What Happens in London (6 page)

“Sir Harry Valentine,” he murmured, executing a elegantly polite bow. “You are Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, are you not?”

Olivia thought very regal thoughts as she lifted her chin half an inch. “I am.”

“Then I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She nodded. She probably ought to speak; it would certainly be more polite. But she felt in danger of losing her poise, and it was wiser to remain silent.

“I am your new neighbor,” he added, looking vaguely amused at her reaction.

“Of course,” she replied. She kept her face even. He would not get the best of her. “To the south?” she asked, pleased by the slightly bored note in her voice. “I had heard it was to be let.”

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. But his eyes fixed on hers, and it took every ounce of her fortitude to maintain her expression. Placid, composed, and with just a hint of curiosity. She thought the last necessary—if she hadn’t been spying on him for nearly a week, she would certainly have found the encounter somewhat curious.

A strange man, acting as if they’d met.

A strange, handsome man.

A strange, handsome man who looked as if he might…

Why was he looking at her lips?

Why was she
licking
her lips?

“I welcome you to Mayfair,” she said quickly. Anything to break the silence. Silence was not her friend, not with this man, not anymore. “We shall have to have you over.”

“I would enjoy that,” he said, and to her rapidly growing panic, he sounded as if he meant it. Not just the part about enjoying, but that he actually meant to accept the offer, which any fool could have seen was made out of sheer politeness.

“Of course,” she said, and she was
sure
she wasn’t stammering, except that it sounded a bit as if she was. Or as if she had something in her throat. “If you’ll excuse me…” She motioned to the door, because surely he’d noticed that she had been moving toward the exit when he’d intercepted her.

“Until next time, Lady Olivia.”

She searched for a witty rejoinder, or even one sarcastic and sly, but her mind was a hazy blank. He was gazing upon her with an expression that seemed to say nothing of him, and yet everything of
her
. She had to remind herself that he didn’t know all of her secrets. He didn’t know
her
.

Good heavens, apart from this spying nonsense, she didn’t
have
any secrets.

And he didn’t know that, either.

Somewhat rejuvenated by her indignation, she
gave him a nod—small and polite, utterly correct for dismissals. And then, reminding herself that she was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, and she was comfortable in any social situation, she turned, and she left.

And gave utmost thanks that when she tripped over her own feet, she was already in the hall, where he could not see.

T
hat had gone well.

Harry congratulated himself as he watched Lady Olivia hurry from the room. She wasn’t moving with any great speed, but her shoulders were a bit raised, and she was holding her dress with her hand, lifting the hem. Not by any huge number of inches—the way women did when they needed to run. But she was holding it nonetheless, surely an unconscious gesture, as if her fingers thought they needed to prepare for a race, even if the rest of her was determined to remain calm.

She knew he’d seen her spying on him. He’d known that already, of course. If he hadn’t been certain the moment their eyes had met three days earlier, he’d have known shortly thereafter; she had pulled her curtains tight and hadn’t peeked out once since she’d been found out.

A clear admission of guilt. A mistake that no professional would ever have made. If Harry had been in her position…

Of course, Harry never
would
have been in her position. He did not enjoy espionage—never had, and the War Office was well aware of it. But still, all things considered, he wouldn’t have got caught.

Her misstep had reaffirmed his suspicions. She was just what she seemed—a typical, most probably spoiled, society miss. Perhaps a bit nosier than average. Certainly more attractive than average. The distance—not to mention the two panes of glass between them—had not done her justice. He’d not been able to see her face, not really. He’d known the shape, a bit like a heart, a bit like an oval. But he hadn’t known the features, that her eyes were spaced the tiniest bit wider than was usual, or that her eyelashes were three shades darker than her brows.

Her hair he’d seen quite well—soft, buttery blond, with more than a hint of curl. It ought not have seemed more seductive than it had loose around her shoulders, but somehow, in the candlelight, with one curl resting along the side of her neck…

He’d wanted to touch her. He’d wanted to tug gently on the curl, just to see if it would bounce right back into place when he let go, and then he’d wanted to pull out the hairpins, one by one, and watch each lock fall from her coiffure, slowly transforming her from icy perfection to tumultuous goddess.

Dear God.

And now he was officially disgusted with himself. He knew he shouldn’t have read that book of poetry
before he’d gone out for the evening. And in French, too. Damn language always made him randy.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had such a reaction to a woman. In his defense, he’d been holed up in his office so much lately that he had met precious few women to whom he might react. He’d been in London for several months now, but it seemed the War Office was always dropping off some document or another, and the translations were
always
needed with all possible haste. And if by some miracle he managed to clear his desk of work, that was when Edward decided to get himself in a bloody heap of trouble—debts, drunkenness, unsuitable women—Edward was not picky about his vices, and Harry could not summon enough heartlessness to let his brother wallow in his own mistakes.

