“What does it say?” Cecily asked breathlessly, rushing to her mother’s side as she opened it. Iris, too, crowded in, trying to peer over Cecily’s shoulder.

Honoria hung back and waited. She knew what it would say.

Mrs. Royle broke the seal and unfolded the missive, her eyes moving quickly across the writing as she read. “He sends his regrets,” she said flatly.

Cecily and Sarah let out wails of despair. Mrs. Royle looked over at Honoria, who hoped she was doing a good job at looking shocked as she said, “I did ask. It’s just not his sort of entertainment, I think. He’s really not terribly sociable.”

“Well, that much is true,” Mrs. Royle grumbled. “I can’t remember more than three balls last season at which I saw him dancing. And with so many young ladies without partners. It was downright rude.”

“He’s a good dancer, though,” Cecily said.

All eyes turned to her.

“He is,” she insisted, looking a bit surprised that her statement had garnered so much attention. “He danced with me at the Mottram Ball.” She turned to the other girls, as if to offer an explanation. “We are neighbors, after all. It was only polite.”

Honoria nodded. Marcus was a good dancer. Better than she was, that was for certain. She never could understand the intricacies of rhythm. Sarah had tried endlessly to explain the difference between a waltz and common time, but Honoria had never been able to grasp it.

“We shall persevere,” Mrs. Royle said loudly, placing a hand over her heart. “Two of the other four gentlemen have already accepted, and I am certain that we will hear from the others in the morning.”

But later that night, as Honoria was heading upstairs to bed, Mrs. Royle took her aside and quietly asked, “Do you think there is any chance Lord Chatteris will change his mind?”

Honoria swallowed uncomfortably. “I’m afraid not, ma’am.”

Mrs. Royle shook her head and made a little clucking sound. “Such a pity. He really would have been the feather in my cap. Well, good night, dear. Pleasant dreams.”

Twenty miles away, Marcus was sitting alone in his study with a hot cup of cider, mulling over his recent missive from Honoria. He had burst out laughing upon reading it, which he imagined had been her intention. Perhaps not her primary intention—that had certainly been to stop him from attending Mrs. Royle’s party—but she would have known that her words would amuse him to no end.

He looked down at the paper again, smiling as he reread it. Only Honoria would write him such a note, begging him to decline the invitation that she had put forth but two sentences prior.

It had been rather nice, seeing her again. It had been an age. He did not count the numerous times their paths had crossed in London. Such meetings could never be like the carefree times he had spent with her family at Whipple Hill. In London he was either dodging the ambitious mamas who were absolutely certain their daughters were born to be the next Lady Chatteris, or he was trying to keep an eye on Honoria. Or both.