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.”