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her with narrowed eyes. “You didn’t have to play last year.”
    â€œFor which I am eternally grateful,” Iris told her. She was due to join the quartet this year on cello.
    â€œYou want to find a husband just as badly as I do,” Sarah said to Honoria.
    â€œNot in the next two weeks! And not,” she added, with a bit more decorum, “merely to get out of playing in the musicale.”
    â€œI am not saying that I would marry someone awful,” Sarah said with a sniff. “But if Lord Chatteris just happened to fall desperately in love with me . . .”
    â€œHe’s not going to,” Honoria said baldly. Then, realizing how unkind that sounded, she added, “He’s not going to fall in love with anyone. Trust me.”
    â€œLove works in mysterious ways,” Sarah said. But she sounded more hopeful than certain.
    â€œEven if Marcus did fall in love with you, which isn’t going to happen, not that it has anything to do with you, he’s just not the sort to fall in love with someone quickly.” Honoria paused, trying to remember where she had started her sentence because she was fairly certain she had not completed it.
    Sarah crossed her arms. “Was there a point in there, hidden amid the insults?”
    Honoria rolled her eyes. “Just that even if Marcus did fall in love with someone, he would do it in the most ordinary, regular manner.”
    â€œIs love ever ordinary?” Iris asked.
    The statement was just philosophical enough to silence the room. But only for a moment.
    â€œHe would never rush a wedding,” Honoria continued, turning back to Sarah. “He hates drawing attention to himself. Hates it,” she repeated, because frankly, it bore repeating. “He’ll not get you out of the musicale, that is for certain.”
    For a few seconds Sarah stood still and straight, and then she sighed, her shoulders falling into a slump. “Maybe Gregory Bridgerton,” she said dejectedly. “He seems like he might be a romantic.”
    â€œEnough to elope?” Iris asked.
    â€œNo one is eloping!” Honoria exclaimed. “And you are all playing in the musicale next month.”
    Sarah and Iris stared at her with identical expressions—two parts surprise and one part indignation. With a healthy dash of dread.
    â€œWell, you are,” Honoria muttered. “We all are. It’s our duty.”
    â€œOur duty,” Sarah repeated. “To play terrible music?”
    Honoria stared at her. “Yes.”
    Iris burst out laughing.
    â€œIt’s not funny,” Sarah said.
    Iris wiped her eyes. “But it is.”
    â€œIt won’t be,” Sarah warned, “once you have to play.”
    â€œWhich is why I shall take my laughter now,” Iris replied.
    â€œI still think we should have a house party,” Sarah said.
    To which Honoria replied, “I agree.”
    Sarah looked at her suspiciously.
    â€œI just think that it would be ambitious to think of it as a means to getting out of playing at the musicale.” Foolish more than ambitious, but Honoria wasn’t about to say that .
    Sarah sat at a nearby writing desk and picked up a pen. “We agree on Mr. Bridgerton, then?”
    Honoria looked over at Iris. They both nodded.
    â€œWho else?” Sarah asked.
    â€œDon’t you think we should wait for Cecily?” Iris asked.
    â€œNeville Berbrooke!” Sarah said firmly. “He and Mr. Bridgerton are related.”
    â€œThey are?” Honoria asked. She knew quite a lot about the Bridgerton family—everyone did—but she didn’t think they’d ever married any Berbrookes.
    â€œMr. Bridgerton’s brother’s wife’s sister is married to Mr. Berbrooke’s brother.”
    It was just the sort of statement that begged for a sarcastic comment, but Honoria was too dumbfounded by the speed at which Sarah had rattled it off to do