For a moment he stared at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. “I was invited,” he replied, a little indignantly.

“No.” Her head hurt, and she wanted to rub her eyes, and most of all, she wanted to cry. “Not here at this ball, here in London.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you hate London.”

He adjusted his cravat. “Well, I don’t hate—”

“You hate the season,” she cut in. “You told me so.”

He started to say something, then stopped after half a syllable. That was when Honoria remembered—he was a terrible liar. He always had been. When they were children, he and Daniel had once pulled an entire chandelier from the ceiling. To this day, Honoria still wondered how they’d done it. When Lady Winstead had demanded that they confess, Daniel had lied right to her face, and so charmingly that Honoria could see that their mother had not been sure if he was telling the truth.

Marcus, on the other hand, had gone a bit red in his cheeks, and he’d tugged at his collar as if his neck was itchy.

Just as he was doing right now.

“I have . . . responsibilities here,” he said awkwardly.

Responsibilities.

“I see,” she said, almost choking on the words.

“Honoria, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, and she hated herself for being so short of temper. It wasn’t his fault that Daniel had burdened him with, well, her. It wasn’t even his fault for accepting. Any gentleman would have done so.

Marcus held still, but his eyes flitted to either side, almost as if he was looking for some explanation as to why she was behaving so strangely. “You’re angry . . .” he said, a little bit placatingly, maybe even condescendingly.

“I’m not angry,” she bit off.

Most people would have retorted that she sounded angry, but Marcus just looked at her in that annoyingly self-composed manner of his.

“I’m not angry,” she muttered, because his silence practically demanded that she say something.

“Of course not.”

Her head snapped up. That had been patronizing. The rest she might have been imagining, but not this.

He said nothing. He wouldn’t. Marcus would never make a scene.

“I don’t feel well,” she blurted out. That, at least, was true. Her head hurt and she was overheated and off-balance and all she wanted was to just go home and crawl into bed and pull her covers over her face.

“I will take you to get some air,” he said stiffly, and he put his hand at her back to lead her to the French doors that opened onto the garden.

“No,” she said, and the word burst forth overly loud and dissonant. “I mean, no, thank you.” She swallowed. “I believe I will go home.”

He gave a nod. “I will find your mother.”

“I’ll do it.”

“I’m happy to—”