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.”