuck all over with French names, but I'm hopelessly English—and typically slow—except to jump to wrong conclusions. Ah, well. Farewell, my little pin." He brought his hands up to remove it.

He wore gloves, but she knew they didn't hide calluses or broken nails. His hands would be typical of his class: smooth and neatly manicured. They were larger than was fashionable, though, the fingers long and graceful.

Well, not so graceful at the moment. His valet had placed the pin firmly and precisely among the folds of his neckcloth, and he was struggling with it.

Or seeming to.

"You'd better let me," she said. "You can't see what you're doing."

She moved his hands away, hers lightly brushing his. Glove against glove, that was all. Yet she felt the shock of contact as though skin had touched skin, and the sensation traveled the length of her body.

She was acutely aware of the broad chest under the expensive layers of neckcloth and waistcoat and shirt. All the same, her hands neither faltered nor trembled. She'd had years of practice. Years of holding cards steady while her heart pounded. Years of bluffing, never letting so much as a flicker of an eye, a twitch of a facial muscle, betray her.

The pin came free, winking in the light. She regarded the snowy linen she'd wrinkled.

"How naked it looks," she said. "Your neckcloth."

"What is this?" he said. "Remorse?"

"Never," she said, and that was pristine truth. "But the empty place offends my aesthetic sensibilities."

"In that case, I shall hasten to my hotel and have my valet replace it."

"You're strangely eager to please," she said.

"There's nothing strange about it."

"Be calm, your grace," she said. "I have an exquisite solution."

She took a pin from her bodice and set his in its place. She set her pin into the neckcloth. Hers was nothing so magnificent as his, merely a smallish pearl. But it was a pretty one, of a fine luster. Softly it glowed in its snug place among the folds of his linen.

She was aware of his gaze, so intent, and of the utter stillness with which he waited.

She lightly smoothed the surrounding fabric, then stepped back and eyed her work critically. "That will do very well," she said.

"Will it?" He was looking at her, not the pearl.

"Let the window be your looking glass," she said.

He was still watching her.

"The glass, your grace. You might at least admire my handiwork."

"I do," he said. "Very much."

But he turned away, wearing the faintest smile, and studied himself in the glass.

"I see," he said. "Your eye is as good as my valet's—and that's a compliment I don't give lightly."

"My eye ought to be good," she said. "I'm the greatest modiste in all the world."

Excerpted from Silk Is For Seduction - Loretta Chase. Reprinted from authors site http://www.lorettachase.com

Just Like Heaven - Julia Quinn excerpt

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Chapter one

March 1824

Cambridge, England

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 was 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.

"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 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 loved how exotic and dangerous it 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.

He'd 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.

She was just so sick of the silence that had taken over her home. She hated the sound of her footsteps clacking across the floor, hated that it was so frequently the only noise she heard all afternoon.

She needed a husband. It was the only way.

"Oh, come now, Honoria," Marcus said, and she didn't need to see his face to know his expression precisely--patronizing and skeptical, with just a touch of ennui. "Your life cannot possibly be so dire."

She grit her teeth together. She despised that tone. "Forget I said anything," she muttered, because really, it wasn't worth it, trying to explain it to him.

He let out a breath, and even that managed to be condescending. "You're not likely to find a husband here," he said.

She let out an aggrieved breath, regretting that she'd brought up the subject.

"The students here are too young," he remarked.

"They are the same age as I am," she said, falling neatly into his trap.

But Marcus did not gloat; he wasn't the sort. "That is why you're here in Cambridge, isn't it? To visit with the students who have not yet gone down to London?"

She looked determinedly straight ahead as she said, "I told you, we're here to listen to lectures."

He nodded. "In Greek."

"Marcus."

 He grinned at that. Except it wasn't really a grin. Marcus was always so serious, so stiff, that a grin for him would be a dry half-smile on anyone else. Honoria wondered how often he smiled without anyone realizing it. He was lucky she knew him so well. Anyone else would think him completely without humor.

"What was that about?" he asked.

She started and looked over at him. "What was what about?"

"You rolled your eyes."

"Did I?" Honestly, she had no idea if she had or not. But more to the point, why was he watching her so closely? This was Marcus, for heaven's sake. She looked out the window. "Do you think the rain has let up?"

"No," he replied, not turning his head even an inch. Honoria supposed he didn't need to. It had been a stupid question, meant for nothing but changing the subject. The rain was still beating down on the carriage mercilessly.

"Shall I convey you to the Royles'?" he asked politely.

"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."

Honoria leaned forward. "That's... er..." Very well, she had no idea of his name, but he had accompanied the group of girls on their shopping expedition. "He's from the Royles." She gave Marcus a quick, awkward smile before standing, then crouching so that she might exit the carriage. "I must go. My friends will be waiting for me."

"I shall call upon you tomorrow."

"What?" She froze, bent over like a crone.

