What Happens in London (22 page)

B
y the time Harry arrived at the ambassador’s residence, the ball was in full swing. He couldn’t quite determine what aspects of Russian culture were being celebrated; the music was German and the food was French. But no one seemed to care. The vodka was flowing freely, and the room echoed with peals of laughter.

Harry immediately looked for Olivia, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was fairly certain she would have already arrived; her carriage had left her house over an hour before his had departed. But it was a crowded room. He’d find her soon.

Sebastian’s shoulder was nearly improved, but he had insisted upon wearing a sling under his coat—the better to attract the women, he’d told Harry. And indeed, it worked. They were mobbed instantly, and Harry was happy to stand back, watching with amuse
ment as Sebastian basked in the worry and concern of London’s fair ladies.

Harry noted that Sebastian did not give an accurate depiction of the accident. In fact, all details were rather vague. There was certainly nothing about standing atop a table, acting out a cliff scene from a gothic novel. It was hard to tell exactly what Sebastian
had
said, but Harry heard one lady whisper to another that he’d been attacked by footpads, the poor,
poor
dear.

Harry fully expected to hear that Sebastian had fought off an entire French regiment by the end of the evening.

Harry leaned over to Edward as Sebastian graciously accepted the heartrending concern of one particularly buxom widow. “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone how this really happened. He’ll never forgive you.”

Edward nodded, but just barely. He was far too busy watching and learning from Seb to pay attention to Harry.

“Enjoy the leavings,” Harry said to his brother, smiling to himself as he realized that he was through with Sebastian’s left-over females.

Life was good. Very good. As perfect and fabulous as it had ever been, in fact.

Tomorrow he would propose, and tomorrow she would say yes.

She would, wouldn’t she? He couldn’t possibly be so misguided about her feelings.

“Have you seen Olivia?” he asked Edward.

Edward shook his head.

“I’m going to try to find her.”

Edward nodded.

Harry decided that it was useless to attempt to con
duct a conversation with his brother with so many young ladies flitting about, and he moved away, trying to see above the crowd as he walked over to the opposite side of the ballroom. There was a small knot of people near the punch bowl, Prince Alexei at the center, but he did not see Olivia. She’d said she would be wearing blue, which would make her easier to spot, but it was always harder for him to distinguish colors in the evening.

Her hair…Now, that was a different story. Her hair would shine like a beacon.

He kept moving through the crowd, looking this way and that, and then finally, just when he was starting to get frustrated, he heard from behind him:

“Looking for someone?”

He turned, and it was as if his life was illuminated by her smile. “Yes,” he said, feigning perplexity, “but I can’t quite find her…”

“Oh, stop,” Olivia said, batting him lightly on the arm. “What has taken you so long? I have been here for hours.”

He raised a brow at that.

“Oh, very well, one hour at least. Probably ninety minutes.”

He glanced over at his cousin and brother, still holding court across the room. “We had difficulties adjusting Sebastian’s sling with his coat.”

“And people say women are fussy.”

“While I would have to argue on behalf of my gender, I am always happy to impugn my cousin.”

She laughed at that, a bright, musical sound, then grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”

He followed her through the crowds, impressed by
her single-minded determination to get to wherever it was she was going. She weaved this way and that, laughing all the way, until she reached an arched door at the far side of the room.

“What’s this?” he murmured.

“Shhhh,” she directed. He followed her out into the hall. It wasn’t empty; there were several small groups of people congregating here and there, but it was much less crowded than the main room.

“I’ve been exploring,” she said.

“Apparently so.”

She turned another corner, and another, and the crowds grew progressively thinner, until finally she stopped in a quiet gallery. One side had doors interspersed with tall portraits—perfectly ordered, two paintings between each door. The other side held a neat row of windows.

She stopped directly in front of one of the windows. “Look out,” she urged.

He did, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Shall I open it?” he asked, thinking this might offer more clues.

“Please do.”

He found the lock and undid it, then lifted the window. It glided up without sound, and he poked his head out.

He saw trees.

And her. She had poked her head out right beside him.

“I must confess to confusion,” he said. “What am I looking at?”

“Me,” she said simply. “Us. Together. On the same side of a window.”

He turned. He looked at her. And then…He had to do it. He couldn’t not. He reached for her, and he pulled her to him, and she came willingly, with a smile that spoke of the lifetime they had waiting ahead of them.

He leaned down and kissed her, his lips eager and hungry, and he realized he was shaking, because this was more than a kiss. There was something sacred about this moment, something honorable and true.

“I love you,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it yet. All his plans had been to tell her when he proposed. But he had to. It had grown and spread inside of him, bubbling with warmth and strength, and he just could not keep it back. “I love you,” he said again. “I love you.”

She touched his cheek. “I love you, too.”

For several seconds he could do nothing but stare at her, holding the moment in reverence, letting every speck of it wash over him. And then something else took over, something primal and fierce, and he crushed her to him, kissing her with the urgency of a man who must claim his own.

He couldn’t get enough of her, her touch, her feel, her scent. Tension and need were spiraling within him, and he could feel his grip slipping—on his control, on sense of propriety, on everything except
her
.

His fingers were grasping at her clothing, desperate to feel her skin, warm and smooth. “I need you,” he groaned, his mouth moving to her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

They twisted and turned away from the window, and Harry found himself leaning up against a door. He took the knob in his hand, turned, and they fell
in, stumbling and tumbling, but managing to remain upright.

“Where are we?” Olivia asked, her breath shaking her body.

He shut the door. Locked it. “I don’t care.”

He grabbed her then, pulled her to him. He should have been gentle, he should have been tender. But he was beyond that now. For the first time in his life, he was moved by something beyond his control. He was moved
to
something he could not resist. His world became nothing but this woman, and their bodies, and showing her, in the most fundamental way possible, how much he loved her.

