He cocked his head.

“How was this catapult constructed?”

He grinned. “Simple spoon, Lady Honoria. But in Gregory’s devious hands, there was nothing simple about it.”

She laughed at that, and then quite suddenly felt a hand at her elbow.

It was Marcus, and he looked furious.

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-one

Marcus could not remember the last time he had been moved to violence, but as he stood there, staring into Colin Bridgerton’s smirky face, he was sorely tempted.

“Lord Chatteris,” Bridgerton murmured, greeting him with a polite nod. A polite nod and a look. If Marcus had been in a better mood, he might have been able to articulate just what it was about that look that so irritated him, but Marcus wasn’t in a good mood. He had been in a good mood. He’d been in a very good mood, as a matter of fact, despite having just endured what was possibly the worst rendition of Mozart ever known to man.

It did not matter that some tragic portion of his ears had died tonight; the rest of him had been awash with happiness. He’d sat in his seat and watched Honoria. If she’d been a grim warrior during her final rehearsal, then she was a happy member of the corps for the concert. She’d smiled all the way through, and he’d known that she hadn’t been smiling for the audience, or even for the music. She’d been smiling for the people she loved. And he could, for however brief a moment, imagine that he was one of those people.

In his heart, she’d been smiling for him.

But now she was smiling at Colin Bridgerton, he of the famous charm and sparkling green eyes. That had been almost tolerable, but when Colin Bridgerton had started smiling at her . . .

Some things could not be borne.

But before he could intercede, he had to extricate himself from his conversation with Felicity Featherington—or, rather, Felicity Featherington’s mother, who had him in the verbal equivalent of a vise. He had probably been impolite; no, he had certainly been impolite, but escape from the Featheringtons was not something one accomplished with tact or subtlety.

Finally, after literally wrenching his arm from Mrs. Featherington’s grasp, he made his way over to Honoria, who was all aglow, laughing merrily with Mr. Bridgerton.

He had every intention of being polite. He really did. But just as he approached, Honoria took a little step to the side, and he saw, peeking out from the hem of her skirt, a flash of red satin.

Her lucky red shoes.

And suddenly he was on fire.

He didn’t want another man seeing those shoes. He didn’t want another man even knowing about them.