What Happens in London (23 page)

She would know that she was loved.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured, kissing her on the lips before moving to her throat.

He heard her breath, raspy, excited, and perhaps a little confused. “What do you mean?”

He cupped her breast with his hand. “Do you like this?”

He heard the swift intake of her breath.

“Do you?” he asked softly, trailing his lips down to the base of her neck.

She nodded, quick frantic movements. “Yes.”

“Tell me what you like,” he said again, and his mouth found the tip of her breast. He blew a little air on it, then circled the edge with his tongue before finally capturing her with his lips.

“I like that,” she gasped.

So do I
, he thought, and he moved to the other side, telling himself it was for balance. But really it was for him, and for her, and because he couldn’t bear to leave one inch of her untouched.

She arched beneath him, pressing up against his mouth, and he slid one of his hands down, wrapping around her bottom. He squeezed, then moved, his fingers finding the soft skin of her inner thigh. And
when he squeezed again, his fingers were close, so close to the very center of her, so close that he could feel her heat.

His mouth moved back to hers just as his fingers found her, stroked her, entered her.

“Harry!” she cried out, surprised, but not, he thought, upset.

“Tell me what you like,” he said again.

“That,” she managed to get out. “But I don’t…”

He moved deeper, in and out, her wetness making him burn with need for her. “You don’t what?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He smiled. “You don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what I don’t know,” she practically snapped.

He bit back a laugh, and his fingers stilled for a moment.

“Don’t stop!” she cried.

And so he didn’t. He didn’t stop when she moaned his name, and he didn’t stop when she grabbed his shoulders so hard he was sure he’d be bruised. And he absolutely did not stop when she convulsed around him, so fast and so hard that she nearly pushed him out of her.

A gentleman might have stopped then. She had climaxed, and she was still a virgin, and he was probably a beast for wanting to make love to her fully, but he simply couldn’t…not.

She was his.

But not, he was coming to realize, quite as much as he was hers.

Before she came down from her climax, before she could collapse from the power of it, he pulled his fingers out and positioned himself at her opening. “I love you,” he said, his voice husky and hoarse with emotion. “I have to tell you. I need you to know.
Right now
I need you to know.”

He pushed forward then, expecting resistance. But she was so excited, so well loved, that he slid inside with ease. He shuddered at the pleasure of it, of the exquisite joining of their bodies. It was as if he’d never done this before—his desire took over and he lost all control. And then, in what would have been shameful speed had he not just pleasured her, he cried out and stiffened, and then, finally, collapsed.

O
livia left first.

She wasn’t sure how long they had lain there on the divan, trying to regain their sanity, and then, once they were able to breathe normally, it had taken some time to right their appearances. Harry couldn’t get his tie folded with the same crisp precision as his valet had done, and Olivia had found that one handkerchief was not up to the task of…

Good heavens, she couldn’t even
think
the words. She did not regret what she had done. She could never; it was the most wonderful, amazing, spectacular experience of her life. But now she was…sticky.

Their departure was also delayed by several stolen kisses, at least two lustful glances that had threatened to send them right back to the divan, and one extremely mischievous pinch on the behind.

Olivia was still congratulating herself on that one.

But eventually they managed to look respectable enough to rejoin polite society, and it was decided that Olivia would depart first. Harry would follow five minutes later.

“Are you certain my hair looks presentable?” she asked as she placed her hand on the doorknob.

“No,” he admitted.

She felt her eyes widen with alarm.

“It does not look bad,” he said, with a man’s typical inability to accurately describe coiffure, “but I don’t think it looks precisely the same as it did when you arrived.” He smiled weakly, clearly aware of his shortcomings in this regard.

She rushed back over to the room’s lone mirror, but it was over the mantel, and even on her tiptoes she couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of her entire face. “I can’t see a thing,” she grumbled. “I am going to have to find a washroom.”

And so their plans changed. Olivia would leave, find a washroom, and then remain there for at least ten minutes, so that Harry could leave five minutes after she departed and arrive back at the ballroom five minutes before she arrived.

Olivia found the subterfuge exhausting. How did people manage such things, sneaking about like thieves? She would make a terrible spy.

Her frustration must have shown on her face, because Harry came over and kissed her once, softly, on the cheek. “We shall be married soon,” he promised, “and we will never have to do this again.”

She opened her mouth to point out that her mother would insist upon a three-month engagement at the very least, but he held up a hand and said, “Don’t
worry, that’s
not
your proposal. When I propose, you’ll know it. I promise.”

She smiled to herself and murmured her farewell, peeking out the door first to make sure no one was coming, then slipping out into the quiet, moonlit gallery.

She knew the location of the washroom; she’d been there once already that evening. She tried to walk at precisely the correct speed. Not too fast; she did not want to look as if she was rushing. Not too slowly, either; it was always best to appear as if one had a purpose.

