Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

#1 New York Times bestselling author Julia Quinn began writing one month after graduating from college and, aside from a brief stint in medical school, she has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since. Her novels have been translated into 43 languages and are beloved the world over. A graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges, she lives with her family in the Pacific Northwest. 

Look for BRIDGERTON, based on her popular series of novels about the Bridgerton family, on Netflix.

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Honoria Smythe-Smith is:

A) a really bad violinist
B) still miffed at being nicknamed "Bug" as a child
C) not in love with her older brother's best friend
D) all of the above

Marcus Holroyd is:

A) the Earl of Chatteris
B) regrettably prone to sprained ankles
C) not in love with his best friend's younger sister
D) all of the above

Together they:

A) eat quite a bit of chocolate cake
B) survive a deadly fever and the world's worst musical performance
C) fall quite desperately in love

It's Julia Quinn at her best, so you know the answer is . . .

D) all of the above

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Just Like Heaven

By Julia Quick

Avon

Copyright © 2011 Julia Quick
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780061491900

Chapter One

March 1824
Cambridge, England
Lady Honoria Smythe-Smith was desperate.
Desperate for a sunny day, desperate for a
husband, desperate?she thought with an
exhausted sigh as she looked down at her ruined blue
slippers?for a new pair of shoes.
She sat down heavily on the stone bench outside
Mr. Hilleford?s Tobacco Shoppe for Discerning
Gentlemen and pressed herself up against the wall behind
her, desperately (there was that awful word again)
trying to wedge her entire body under the awning.
It was pouring. Pouring. Not drizzling, not merely
raining, but pouring proverbial cats, dogs, sheep, and
horses.
At this rate, she wouldn?t have been surprised if an
elephant tumbled down from the sky.
And it stank. Honoria had thought that cheroots
produced her least favorite smell, but no, mold was
worse, and Mr. Hilleford?s Tobacco Shoppe for
Gentlemen who Did Not Mind if Their Teeth Turned
Yellow had a suspicious black substance creeping
along its outer wall that smelled like death.
Really, could she possibly be in a worse situation?
Why, yes. Yes, she could. Because she was (of
course) quite alone, the rain having taken thirty
seconds to go from drip to downpour. The rest of her
shopping party was across the street, happily browsing
in the warm and cozy Miss Pilaster?s Fancy
Emporium of Ribbons and Trinkets, which, in addition
to having all sorts of fun and frilly merchandise,
smelled a great deal better than Mr. Hilleford?s
establishment.
Miss Pilaster sold perfume. Miss Pilaster sold
dried rose petals and little candles that smelled like
vanilla.
Mr. Hilleford grew mold.
Honoria sighed. Such was her life.
She had lingered too long at the window of a bookshop,
assuring her friends that she would meet them
at Miss Pilaster?s in a minute or two. Two minutes
had turned to five, and then, just as she?d been
preparing to make her way across the street, the heavens
had opened and Honoria had had no choice but to
take refuge under the only open awning on the south
side of the Cambridge High Street.
She stared mournfully at the rain, watching it
pummel the street. The drops were pelting the
cobblestones with tremendous force, splashing and
spraying back into the air like tiny little explosions.
The sky was darkening by the second, and if
Honoria was any judge of English weather, the wind was
going to pick up at any moment, rendering her
pathetic spot under Mr. Hilleford?s awning completely
useless.
Her mouth slipped into a dejected frown, and she
squinted up at the sky.
Her feet were wet.
She was cold.
And she?d never once, not in her entire life, left the
boundaries of England, which meant that she was a
rather good judge of English weather, and in about
three minutes she was going to be even more miserable
than she was right now.
Which she really hadn?t thought possible.
?Honoria??
She blinked, bringing her gaze down from the sky
to the carriage that had just rolled into place in front
of her.
?Honoria??
She knew that voice. ?Marcus??
Oh, good heavens, her misery only needed this.
Marcus Holroyd, the Earl of Chatteris, happy and dry
in his plush carriage. Honoria felt her jaw go slack,
although really, she didn?t know why she should be
surprised. Marcus lived in Cambridgeshire, not too
far from the city. More to the point, if anyone were to
see her while she was looking like a wet, bedraggled
creature of the rodential variety, it would be he.
?Good God, Honoria,? he said, scowling down
at her in that supercilious way of his, ?you must be
freezing.?
She managed the barest of shrugs. ?It is a bit brisk.?
?What are you doing here??
?Ruining shoes.?
?What??
?Shopping,? she said, motioning across the street,
?with friends. And cousins.? Not that her cousins
weren?t also friends. But she had so many cousins
they almost seemed a category unto themselves.
The door opened wider. ?Get in,? he said. Not
Will you please get in or Please, you must dry
yourself off. Just: ?Get in.?
Another girl might have tossed her hair and said,
You can?t order me about! Another, slightly less
prideful girl might have thought it, even if she?d
lacked the courage to say it aloud. But Honoria was
cold, and she valued her comfort more than her pride,
and more to the point, this was Marcus Holroyd, and
she?d known him since she was in pinafores.
Since the age of six, to be precise.
That was also probably the last time she?d managed
to show herself to advantage, she thought with
a grimace. At seven she?d made such a pest of herself
that he and her brother Daniel had taken to calling
her Mosquito. When she?d claimed to be complimented,
that she?d loved how exotic and dangerous it
had sounded, they?d smirked and changed it to Bug.
Bug she?d been, ever since.
He?d seen her wetter than this, too. He?d seen her
completely soaked, back when she was eight and
she?d thought she?d been completely hidden in the
boughs of the old oak tree at Whipple Hill. Marcus
and Daniel had built a fort at its base, no girls
allowed. They had pelted her with pebbles until she?d
lost her grip and tumbled down.
In retrospect, she really shouldn?t have chosen the
branch that hung over the lake.
Marcus had fished her out of the dunk, though,
which was more than she could say for her own
brother.
Marcus Holroyd, she thought ruefully. He?d been
in her life almost as long as she could remember.
Since before he was Lord Chatteris, since before
Daniel was Lord Winstead. Since before Charlotte,
her closest-in-age sister, had married and left home.
Since before Daniel, too, had left.
?Honoria.?
She looked up. Marcus?s voice was impatient, but
his face held a hint of concern. ?Get in,? he repeated.
She nodded and did as he said, taking his large
hand in hers and accepting his help into his
carriage. ?Marcus,? she said, trying to settle herself
into her seat with all the grace and nonchalance she
might exhibit in a fine drawing room, never mind
the puddles at her feet. ?What a lovely surprise to
see you.?
He just stared at her, his dark brows coming ever
so slightly together. He was trying to decide the most
effective way to scold her, she was sure.
?I am staying here in town. With the Royles,? she
told him, even though he hadn?t yet asked. ?We are
here for five days?Cecily Royle, my cousins Sarah
and Iris, and I.? She waited for a moment, for some
sort of flash of recognition in his eyes, then said,
?You don?t remember who they are, do you??
?You have a great many cousins,? he pointed out.
?Sarah is the one with the thick, dark hair and
eyes.?
?Thick eyes?? he murmured, cracking a tiny smile.
?Marcus.?
He chuckled. ?Very well. Thick hair. Dark eyes.?
?Iris is very pale. Strawberry blond hair?? she
prompted. ?You still don?t recall.?
?She comes from that family of flowers.?
Honoria winced. It was true that her uncle William
and aunt Maria had chosen to name their daughters
Rose, Marigold, Lavender, Iris, and Daisy, but still.
?I know who Miss...