What Happens in London (11 page)

“She’s of middling age,” he said.

“What is she wearing?”

“A dress,” he retorted.

“Can you describe it?” she asked impatiently. Then: “You’re as bad as my brother.”

“I quite like your brother,” he said, mostly just to annoy her.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to know him better and change your mind.”

He smiled at that. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t sure how he could have thought her cold and remote. If anything, she was brimming with mischief and humor. All it seemed she needed was to be in the company of a friend.

“Well?” she demanded. “What sort of dress is she wearing?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot to get a better look. “Something puffy, with…” He motioned toward his shoulders, as if he had any hope of describing female attire. He shook his head. “I can’t tell the color.”

“Interesting.” Her brow wrinkled. “Does that mean it must be either red or green?”

“Or any one of a thousand shades thereof.”

Her posture changed completely. “That’s really fascinating, did you know?”

“Actually, I’ve always found it more of a nuisance.”

“I suppose you would,” she acknowledged. Then she asked, “The woman he’s talking to—”

“Oh, he’s not talking to her,” Harry said, with a bit more feeling than he’d intended.

She stood on her tiptoes again, not that that would improve her view. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone. Hardly anyone, at least. Mostly he does a lot of looking down his nose.”

“That’s very strange. He talked a great deal to me.”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know what to say to that, other than the obvious, which was that the prince wanted to get her into his bed. Which didn’t seem appropriate for the moment.

Although he had to give the prince credit for good taste.

“Very well,” Olivia said. “The woman he’s not talking to. Is she wearing a rather vulgar diamond?”

“On her neck?”

“No, through her nose. Of course on her neck.”

He gave her a rather assessing stare. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

“Considering your initial impression of me, that’s probably a good thing. Is she wearing a diamond?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s Lady Mottram,” she said firmly. “Our hostess. Which means he’ll be busy for several minutes. It would be impolite to ignore her.”

“I would not count on his going out of his way to be polite.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t get away. Lady M has
tentacles
. And two unmarried daughters.”

“Shall we head in the opposite direction?”

Her brows rose impishly. “Let’s.”

She took off, wending her way expertly through the crowd. He followed the sound of her laughter, and, every few seconds when she turned back to make sure he was there, the dazzling flash of her smile.

Eventually they reached an alcove, and she flopped into a seat, breathless and giddy. He stood beside her, his mien considerably more sedate. He didn’t want to sit. Not yet. He needed to keep an eye out for the prince.

“He won’t find us here!” she said gaily.

Nor would anyone else, Harry could not help but notice. There was nothing risqué about the alcove; it was quite properly open to the ballroom. But the way it was angled—off the corner, with its walls curling round like a womb—one had to be at just the right angle to see in.

It could never be a scene of seduction, or any kind of mischief for that matter, but it was remarkably private. Well buffered, too, from the noise of the party.

“That was fun,” Olivia announced.

He was surprised to find himself agreeing with her. “It was, wasn’t it?”

She let out a deflating little sigh. “I suppose I won’t be able to avoid him all night.”

“You can try.”

She shook her head. “My mother will find me out.”

“Is she trying to marry you off to him?” he asked, coming to sit beside her on the curved wooden bench.

“No, she’d not want me to move so far away. But he’s a prince.” She looked up at him with a fatalistic sort of expression. “It’s an honor. His attentions, I mean.”

Harry nodded. Not in agreement, just in sympathy.

“And what’s more—” She broke off, then opened her lips as if to begin again. But she didn’t.

“What’s more?” he gently prodded.

“Can I trust you?”

“You can,” he told her, “but I’m sure you’re already aware that you should never trust a gentleman who says you can trust him.”

That brought out a tiny smile. “Truer words, and all that. Still…”

“Go ahead,” he said gently.

“Well…” Her eyes had a faraway look to them, as if she were searching for words, or maybe she’d found them, but the sentences sounded wrong. And when she finally spoke, she wasn’t looking at him.

But she wasn’t quite avoiding him either.

“I have…rejected the advances of a number of gentlemen.”

He wondered at her careful use of the word “rejected,” but did not interrupt.

“It’s not that I considered myself above them. Well, some of them, I suppose.” She turned and gave him a direct look. “Some of them were just awful.”

“Understood.”

“But most of them…There was nothing
wrong
. They just weren’t right.” She let out a sigh, and it sounded a little sad.

