Just Like Heaven

“I don’t see why not,” he replied. With utmost honesty.

“Because you’re supposed to have broth. And calf’s-foot jelly.

And cod liver oil. Everyone knows that.'

He forced his stomach not to turn at the mention. “Have any of those delicacies ever made you feel better?'

“No, but I don’t think that’s the point.” “How is it possibly not the point?'

Her lips parted for a quick reply, but then she went quite comically still. Her eyes tipped up and looked off to the left, almost as if she were searching her mind for a suitable retort. Finally, she said, with deliberate slowness, “I don’t know.'

“Then you’ll steal me a piece?” He gave her his best smile. His best I-almost-died-so-how-can-you-deny-me smile. Or at least that’s how he hoped it appeared. The truth was, he wasn’t a very accomplished flirt, and it might very well have come across as an I- am-mildly-deranged-so-it’s-in-all-of-our-best-interests-if-you- pretend-to-agree-with-me smile.

There was really no way to know.

“Do you have any idea how much trouble I could get into?'

Honoria asked. She leaned forward in a furtive manner, as if someone might actually be spying on them.

“Not very much,” he replied. “It’s my house.'

“That matters very little when put up against the collective wrath of Mrs. Wetherby, Dr. Winters, and my mother.” He shrugged.

“Marcus . . .'

But she had no coherent protest beyond that. So he said, “Please.'

She looked at him. He tried to look pathetic.

“Oh, all right.” She let out a little snort, capitulating with a remarkable lack of grace. “Do I have to go right now?'

He clasped his hands together piously. “I would be most appreciative if you would.'

She didn’t move her head, but her eyes turned one way, and then the other, and he couldn’t quite tell if she was trying to act sneaky. Then she stood, brushing her hands against the pale green fabric of her skirts. “I will be back,” she said.

“I cannot wait.” She marched to the door and turned around. “With tart.'

“You are my savior.'

Her eyes narrowed. “You owe me.'

“I owe you for a great deal more than treacle tart,” he told her quite seriously.

She exited the room without another word, leaving Marcus with his empty tureen and bread crusts. And books. He looked over at the table, where she’d left the books for him. Carefully, so as not to upset the glass of lukewarm lemon water Mrs. Wetherby had prepared for him, he moved the tray to the other side of the bed.

Leaning over, he grabbed the first book and took a look. Striking and Picturesque Delineations of the Grand, Beautiful, Wonderful, and Interesting Scenery Around Loch- Earn. Good Lord, she’d found that in his library?

He looked at the next. Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. It wasn’t something he would normally choose, but compared to the Striking and Picturesque Delineations of the Grand, Beautiful Et Cetera, Et Cetera Somewhere in the Wilds of Scotland I Shall Bore You to Death, it looked positively pithy.

He settled in against his pillows, flipped the pages until he was at the opening chapter, and sat down to read. It was a dark and windy night— Hadn’t he heard that before? —and Miss Priscilla Butterworth was certain that at any moment the rain would begin, pouring down from the heavens in sheets and streams . . . By the time Honoria returned, Miss Butterworth had been abandoned on a doorstep, survived the plague, and been chased by a wild boar.

She was quite fleet of foot, Miss Butterworth.

Marcus turned eagerly to Chapter Three, where he anticipated Miss Butterworth stumbling upon a plague of locusts, and was quite engrossed when Honoria appeared in the doorway, out of breath and clutching a tea towel in her hands.

“You didn’t get it, then?” he asked, looking at her over the edge of Miss Butterworth. “Of course I got it,” she replied with disdain. She set the tea towel down and unfolded it to reveal a somewhat crumbly, but nonetheless recognizable, treacle tart. “I brought an entire pie.'

Marcus felt his eyes go wide. He was tingling. Honestly. Tingling with anticipation. Miss Butterworth and her locusts were nothing compared to this. “You are my hero.” “To say nothing of having saved your life,” she quipped.

“Well, that, too,” he demurred.

“One of the footmen gave chase.” She looked over her shoulder toward the open door. “I think he might have thought I was a thief, although really, if I were coming to burgle Fensmore, I’d hardly start with treacle tart.'

“Really?” he asked, his mouth full of heaven. “It’s exactly where I’d start.” She broke off a piece and popped it in her mouth. “Oh, it is good,” she sighed. “Even without the strawberries and cream.” “I can think of nothing better,” he said with a happy sigh.

“Except, perhaps, chocolate cake.'

She perched on the side of the bed and took another small piece. “Sorry,” she said, swallowing before she continued, “I didn’t know where to get forks.'

“I don’t care,” he said. He didn’t. He was just so damned happy to be eating real food, with real flavor. That required real chewing. Why people thought that clear liquids were the key to recovering from a fever he would never know.

He began to fantasize about cottage pie. Dessert was marvelous, but he was going to need some real sustenance. Beef mince. Sliced potatoes, lightly crisped from the oven. He could almost taste it.

He looked over at Honoria. Somehow he did not think she was going to be able to sneak that out of the kitchen in a tea towel.

Honoria reached for another piece of the tart. “What are you reading?” she asked. “Miss Butterworth and the, er . . .” He looked down at the book, which lay pages down and open on his bed. “Mad Baron, apparently.'

“Really?” She looked stunned.

“I couldn’t bring myself to crack open Reflections and