“I know. I think poor Sarah is hoping she will be struck by lightning sometime in the next three weeks. She has only just recovered from last year.”

“I take it she didn’t smile and put on a brave face?”

“Weren’t you there?”

“I wasn’t looking at Sarah.”

Her lips parted, but not from surprise, not at first. Her eyes were still lit with anticipation, the kind one feels when one is about to deliver a brilliantly witty remark. But then, before any sound emerged, she seemed to realize what he’d said.

And it was only then that he realized what he’d said.

Slowly, her head tilted to the side, and she was looking at him as if . . . As if . . .

He didn’t know. He didn’t know what it meant, except that he would have sworn that her eyes grew darker even as she sat there, staring at him. Darker, and deeper, and all he could think was that she could see into him, right down to his heart.

Right down to his soul.

“I was looking at you,” he said, his voice so quiet he barely heard it. “I was looking only at you.”

But that was before . . .

She put her hand on his. It looked small, and delicate, and pinkishly-pale.

It looked perfect.

“Marcus?” she whispered.

And then he finally knew. That was before he loved her.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

It was extraordinary, Honoria thought, but the world really did stop spinning.

She was sure of it. There could be no other explanation for the headiness, the dizziness, the sheer singularity of the moment, of that moment, right there, in his room, with a dinner tray and a stolen treacle tart, and the breathless longing for a single, perfect kiss.

She turned, and she felt her head tilt ever-so-slightly to the side, as if somehow, if she changed her angle, she would see him more clearly. And amazingly, she did. She moved, and he came into focus, which was so very strange, because she would have sworn that her vision had been crystal clear just a moment earlier.

It was as if she’d never really seen him before. She looked into his eyes, and she saw more than color, more than shape. It wasn’t that the iris was brown, or the pupil was black. It was that he was there, and she could see him, every last bit of him, and she thought—

I love him.

It echoed in her mind.

I love him.

Nothing could have been more stunning, at the same time more simple and true. She felt as if something within her had been dislodged for years, and he had, with five innocent words—I wasn’t looking at Sarah—bumped it into place.

She loved him. She would always love him. It made such sense. Who could she possibly love but Marcus Holroyd?