He hated that.

“No one will say it to my face, of course,” she went on.

“But you have gained a reputation as being overly particular?”

She gave him a rueful glance. “‘Picky’ was the word
I heard. Well, one of them.” Her eyes grew clouded. “The only one I care to repeat.”

Harry looked down at his left hand. It had flexed out, hard, and was now balled into a fist. Olivia was doing her best to minimize, but she had been hurt by the gossip.

She leaned back against the wall behind her, her wistful breath wafting through the air. “And this…oh, this really takes the prize, because—” She shook her head, and her eyes looked heavenward, as if seeking guidance, or forgiveness. Or maybe just understanding.

She looked out over the crowd, and she was smiling, but it was a sad, bewildered sort of smile. And she said, “Some of them even said, ‘Who does she think she’s waiting for? A prince?’”

“Ah.”

She turned toward him, her brows arched, her expression utterly frank. “You see my dilemma?”

“Indeed.”

“If I am seen to reject him, I’ll be…” She chewed on her lip, searching for the correct word. “…not a laughingstock…I don’t know what I’ll be. But it won’t be nice.”

He didn’t seem to move a muscle, and yet his face was achingly kind as he said, “Surely you don’t need to marry him just to prove your niceness to society.”

“No, of course not. But I must be seen to at least give him all due courtesies. If I reject him out of hand…” Olivia sighed. She hated this. She hated all of this, and she’d never really spoken to anyone about it, because they would only say something awful and snide like—
Don’t we all wish we had your problems
.

And she
knew
she was lucky, and she
knew
she was blessed, and she knew she had no right to complain about anything in her life, and she wasn’t complaining, not really.

Except sometimes she did.

And sometimes she just wanted the gentlemen to stop paying attention, to stop calling her beautiful and lovely and graceful (which she was not). She wanted them to stop paying calls, and stop asking her father for permission to court her, because none of them was ever right, and blast it all, she didn’t want to settle for the best of the acceptables.

“Have you always been pretty?” he asked, very quietly.

It was a strange question. Strange, and powerful, and not the sort of thing she’d ever consider answering, except, somehow…

“Yes.”

Somehow, with him, it seemed all right.

He nodded. “I thought so. Yours is that kind of face.”

She turned to him with an oddly renewed sense of energy. “Have I told you about Miranda?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“My friend. Who married my brother.”

“Ah, yes. You were writing a letter to her this afternoon.”

Olivia nodded. “She was a bit of an ugly duckling. She was so thin, and her legs so long. We used to joke that they went all the way to her neck. But I never saw her that way. She was just my friend. My dearest, funniest, loveliest friend. We took our lessons together. We did everything together.”

She looked over at him, trying to gauge his interest.
Most men would have run for the trees by now—a young woman blithering on about childhood friendship. Good heavens.

But he just nodded. And she knew that he understood.

“When I was eleven—it was my birthday, actually—I had a party—Winston, too—and all of the local children came. I suppose it was considered a coveted invitation. Anyway, there was a girl there—I can’t even remember her name—but she said some horrid things to Miranda. I don’t think it had ever even occurred to Miranda that she wasn’t considered pretty before that day. I know it hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Children can be unkind,” he murmured.

“Yes, well, so can adults,” she said briskly. “Anyway, it’s all neither here nor there. It’s just one of those memories that has stayed with me.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “You didn’t finish the story.”

She turned, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t finish the story,” he said again. “What did you do?”

Her lips parted.

“I can’t imagine you did nothing. Even at eleven, you would
not
have done nothing.”

A slow smile spread across her face, growing…growing…until she could feel it in her cheeks, and then her lips, and then her heart. “I believe I had words with that girl.”

His eyes caught hers in an odd sort of kinship. “Was she ever invited to your birthday parties again?”

Still, she was smiling. Grinning. “I don’t think she was.”

“I’d bet she hasn’t forgotten
your
name.”

Olivia felt joy bubbling up from within. “I reckon she hasn’t.”

“And your friend Miranda had the last laugh,” he said. “Marrying the future Earl of Rudland. Was there a bigger catch in the district?”

“No. There wasn’t.”

“Sometimes,” he said thoughtfully, “we do get what we deserve.”

Olivia sat beside him, quietly, happy in her thoughts. Then, out of nowhere, she turned to him and said, “I
am
a devoted aunt.”