Which meant that Harry rarely had time to make mistakes of his own—mistakes of the female persuasion, that was. Harry was not in the habit of living like a monk, but really, how long had it been…?

Having never been in love, he had no idea if absence made the heart grow fonder, but after tonight, he was quite certain that abstinence made the rest of a man rather surly indeed.

He needed to find Sebastian. His cousin’s social agenda was never limited to one event per evening. Wherever he was going after this, it would surely include women of questionable morals. And Harry was going with him.

Harry headed toward the far side of the room, intending to find something to drink, but as he stepped forth, he heard about half a dozen gasps, followed by, “This wasn’t on the program!”

Harry glanced this way and that, then followed the general direction of stares toward the stage. One of the Smythe-Smith girls had retaken her position and appeared to be preparing an impromptu (but please, God, not improvised) solo.

“Sweet merciful Jesus,” Harry heard, and there was Sebastian, standing next to him, regarding the stage with something that was definitely more dread than amusement.

“You owe me,” Harry said, murmuring the words malevolently in Sebastian’s ear.

“I thought you’d stopped counting.”

“This is a debt that can never be repaid.”

The girl started her solo.

“You may be right,” Sebastian admitted.

Harry looked at the door. It was a lovely door, perfectly proportioned and leading out of the room. “Can we leave?”

“Not yet,” Sebastian said ruefully. “My grandmother.”

Harry looked over at the elderly Countess of Newbury, who sat with the other dowagers, smiling broadly and clapping her hands. He turned back to Sebastian, remembering. “Isn’t she deaf?”

“Nearly so,” Sebastian confirmed. “But not stupid. You’ll notice she put her cone away for the performance.” He turned to Harry with a gleam in his eye. “By the by, I saw you made the acquaintance of the lovely Lady Olivia Bevelstoke.”

Harry didn’t bother to respond, at least not with anything more than a slight tilt of his head.

Sebastian leaned toward him, his voice dropping into annoying registers. “Did she admit to every
thing? Her insatiable curiosity? Her overwhelming lust for you?”

Harry turned and regarded him squarely. “You’re an ass.”

“You tell me that a lot.”

“It never grows old.”

“And neither do I,” Sebastian said with a half smile. “I find it so convenient to be immature.”

The violin solo reached what seemed to be a crescendo, and the crowd held a collective breath, waiting for the ensuing flourish, followed by what
had
to be the finish.

Except it wasn’t.

“That was cruel,” Sebastian said.

Harry winced as the violin scraped into a higher octave. “I didn’t see your uncle,” he pointed out.

Sebastian’s lips tightened, and tiny white lines formed at the corners of his mouth. “He sent his regrets just this afternoon. It almost makes me wonder if he set me up. Except he’s just not that clever.”

“Did you know?”

“About the music?”

“It’s a brutal use of the word.”

“I’d heard rumors,” Sebastian admitted. “But nothing could have prepared me for…”

“This?” Harry murmured, somehow unable to take his eyes off the girl on the stage. She held her violin lovingly, and her absorption in the music was unfeigned. She looked as if she was enjoying herself, as if she were hearing something quite different than everyone else in the room. And maybe she was, lucky girl.

What must it be like, to live in one’s own world? To
see things as they ought to be, and not as they were? Certainly the violin player
ought
to be good. She had the passion, and if what the Smythe-Smith matrons had said earlier in the evening was true, she practiced every day.

What ought his life be?

He ought not have had a father who drank more than he breathed.

He ought not have a brother who was determined to follow the same path.

He ought…

He grit his teeth. He ought not fall into fits of self-pity. He was a better man than that. A stronger man, and—

A sudden shiver of awareness tingled through him, and, as was his habit whenever something did not feel right, he looked to the door.

Lady Olivia Bevelstoke. She was standing alone, watching the Smythe-Smith girl with an inscrutably blank expression. Except…

Harry’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t be positive, but from this angle, it almost looked as if she were staring at the Grecian urn behind the Smythe-Smith girl.

What was she
doing
?

“You’re staring,” came Sebastian’s ever-grating voice in his ear.

Harry ignored him.

“She
is
beautiful.”

Harry ignored him.

“Engaging, as well. But not engaged.”

Harry ignored him.

“It’s not for a lack of trying on the part of the good bachelors of Great Britain,” Sebastian continued,
unperturbed as always by Harry’s lack of response. “They keep asking. Alas, she keeps refusing. I heard that the elder Winterhoe even—”

“She’s cold,” Harry cut in, with a bit more bite to his voice than he’d intended.

Sebastian’s voice was filled with delighted amusement as he said, “I beg your pardon?”

“She’s cold,” Harry repeated, recalling their brief exchange. She’d held herself like a bloody queen. Every word had crackled with frost, and now she did not even deign to look at the poor girl playing the violin.

