Marcus murmured his assent and walked over to the piano. “Er, here you are,” he said a bit stiffly, but then again, he was not used to proffering drinks.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, holding forth a glass.

He poured, then gave her a polite bow. “Have we met?” he asked. She looked deuced familiar.

“I don’t believe so,” she replied, and she quickly took a drink.

He gave a mental shrug and moved on to Daisy. He would have supposed that the governess simply had one of those faces that always looked familiar, except that she didn’t. She was staggeringly beautiful, but in a quiet, serene way. Not at all the sort of person a mother usually wished to hire as a governess. He supposed that Lady Pleinsworth had felt safe in doing so; she had no sons, and if her husband ever left Dorset, Marcus had never seen him.

“Thank you, my lord,” Daisy said when he poured for her. “It is most democratic of you to take on such a task.”

He had no idea what to say to that, so he just gave her an awkward nod and turned to Iris, who was rolling her eyes in open mockery of her sister. She smiled her thanks when he served her, and he finally was able to turn back to Honoria.

“Thank you,” she said, taking a sip.

“What are you going to do?”

She looked at him questioningly. “About what?”

“The musicale,” he said, thinking that should be obvious.

“What do you mean? I shall play. What else can I do?”

He indicated the governess with a subtle motion of his head. “You have a perfect excuse for canceling.”

“I can’t do that,” Honoria replied, but there was more than a twinge of regret in her voice.

“You don’t need to sacrifice yourself for your family,” he said quietly.

“It isn’t a sacrifice. It’s—” She smiled sheepishly, maybe a little wistfully. “I don’t know what it is, but it isn’t a sacrifice.” She looked up, her eyes huge and warm in her face. “It’s what I do.”

“I—”

She waited for a moment, then said, “What is it?”

He wanted to tell her he thought she was quite possibly the bravest, most unselfish person he knew. He wanted to tell her that he would sit through a thousand Smythe-Smith musicales if that was what it took to be with her.

He wanted to tell her he loved her. But he couldn’t say it here. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Just that I admire you.”

She let out a little laugh. “You may take that back by the end of the evening.”

“I could not do what you do,” he said quietly.

She turned and looked at him, startled by the gravity in his voice. “What do you mean?”