“Your brother and Miranda have children?”

“A daughter. Caroline. She is my absolute most favorite thing in the entire world. Sometimes I think I could just eat her up.” She looked over at him. “What are you smiling about?”

“The tone of your voice.”

“What about it?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. You sound like…like…I don’t know, almost like you are waiting for dessert.”

She let out a laugh. “I shall have to learn how to divide my attentions. They are expecting another.”

“My congratulations.”

“I didn’t think I liked children,” Olivia mused, “but I
adore
my niece.”

She was quiet again, thinking how nice it was to be with someone she didn’t have to talk to every moment. But then of course she did speak, because she never stayed silent for long.

“You should visit your sister in Cornwall,” she told him. “Meet your nieces and nephews.”

“I should,” he agreed.

“Family is important.”

He was quiet for a little bit longer than she would have expected before he said, “Yes, it is.”

It wasn’t quite right. Something in his voice rang hollow. Or maybe not. She hoped not. It would be such a disappointment if he turned out to be one of those men who had no care for his family.

But she didn’t want to think about this. Not right now. If he had faults, or secrets, or anything, really, beyond what she saw right at this moment, she didn’t want to know about them.

Not tonight.

Definitely not tonight.

T
hey couldn’t remain in the alcove all night, and so with much regret Olivia stood, perfected her posture, then looked over her shoulder at Harry and said, “Once more into the breach, dear friend.”

He rose to his feet as well, regarding her with a warm, quizzical expression. “I thought you didn’t like to read.”

“I don’t, but for heaven’s sake, it’s
Henry the Fifth
. Even I couldn’t escape that.” Olivia nearly shuddered, remembering Governess Four, the one who had insisted on doing all the
Henrys
. Inexplicably, in reverse order. “And I tried. Believe me, I tried.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you were not a model student?” he wondered.

“I was only trying to make Miranda look good by comparison.” It wasn’t strictly true, but Olivia had not minded that it had been the result of her bad be
havior. It wasn’t that she didn’t like learning, she just disliked being told
what
to learn. Miranda, who had always had her nose in a book, was happy to soak in whatever knowledge the governess
du jour
chose to impart. Olivia was always happiest when they were between governesses, when the two of them were left to their own devices. Instead of being forced to learn by rote and memorization, they had come up with all sorts of games and pneumonics. Olivia had never been so good at maths as when she had no one to teach her.

“I am beginning to think your Miranda must be a saint,” Sir Harry said.

“Oh, she has her moments,” Olivia returned. “You will never meet anyone so stubborn.”

“More than you?”

“Much more.” She looked at him in surprise. She wasn’t stubborn. Impulsive, yes, and more than occasionally foolhardy, but not stubborn. She had always known when to give in. Or to give up.

She cocked her head to the side, regarding him as he looked out over the crowd. What an interesting man he had turned out to be. Who would have dreamed he would have such a devilish sense of humor? Or be so disarmingly perceptive. Talking with him was like finding a friend she’d known all of her life. Which was astonishing. Friends with a gentleman—who would have thought it possible?

She tried to imagine admitting to Mary or Anne or Philomena that she knew she was pretty. She could never. It would be seen as the worst kind of conceit.

With Miranda it would have been different. Miranda would have understood. But Miranda wasn’t often
in London anymore, and Olivia was only just now coming to realize what a great big gaping hole this had left in her life.

“You look very serious,” Harry said, and she realized that at some point she had become so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed he’d turned back to her. He was looking at her most intently, his eyes so warm, so focused…on her.

She wondered what he saw there.

And she wondered if she measured up.

And most of all, she wondered why it mattered so much that she did.

“It’s nothing,” she said, because she could see that he was expecting some kind of response.

“Well, then.” He moved his head, then looked back over the crowd, and the intensity of the moment vanished. “Shall we go find your prince?”

She gave him a pert look, grateful for the opportunity to bring her thoughts back to safer spheres. “Shall I finally indulge you and protest that he is not
my
prince?”

“I would be most grateful.”

“Very well, he is not my prince,” she recited dutifully.

He almost looked disappointed. “Is that all?”

“You were perhaps expecting great drama?”

“At the very least,” he murmured.

