Just Like Heaven (Smythe-Smith, #1)

by Julia Quinn

At the time of her death, Marcus had seen his mother on precisely seven occasions.

He rather hoped he was sleeping, because he was quite certain he’d seen a six-foot rabbit hopping through his bedchamber, and if that wasn’t a dream, they were all in very big trouble.

And why did old ladies wear turbans?

“I think you might be my touchstone.”

And knowing she was there . . . It had just been easier. He hadn’t been alone. For the first time in his life, he hadn’t been alone.

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

“It has no piano part,” Honoria reminded her. “I have no objection,” Sarah said quickly. From behind the piano.

She thumped her weapon (others might call it a cane, but he knew better) against the floor.

She liked poking fun at her companions; she’d once told him that the best part of growing old was that she could say anything she wanted with impunity.

She pressed her lips together, and her eyes narrowed as she asked, “And where is your valet now?” “At Chatteris House, likely nicking a glass of my best brandy.”

“You have always amused me,” she pronounced. “I do believe you are my second favorite nephew.”

“Go, go,” she urged. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find some other poor unsuspecting fool to torture. And yes, before you feel the need to protest, I did just call you a fool.”

for a moment her eyes grew soft. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Someone needs to clap for those poor things.”

And if the other members of the audience looked mildly ill, well, they had to have known what they were getting into. After eighteen years, no one attended a Smythe-Smith musicale without some inkling of the horrors that lay ahead.

“I can see that you wanted to make a comment about it not being a pianoforte.”

“No, ma’am.” And then, because it had been that sort of evening, Honoria said, “I was going to make a comment about it not being a cello.”

“That’s not going to end well,” he murmured. Honoria could do nothing but shake her head and murmur, “No.”

“Is your cousin fond of her toes?”

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.

There was a collective gasp, and Daisy faked a swoon, sliding elegantly into Iris, who promptly stepped aside and let her hit the floor.

In that perfect moment, there was only Marcus, and her, and the way he was smiling as he rested his nose against hers.