One of his brows rose in mocking salute. "Surely your hostess won't mind."

Mrs. Royle, mind that an unmarried earl not yet thirty planned to pay a call upon her home? It would be all Honoria could do to stop her from organizing a parade.

"I'm sure that would be lovely," she managed to say.

"Good." He cleared his throat. "It has been too long."

She looked at him in surprise. Surely he didn't give her a thought when they were not both in London, swanning about for the season.

"I am glad you are well," he said abruptly.

Why such a statement was so startling, Honoria couldn't have begun to say. But it was.

It really was.

Marcus watched as the Royles' footman escorted Honoria into the shop across the street and then, once he was assured of her safety, rapped three times on the wall, signaling to the coachman to continue.

He had been surprised to see her in Cambridge. He did not keep close tabs on Honoria when he was not in London, but still, he somehow thought he'd have known if she was going to be spending time so close to his home.

He supposed he ought to start making plans to go down to town for the season. He had not been lying when he told her he had business to attend to here, although it probably would have been more accurate to say that he simply preferred to remain in the country. There was nothing that required his presence in Cambridgeshire, just quite a lot that would be made easier by it.

Not to mention that he hated the season. Hated it. But if Honoria was hell-bent on acquiring herself a husband, then he would go to London to make sure she made no disastrous mistakes.

He had made a vow, after all.

Daniel Smythe-Smith had been his closest friend. No, his only friend, his only true friend.

A thousand acquaintances and one true friend.

Such was his life.

But Daniel was gone, somewhere in Italy if the latest missive was still current. And he wasn't likely to return, not while the Marquess of Ramsgate still lived, hell-bent on revenge.

What a bloody cock-up the whole thing had been. Marcus had told Daniel not to play cards with Hugh Prentice. But no, Daniel had just laughed, determined to try his hand. Prentice always won. Always. He was bloody brilliant, everyone knew it. Maths, physics, history--he'd ended up teaching the dons at university. Hugh Prentice didn't cheat at cards, he simply won all the time because he had a freakishly sharp memory and a mind that saw the world in patterns and equations.

Or so he'd told Marcus when they'd been students together at Eton. Truth was, Marcus still didn't quite understand what he'd been talking about. And he'd been the second best student at maths. But next to Hugh... Well, there could be no comparison.

No one in their right mind played cards with Hugh Prentice, but Daniel hadn't been in his right mind. He'd been a little bit drunk, and a little bit giddy over some girl he'd just bedded, and so he sat down across from Hugh and played.

And won.

Even Marcus hadn't been able to believe it.

Not that he thought Daniel was a cheat. No one thought Daniel was a cheat. Everyone liked him. Everyone trusted him. But then again, no one ever beat Hugh Prentice.

But Hugh had been drinking. And Daniel had been drinking. And they'd all been drinking, and when Hugh knocked over the table and accused Daniel of cheating, the room went to hell.

To this day Marcus wasn't sure exactly what was said, but within minutes it had been settled--Daniel Smythe-Smith would be meeting Hugh Prentice at dawn. With pistols.

And with any luck, they'd be sober enough by then to realize their own idiocy.

Hugh had shot first, his bullet grazing Daniel's left shoulder. And while everyone was gasping about that --the polite thing would have been to shoot in the air-- Daniel raised his arm and fired back.

And Daniel --bloody hell but Daniel had always had bad aim-- Daniel had caught Hugh at the top of his thigh. There had been so much blood Marcus still felt queasy just thinking about it. The surgeon had screamed. The bullet had hit an artery; nothing else could have produced such a torrent of blood. For three days all the worry had been whether Hugh would live or die; no one gave much thought to the leg, with its shattered femur.

Hugh lived, but he didn't walk, not without a cane. And his father --the extremely powerful and extremely angry Marquess of Ramsgate-- vowed that Daniel would be brought to justice.

Hence Daniel's flight to Italy.

Hence Daniel's breathless, last-minute, promise-me-now-because-we're-standing-at-the-docks-and-the-ship-is-about-to-leave request: "Watch over Honoria, will you? See that she doesn't marry an idiot."

Of course Marcus had said yes. What else could he say? But he'd never told Honoria of his promise to her brother. Good God, that would be disaster. It was difficult enough keeping up with her without her knowledge. If she'd known he was acting in loco parentis, she'd have been furious. The last thing he needed was her trying to thwart him.

Which she would do. He was sure of it.

It wasn't that she was deliberately willful. She was, for the most part, a perfectly reasonable girl. But even the most reasonable of females took umbrage when they thought they were being bossed about.

So he watched from afar, and he quietly scared off a suitor or two.

Or three.

Or maybe four.

He'd promised Daniel.

And Marcus Holroyd did not break his promises.

Excerpted from Just Like Heaven - Julia Quinn. Reprinted from authors site http://www.juliaquinn.com