She chuckled to herself and stepped into the ballroom proper, gazing out over the crowd. It was an exceptionally beautiful evening; she wasn’t sure why she had not noticed it earlier. The ballroom was crowded, as all ballrooms were, but something about the air was different. The candles, perhaps? Maybe there
were more of them, or maybe they burned brighter. But everyone was bathed in a warm, flattering glow. Everyone looked pretty tonight, Olivia realized, everyone.

What a lovely thing that was. And how happy they all appeared.

“He’s off in the far corner,” she heard Harry say from behind her. “To the right.”

His voice in her ear was warm and soothing, sliding through her with a strange, shivery caress. It made her want to lean back, to feel the air that was next to his body, and then—

She stepped forward. Those were not safe thoughts. Not in the middle of a crowded room. Definitely not about Sir Harry Valentine.

“I think you should wait here,” Harry said. “Let him come to you.”

She nodded. “I don’t think he sees me.”

“He will soon.”

Somehow his words felt like a compliment, and she wanted to turn and smile. But she didn’t, and she didn’t know why.

“I should stand with my parents,” she said. “It would be more proper than—Well, than anything else I’ve done this evening.” She looked up at him—at Sir Harry Valentine, her new neighbor, and unbelievably, her new friend. “Thank you for a wonderful adventure.”

He bowed. “It was my pleasure.”

But their farewells felt far too formal, and Olivia couldn’t bear to depart on such a tone. So she grinned at him—her real smile, not the one she kept on her face for social niceties, and asked, “Would you mind
terribly if I opened my curtains again at home? It’s getting beastly dark in my bedroom.”

He laughed aloud, with enough volume to attract glances. “Will you be spying on me?”

“Only when you wear funny hats.”

“There is only the one, and I only wear it on Tuesdays.”

And somehow that seemed the perfect way to end their encounter. She bobbed a little curtsy, said farewell, and then slipped off into the crowd before either of them could say anything more.

Not five minutes after Olivia located her parents, Prince Alexei Gomarovsky of Russia located her.

He was, she had to admit, an extremely arresting man. Very handsome, in a cool, Slavic way, with icy blue eyes and hair that was the exact color of her own. Which was rather remarkable, really; one didn’t often see hair quite that blond on a grown man. It did make him stand out in a crowd.

Well, that and the enormous attendant who followed him everywhere. The palaces of Europe could be dangerous places, the prince had told her. A man of his renown could not travel without guards.

Olivia stood between her parents and watched as the crowds fell away to make room for the prince. He stopped directly in front of her, his heels clicking together in an odd military fashion. His posture was amazingly straight, and she had the strangest notion that years from now, when she could not recall the details of his face, she would remember the way he held himself, tall and proud and correct.

She wondered if he had served in the war. Harry had, but he would have been across the Continent from the Russian army, wouldn’t he?

Not that that mattered.

The prince tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and smiled, a close-lipped affair that wasn’t so much unfriendly as it was condescending.

Or maybe it was just a cultural difference. She knew she shouldn’t rush to judgment. Perhaps people smiled differently in Russia. And even if they didn’t—he was royalty. She could not imagine that a prince could reveal his inner self to many people. He was probably a perfectly nice, perpetually misunderstood man. What an isolated life he must lead.

She would hate it.

“Lady Olivia,” he said, his English accented but not excessively so. “I am deeply pleased to see you again this evening.”

She swept into a middling curtsy—lower than she would normally do at such an event, but not so deep as to appear obsequious and out of place. “Your Highness,” she said softly.

When she rose, he took her hand and laid a feather-light kiss on her knuckles. The air crackled with whispers around them, and Olivia was uncomfortably aware of being at the very center of attention. It felt as if everyone in the room had taken a step back, leaving a moat of emptiness around them—the better to see the drama unfolding.

He relinquished her hand slowly, then said, his voice a low murmur, “You are, as you must know, the loveliest woman in attendance.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. You do me a great honor.”

“I speak only the truth. You are a vision of beauty.”

Olivia smiled and tried to be the pretty statue he seemed to want her to be. She wasn’t really certain how she was meant to respond to his repeated compliments. She tried to imagine Sir Harry using such effusive language. He probably would burst out laughing, just trying to get the first sentence out.

“You smile at me, Lady Olivia,” the prince said.

She thought quickly—very quickly. “It is simply the joy from your compliments, Your Highness.”

Dear heavens, if Winston could hear her, he’d be rolling on the ground laughing. Miranda, too.

