Honoria tried to open her mouth, tried to make a sound, any sound that might be construed as a defense of her family. Iris was clutching onto her arm as if she wanted to die on the spot, and Daisy looked simply stunned.

“I beg of you,” the gentleman said, turning to face Honoria directly. “Do not accept a new violin from the countess. Do not ever even touch one.” And then, after a little titter directed toward his companion, as if to say—Just wait until you hear what I have to say next, he said to Honoria, “You are abysmal. You make songbirds cry. You almost made me cry.”

“I may still do so,” his companion said. Her eyes flared and she shot a gleeful look toward the crowd. She was proud of her insult, pleased that her cruelty held such a witty edge.

Honoria swallowed, blinking back tears of fury. She’d always thought that if someone attacked her publicly she’d respond with cutting wit. Her timing would be impeccable; she’d deliver a set-down with such style and panache that her opponent would have no choice but to slink away, proverbial tail between his legs.

But now that it was happening, she was paralyzed. She could only stare, her hands shaking as she fought to maintain her composure. Later tonight she’d realize what she should have said, but right now her mind was a swirling, inchoate cloud. She couldn’t have put together a decent sentence if someone had placed the complete works of Shakespeare in her hands.

She heard another person laugh, and then another. He was winning. This awful man, whose name she did not even know, had come to her house, insulted her in front of everyone she knew, and he was winning. It was wrong for so many reasons except the most basic. She was dreadful at the violin. But surely—surely—people knew better than to act in such a manner. Surely someone would come forward to defend her.

And then, over the muted laughs and hissing whispers came the unmistakable sound of boots clicking across a wooden floor. Slowly, as if in a wave, the crowd lifted their heads toward the door. And what they saw . . .

Honoria fell in love all over again.

Marcus, the man who had always wanted to be the tree in the pantomimes; Marcus, the man who preferred to conduct his business quietly, behind the scenes; Marcus, the man who loathed being the center of attention . . .

He was about to make a very big scene.

“What did you say to her?” he demanded, crossing the room like a furious god. A bruised and bloody furious god who happened to be lacking a cravat, but still, most definitely furious. And in her opinion, most definitely a god.

The gentleman standing across from her recoiled. Actually, quite a few people recoiled; Marcus did look a bit wild.