Marcus could not possibly have described the sound that came forth from the four instruments in the Smythe-Smith rehearsal room. He was not sure there were words that would be accurate, at least not in polite company. He was loath to call it music; in all honesty, it was more of a weapon than anything else.

In turn, he looked at each of the women. The governess seemed a little frantic, her head bobbing back and forth between the keys and her music. Daisy had her eyes closed and was weaving and bobbing, as if she were caught up in the glory of the—well, he supposed he had to call it music. Iris looked as if she wanted to cry. Or possibly murder Daisy.

And Honoria . . .

She looked so lovely that he wanted to cry. Or possibly murder her violin.

She did not look as she had in last year’s musicale, when her smile had been beatific and her eyes aglow with passion. Instead she attacked her violin with grim determination, her eyes narrowed, her teeth gritted, as if she were leading her troops into battle.

She was the glue holding this ridiculous quartet together, and he could not have loved her more.

He wasn’t sure if they had intended to do the entire piece, but thankfully Iris looked up, saw him, and let out a loud enough “Oh!” to halt the proceedings.

“Marcus!” Honoria exclaimed, and he would have sworn she looked happy to see him, except that he wasn’t so sure he trusted his judgment on the matter any longer. “Why are you here?” she asked.

He held up the pitcher. “Your mother sent me in with lemonade.”

For a moment she stared, and then she burst out laughing. Iris followed suit, and the governess even cracked a smile. Daisy just stood there, looking baffled. “What is so funny?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” Honoria sputtered. “It’s simply—good heavens, the entire day—and now my mother has sent an earl in to serve us lemonade.”

“I don’t find that funny,” Daisy said. “I find it inappropriate in the extreme.”

“Pay no attention to her,” Iris said. “She has no sense of humor.”

“That is not true!”

Marcus held himself extremely still, allowing only his eyes to glance over at Honoria for guidance. She gave a tiny nod, confirming Iris’s assessment.

“Tell us, my lord,” Iris said with great exaggeration, “what did you think of our performance?”

Under no circumstance was he going to answer that. “I’m just here to serve lemonade,” he said.

“Well done,” Honoria murmured, standing up to join him.

“I hope you have glasses,” he said to her, “because there were none for me to bring in.”

“We do,” she said. “Please, won’t you pour for Miss Wynter first? She has been working the hardest, having joined the quartet only this afternoon.”