“Harry,” she gasped, her body arching against his. He could feel every curve through their clothing, and he had to—he couldn’t stop—

He had to feel her. He had to
know
her.

He said her name, barely recognizing his own voice, grown hoarse with need. “I want you,” he said. And when she moaned incoherently in response, her lips finding his earlobe as his had done hers, he said it again.

“I want you
now
.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

With a shuddering breath, he pulled away from her and took her face in his hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded.

But that wasn’t good enough. “Do you understand?” he asked, urgency making him sound almost strident. “I need you to say it.”

“I understand,” she whispered. “I want you, too.”

Still, he held off, unable to let himself cut that last thread of sanity, of propriety. He knew he was ready to commit his very life to her, but he had not sworn it in a church, before her family. But by God, if she was going to stop him now, she was going to have to stop him
now
.

She went very still; for a moment even her breathing seemed to stop, and then she took his face in her hands, the very same position he held with her. Their eyes met, and in her face he saw a love and a trust so big and so deep that it nearly paralyzed him with fear.

How could he possibly be worthy of this? How could he keep her safe and happy and make sure that every second of every day she knew how much he loved her?

She smiled. At first it was sweet, and then it grew clever, and maybe a little bit mischievous. “You’re going to ask me to marry you,” she murmured, “aren’t you?”

His lips parted with shock. “I—”

But she placed one of her hands against his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Just nod if it’s yes.”

He nodded.

“Don’t ask me now,” she said, and she looked almost serene, as if she were a goddess and the mortals around her were doing exactly what she asked of them. “This isn’t the time or the place. I want a proper proposal.”

He nodded again.

“But if I
know
that you plan to ask me, I might be convinced to act in a manner…”

It was all the permission he needed. He pulled her back for another searing kiss, his fingers finding the cloth-covered buttons at the back of her gown. They slipped easily through the buttonholes, and in seconds the fabric pooled and rustled at her feet.

She was standing before him in her chemise and corset, the pale fabric glowing softly in the moonlight filtering through the uncurtained upper half-moon of the room’s only window. She looked so beautiful, so ethereal and pure—he found himself wanting to stop and drink in the sight of her, even as his body burned for closer contact.

He shrugged off his own coat, then loosened the folds of his cravat. Through it all she just stood there, silently watching him, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. He undid the first few buttons on his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head and, with whatever last grasp on rational thought he had left, he laid it neatly on a chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. She let out a little giggle, clasping her hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“You’re so neat,” she said, looking almost embarrassed to be pointing it out.

He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. “There are four hundred people on the other side of this door.”

“But you’re ruining me.”

“I can’t do it neatly?”

Another snort of laughter burst from her mouth. She reached down, picked up her dress, and handed it to him. “Would you mind folding this as well?”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Wordlessly, he reached out and took it.

“If you are ever short of funds,” she said, watching him lay the dress over the back of a chair, “there are always opportunities for a conscientious lady’s maid.”

He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry salute. He tapped his left temple, close to his eye, murmuring, “Blind to color, if you recall.”

“Oh, dear.” She clasped her hands together, looking terribly proper. “That would be a problem.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes devouring her. “I might be able to make up for my lack with excessive devotion to my mistress.”

“Loyalty and fidelity is always prized amongst servants.”

He came close, very close, until his lips were almost touching the corner of her mouth. “And amongst husbands?”

“It’s very prized amongst husbands,” she whispered. Her breathing was growing erratic, and just the touch of it on her skin made his blood race.

His hand went to the ties of her corset. “I am very loyal.”

She nodded jerkily. “That’s good.”

He tugged on the ribbon, first undoing the bow, and then slipping his finger under the knot below. “I can say ‘fidelity’ in three languages.”

“Really?”

Really, and he didn’t care if she knew. He planned to make love to her in all three, but for the first time, he thought he would stick to English. Well, mostly.

“Fidelity,” he whispered. “
Fidelité. Vyernost
.”

He kissed her then, before she could ask more. He
would tell her everything, but not now. Not when he was shirtless, and her corset was undone and sliding from her body. Not when his fingers were working the two buttons of her chemise, unhooking the straps that held it in place over her shoulders.

“I love you,” he said, leaning forward to place one kiss on the hollow over her collarbone.

“I love you,” he said again, moving up to the elegant line of her neck.

“I love you.” And this time he whispered it, hot at her ear as he let go of the straps and allowed her last garment to fall from her body.

Her arms came to cover herself, and he kissed her once, lightly, on the lips as his fingers moved to the fastening of his breeches. He was aching for her, hot and heavy with need, and he had no idea how he got his boots off so fast, but before he could even take another breath, he’d lifted her into his arms and was carrying her over to the divan.

“You should have a proper bed,” he murmured, “with proper sheets and proper pillows…”

But she just shook her head, clasping her fingers behind his neck to pull him down for a kiss. “I don’t want to be proper right now,” she said, whispering the words into his ear. “I only want you.”

It had been inevitable. He’d known that for some time now, since the moment she’d slyly asked him if he planned to propose. But even so, something seemed to tip at that moment, sending him over the edge of restraint, transforming this from a seduction to sheer madness.

He set her down on her back and immediately covered her body with his. The touch was electric. They
were skin to skin, pressed up against each other with breathtaking intimacy. And he wanted so much just to bury himself inside her, to have her, to
know
her, but he could not allow himself to rush. He did not know if he could bring her to completion; he’d never made love to a virgin before, and he had no idea if it was even possible. But by God, he would make this good for her. When they were through, she would know that she had been worshipped.