She encountered no one on her way to the washroom, for which she was grateful. When she opened the door, however, and stepped into the outer chamber, where ladies could wash their hands and check their appearances, she was met with:

“Olivia!”

Olivia nearly jumped out of her skin. Mary Cadogan was standing at the mirror, pinching her cheeks.

“Good heavens, Mary,” Olivia said, trying to catch her breath. “You gave me a start.” She desperately did not want to get caught up into a conversation with Mary Cadogan, but on the other hand, if she had to run into someone, she was grateful it was a friend. Mary might wonder at Olivia’s mussed appearance, but she would never suspect the truth.

“Is my hair an absolute fright?” Olivia asked, reaching up to pat it. “I slipped. Someone spilled champagne.”

“Oh, I hate that.”

“What do you think?” Olivia asked, hoping that she
had successfully diverted Mary from asking any more questions.

“It’s not so bad,” Mary said consolingly. “I can help you. I’ve dressed my sister’s hair dozens of times.” She pushed Olivia into a chair and began to adjust her pins. “Your dress looks as if it suffered no harm.”

“I’m sure the hem is stained,” Olivia said.

“Who spilled the champagne?” Mary asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ll bet it was Mr. Grey. He has one arm in a sling, you know.”

“I saw,” Olivia murmured.

“I heard he was pushed down a flight of stairs by his uncle.”

Olivia just barely managed to contain her horror at the rumor. “That can’t be true.”

“Why not?”

“Well…” Olivia blinked, trying to come up with an acceptable answer. She didn’t want to say that Sebastian had fallen off a table in her house—Mary would positively
pummel
her with questions if she knew that Olivia had any special knowledge of the incident. Finally she settled on: “If he’d fallen down a flight of stairs, don’t you think he’d have suffered more serious injury?”

Mary appeared to consider this. “Maybe it was a short flight of stairs. His front steps, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Olivia said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Although,” Mary continued, putting an end to Olivia’s hopes, “one would think there would be witnesses if it had happened outside.”

Olivia decided not to comment.

“I suppose it could have happened at night,” Mary mused.

Olivia was beginning to think that Mary ought to consider writing a
Miss Butterworth
-style novel of her own. She certainly possessed the imagination for it.

“There,” Mary declared. “As good as new. Or almost. I couldn’t quite recreate the little curl over your ear.”

Olivia was impressed (and perhaps a little alarmed) that Mary had remembered the curl over her ear; Olivia certainly hadn’t. “Thank you,” she said. “I very much appreciate it.”

Mary smiled warmly. “I’m happy to be of help. Shall we head back to the party?”

“You go ahead without me,” Olivia said. She motioned toward the other, more private, section of the washroom. “I need a moment.”

“Would you like me to wait for you?”

“Oh, no no no,” Olivia said, hoping her surfeit of no’s sounded more conversational than desperate. She really needed a few moments to herself—just a bit of time to collect her thoughts, to breathe deeply, and to attempt to regain her equilibrium.

“Oh, of course. I shall see you later, then.” Mary gave her a nod and exited the small room, leaving Olivia on her own.

Olivia closed her eyes for a moment and took that deep breath she’d been waiting for. She still felt tingly and lightheaded, shocked by her own behavior and, at the same time, giddy with delight.

She wasn’t sure what shocked her more—that she had just given up her virginity in the home of the Rus
sian ambassador or that she was preparing to rejoin the party as if nothing had happened.

Would people see it on her face? Did she look fundamentally different? Heaven knew, she
felt
fundamentally changed.

She leaned forward a few inches, trying to examine her reflection more closely. Her cheeks were pink; there was no hiding that. And maybe her eyes looked a little brighter, almost glittery.

She was being fanciful. No one would know.

Except Harry.

Her heart jumped. Literally jumped in her chest.

Harry would know. He would remember every last detail, and when he looked at her, his eyes hot with desire, she would melt anew.

And suddenly she was no longer so sure she would be able to carry this off. No one would know what she’d been doing from looking at her. But if someone happened to look at her while she was looking at Harry…

She stood. Squared her shoulders. Tried to be resolute. She could do this. She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, comfortable in any social situation, wasn’t she? She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, soon to be…

She let out a little squeal at the thought of it. Soon to be Lady Valentine. She liked that. Lady Valentine. It was so romantic. Really, names didn’t get much better than that.

She turned toward the door. Reached for the knob.

But someone opened it first. So she stepped back to avoid being hit by the door.

But she couldn’t avoid—

“Oh!”

Where the hell was Olivia?

Harry had been back at the party for more than half an hour and he still hadn’t caught a glimpse of her. He’d played his part to perfection, chatting with any number of bright young ladies, even dancing with one of the Smythe-Smiths. He’d checked on Sebastian, not that he needed it—his shoulder had not been troubling him for several days.