He was surprised she’d come tonight, to be honest. It did not seem the most likely venue for icy diamonds of the first water. Someone had most likely forced her to attend.

“And here I had such high hopes for your future together,” Sebastian murmured.

Harry turned to offer a scathing retort, or at least one with all the sarcasm he could muster, but the music took a turn, and the violinist once again reached a crescendo. This time it
had
to be the end, but the crowd was taking no chances, and a rousing round of applause erupted before she’d even completed the final note.

Harry walked alongside Sebastian as he made his way toward his grandmother. She’d come in her own carriage, Sebastian had told him, and therefore they need not wait until she was ready to depart. Still, he did need to say good-bye, and although Harry was no direct relation, he ought to make his greeting as well.

But before they could make it across the room, they
were accosted by one of the Smythe-Smith mothers, calling, “Mr. Grey! Mr. Grey!”

From the intensity in her voice, Harry judged, the Earl of Newbury must be meeting with difficulties in his quest for a fertile wife.

Sebastian, to his credit, showed none of his haste to depart as he turned and said, “Mrs. Smythe-Smith, it has been such a delightful evening.”

“I am so pleased you were able to attend,” she gushed.

Sebastian smiled in return, the sort that said he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. And then he did what he always did when he wanted to get out of a conversation. He said:

“May I present my cousin, Sir Harry Valentine.”

Harry nodded politely, murmuring her name. That Mrs. Smythe-Smith thought Sebastian the bigger prize was evident; she looked directly at him as she asked, “What did you think of my Viola? Wasn’t she just splendid?”

Harry was not quite able to mask his surprise. Her daughter was named Viola?

“She plays the violin,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith explained.

“What is the violist called?” Harry could not help asking.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith glanced at him with some impatience. “Marianne.” Then back to Sebastian: “Viola was the soloist.”

“Ah,” Sebastian replied. “It was a rare treat.”

“Indeed. We are so very proud of her. We shall have to plan for solos for next year.”

Harry began to plan for his trip to the Arctic, to correspond.

“I am so glad you were able to attend, Mr. Grey,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith continued, apparently unaware that she’d said this already. “We have another surprise for the evening.”

“Did I mention my cousin is a baronet?” Sebastian put in. “Lovely estate back in Hampshire. The hunting is divine.”

“Really?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith turned to Harry with new interest and a broad smile. “I am so grateful for your attendance, Sir Harry.”

Sir Harry would have responded with more than a nod except that he was plotting the imminent demise of Mr. Grey.

“I must tell you both about our surprise,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said excitedly. “I want you to be the first to know. We shall have dancing! This evening!”

“Dancing?” Harry echoed, struck nearly into incoherence. “Er, will Viola be playing?”

“Of course not. I shouldn’t want her to miss out. But it just so happens that we have a number of other amateur musicians in the audience, and it is such great fun to be spontaneous, don’t you think?”

Harry rated spontaneity up with trips to the dentist. What he did rate highly, however, was petty revenge. “My cousin,” he said with great feeling, “adores dancing.”

“He does?” Mrs. Smythe-Smith turned back to Sebastian with delight. “You do?”

“I do,” Sebastian said, perhaps a bit more tightly than was necessary, given that it was not a lie; he did like to dance, far more than Harry ever had.

Mrs. Smythe-Smith looked at Sebastian with beatific expectancy. Harry looked at them both with
self-satisfied expectancy; he did love when everything wrapped up neatly. In his favor, specifically.

Sebastian, aware that he’d been outmaneuvered, said to Mrs. Smythe-Smith, “I hope your daughter will save the first dance for me.”

“It would be her honor to do so,” Mrs. Smythe-Smith said, clasping her hands together with joy. “If you will excuse me, I must make arrangements to begin the music.”

Sebastian waited until she’d wended through the crowd, then said, “You will pay for this.”

“Oh, I think we’re even now.”

“Well, you’re stuck here, too, at any rate,” Sebastian replied. “Unless you wish to walk home.”

Harry would have considered it, were it not pouring rain. “I’m happy to wait for you,” he said, with all the good cheer in the world.

“Oh, look!” Sebastian said, with patently false surprise. “Lady Olivia. Right there. I’d wager
she
likes to dance.”

Harry considered saying,
You wouldn’t
, but really, what was the point? He knew Sebastian would.

“Lady Olivia!” Sebastian called out.

The lady in question turned, and there was no way she could avoid them, what with Sebastian plowing through the crowd to her side. Harry, too, could find no way to avoid the encounter; not that he would give her the satisfaction of doing so.

“Lady Olivia,” Sebastian said again, once they were at speaking range. “How lovely to see you.”

She gave a faint impression of a nod. “Mr. Grey.”

“Taciturn this evening, are we, Olivia?” Sebastian murmured, but before Harry could wonder at the
familiarity of such a statement, he continued with: “Have you met my cousin, Sir Harry Valentine?”