Free Just Like Heaven by Julia Quinn Page A

he said sharply.
    She looked at him as if she couldn’t believe he didn’t see it. “Oh, you know what I mean.”
    â€œNo, I don’t know what you mean.”
    She let out a snort as she clambered to her feet again. “You are always looking at people like this.” And then she made a face, one he couldn’t possibly begin to describe.
    â€œIf I ever look like that ,” he said dryly, “ precisely like that, to be more precise, I give you leave to shoot me.”
    â€œThere,” she said triumphantly. “Like that.”
    He began to wonder if they were speaking the same language. “Like what?”
    â€œThat! What you just said.”
    He crossed his arms. It seemed the only acceptable reply. If she couldn’t speak in complete sentences, he saw no reason why he had to speak at all.
    â€œYou spent all of last season glowering at me. Every time I saw you, you looked so disapproving.”
    â€œI assure you that was not my intention.” At least not about her . He disapproved of the men who courted her favor, but never Honoria.
    She folded her arms and stared at him with a cross expression. He had the distinct impression she was trying to decide whether to take his words as an apology. Never mind that they hadn’t actually been an apology.
    â€œIs there anything with which I may help you?” he asked, choosing his words—and his tone—with great care.
    â€œNo,” she said succinctly. And then: “Thank you.”
    He sighed wearily, thinking it might be time to change his approach. “Honoria, you have no father, your brother is somewhere in Italy—we think—and your mother wants to retire to Bath.”
    â€œWhat is your point?” she bit off.
    â€œYou are alone in this world,” he replied, almost as snappishly. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had spoken to him in such a tone. “Or you might as well be.”
    â€œI have sisters,” she protested.
    â€œHas any of them offered to take you in?”
    â€œOf course not. They know I live with Mother.”
    â€œWho wants to retire to Bath,” he reminded her.
    â€œI am not alone,” she said hotly, and he was horrified to hear a choke in her voice. But if she was near to tears, she pushed them back, because she was all anger and indignation when she said, “I have scads of cousins. Scads. And four sisters who would take me into their homes in a heartbeat if they thought it was necessary.”
    â€œHonoria . . .”
    â€œAnd I have a brother, too, even if we don’t know where he is. I don’t need—” She broke off, and she blinked, as if surprised by the words on her tongue.
    But she said it anyway. “I don’t need you.”
    There was a horrible silence. Marcus did not think about all the times he’d sat at her supper table. Or the family pantomimes in which he’d always played a tree. They’d been dreadful, every last one of them, but he’d loved every branchy, leafy moment. He’d never wanted the lead roles—he was thrilled never to have to speak at all—but he’d loved taking part. He’d loved being there. With them. As a family.
    But he didn’t think about any of this. He was quite sure he wasn’t thinking about any of this as he stood there staring at the girl who was telling him she didn’t need him.
    And maybe she didn’t.
    And maybe she was no longer a girl, either.
    Bloody hell.
    He let out a pent-up breath and reminded himself that it didn’t matter what she thought she felt about him. Daniel had asked him to watch over her, and watch over her he would.
    â€œYou need . . .” He sighed, trying to think of some way to say it that wouldn’t make her irate. There was none, he concluded, so he just said it. “You need help.”
    She drew back. “Are you offering yourself as my guardian?”
    â€œNo,” he