Olivia had said that she was planning to go to the ladies’ retiring room to check on her appearance, so he’d not expected her to arrive promptly, but still, shouldn’t she have been done by now? He’d thought she’d looked rather nice when he’d last seen her. What more could she have needed to do?

“Oh, Sir Harry!”

He turned at the sound of a female voice. It was that young lady Olivia had been sitting with in the park. Blast, what was her name?

“Have you seen Olivia?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t been in the ballroom long, though.”

The young woman frowned. “I don’t know where she could be. I was with her earlier.”

Harry regarded her with increased interest. “You were?”

She nodded, waving one of her hands off to the side, presumably to indicate another location. “I was helping her with her hair. Someone spilled champagne on her dress, you know.”

Harry was not sure how that related to her hair, but he knew better than to ask. Whatever story Olivia had
concocted, it had convinced her friend, and he wasn’t going to contradict.

The young lady frowned, tilting her head this way and that as she glanced out over the crowd. “I really needed to tell her something.”

“When did you last see her?” Harry asked, keeping his tone polite, almost paternal.

“Goodness, I’m not sure. An hour ago? No, it couldn’t have been that long.” She continued her visual search of the dance floor, but Harry couldn’t tell if she was looking for Olivia or merely inspecting the guest list.

“Do you see her?” Harry murmured, mostly because it was damned awkward, standing there next to her while she looked at everyone in the room besides him.

She shook her head, and then, apparently spotting someone she deemed of greater importance, said, “Do let her know I’m looking for her when you find her.” With a little wave, she headed back into the crowd.

That was singularly unhelpful, Harry decided, as he moved toward the doors to the garden. He didn’t think Olivia would have gone outside, but the ballroom was sunken, and one had to ascend three steps to reach the doors. He’d be much more likely to be able to see her from there.

But when he reached his vantage point, he was once again stymied. Everyone else he knew seemed to be in attendance, but Olivia was nowhere to be found. There was Sebastian, still charming the ladies with his made-up tales of derring-do. Edward was at his elbow, trying to appear older than he really was.
Olivia’s friend (whose name he still could not recall) was sipping a glass of lemonade, pretending she was listening to the elderly gentleman who was shouting something at her. And there was Olivia’s twin brother, leaning against the back wall, his expression bored.

Even Vladimir was there, walking across the ballroom with great purpose, not bothering to excuse himself as he shoved aside various lords and ladies. He did look rather serious, Harry thought, and he was wondering if he ought to investigate when he realized the giant Russian was heading for him.

“You come with me,” he said to Harry.

Harry started. “You speak English?”

“Nyeh tak khorosho, kak tiy govorish po-russki
.”

Not as well as you speak Russian
.

“What is going on?” Harry asked. In English, just to be careful.

Vladimir’s eyes met his with steely purpose. “I know Winthrop,” he said.

It was almost enough to convince Harry to trust him.

And then Vladimir said, “Lady Olivia has disappeared.”

Suddenly it didn’t matter if he trusted him or not.

Olivia had no idea where she was.

Or how she’d got there.

Or why her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound together, and a gag had been wrapped around her mouth.

Or, she thought, blinking frantically to adjust to the dim light, why she
hadn’t
been blindfolded.

She was lying on her side, on a bed, staring at a wall. Maybe whoever had done this to her had figured that if she couldn’t move or make a noise, it wouldn’t matter what she saw.

But who? Why? What had happened to her?

She tried to think, tried to calm her racing mind. She’d been in the washroom. Mary Cadogan had been there, and then she’d left, and Olivia had been alone for how long? At least a few minutes. Maybe as many as five.

She’d finally summoned the nerve to go back to the party, but the door had opened and then…

What happened? What happened?

Think, Olivia, think
.

Why couldn’t she remember? It was as if a big gray smudge had been wiped across her memory.

She started to breathe more heavily. Quick and deep. Panicked. She couldn’t think straight.

She started to struggle, even though she knew it was fruitless. She managed to flip over, away from the wall. She couldn’t seem to calm down, to focus, to—

“You’re awake.”

She froze. In an instant she went still, her only movement the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

She did not recognize the voice. And when its owner came closer, she did not recognize the man, either.

Who are you?

But of course she couldn’t speak. He saw the question, however; saw it in her panicked eyes.

“It does not matter who I am,” he said, his voice carrying some sort of accent. But she couldn’t tell where he was from. Just as she’d always been terrible with languages, she never could place accents, either.

The man drew closer, then sat in a chair near her. He was older than she was, although not as old as her parents, and his graying hair was clipped close to his head. His eyes—she couldn’t tell what color they were in the darkness. Not brown. Something lighter.