But the prince obviously approved, for his eyes lit with heat, and he held out his arm. “Come take a walk about the ballroom with me,
milaya
. Perhaps we shall dance.”

Olivia had no choice but to lay her hand on his arm. He was wearing a formal state uniform of deep crimson, with four gold buttons on each sleeve. The wool was scratchy, and she could only think that he must be dreadfully hot in the crowded ballroom. But he showed no sign of discomfort. If anything, he seemed to radiate a certain coolness, as if he were there to be admired but not touched.

He knew that everyone was watching him. He must be accustomed to such attention. She wondered if he realized how uncomfortable she felt in this tableau. And she was used to having eyes upon her. She knew she was popular, she knew that other young ladies looked to her as an arbiter of fashion and style. But this—this was something else altogether.

“I have been enjoying your English weather,” the prince said, as they turned a corner. Olivia found that she had to focus on her gait to remain in the correct position at his side. Each step was carefully measured, each footfall utterly precise, heel to toe in the exact same motion, every time.

“Tell me,” he added, “is it usually so warm at this time of year?”

“We have had more sun than is usual,” she replied. “Is it very cold in Russia?”

“Yes. It is…how do you say it…” He paused, and for the briefest of moments she saw a flash of struggle in his face as he tried to think of the correct words. His lips pressed together with irritation, then he asked her, “Do you speak French?”

“Very badly, I’m afraid.”

“That is a pity.” He sounded vaguely annoyed by her deficiency. “I am more, er…”

“Fluent?” she supplied.

“Yes. It is much spoken in Russia. More even than Russian among many.”

Olivia found that most intriguing, but it seemed impolite to comment upon it.

“Did you receive my invitation this afternoon?”

“Yes, I did,” she replied. “I am honored to accept.”

She wasn’t honored. Well, maybe honored, but certainly not pleased. As expected, her mother had insisted that they accept, and Olivia had already spent three hours in emergency fittings for a new gown. It was to be ice-blue silk, the exact color, Olivia suddenly realized, of Prince Alexei’s eyes.

She hoped he would not think she had planned it on purpose.

“How long do you intend to stay in London?” she asked him, hoping she sounded more eager than desperate.

“It is not certain. It depends on…many things.”

He did not seem inclined to expand upon that cryptic comment, so she smiled—not the real one, she was far too tense to summon that. But he did not know her well enough to see through her society smile. “I do hope you enjoy your stay,” she said prettily, “however long you choose to visit us.”

He nodded regally, declining to comment.

They rounded another corner. Olivia could see her parents now, still across the room. They were watching her, as was everyone else. Even the dancing had stopped. People were talking, but their voices were low. They sounded like insects, buzzing about.

Lord, how she wanted to go home. The prince might be a perfectly nice man. In fact, she hoped he was. It would make the story so much better—if he were a lovely person, trapped in a prison of formality and tradition. And if he
was
perfectly nice, then she would be perfectly happy to make his acquaintance and talk with him, but not, dear heavens, like this, in front of all the
ton
, with hundreds of pairs of eyes watching her every movement.

What would happen if she tripped? Stumbled over her feet as they turned the next corner. She could do it up small—with just the tiniest bob. Or she could play it for all it was worth, tumbling to the ground in a mad heap.

It would be spectacular.

Or spectacularly awful. And it didn’t matter which, because she didn’t have the courage to do it, anyway.

Just a few more minutes
, she told herself. They were in the final stretch. She would be returned to her parents. Or maybe she would have to dance, but even that would not be so awful. Surely they would not be alone on the dance floor. That would be far too obvious, even for this crowd.

Just a few more minutes, and then it would all be over.

Harry watched the golden couple as closely as he was able, but the prince’s decision to take a turn about the room made his job that much more difficult. It wasn’t imperative that he remain close; the prince wasn’t likely to do or say anything the War Office would find relevant. But Harry was loath to let Olivia out of his sight.

It was probably only because he knew that Winthrop was suspicious of him, but Harry had disliked the prince immediately. He didn’t like his proud stance, never mind that his own years in the military had left him with remarkably straight shoulders of his own. He didn’t like the prince’s eyes, nor the way they seemed to narrow upon everyone he met. And he did not like the way his mouth moved when he spoke, his upper lip curled into a perpetual snarl.

Harry had met people like the prince. Not royalty, that was true, but grand dukes and the like, preening about Europe as if they owned the place.