What Happens in London

Chapter Nine

They 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 behavior. 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.

Which they did, he supposed, but they were still a bunch of asses, in his opinion.

“Ah, there you are.” It was Sebastian, holding an almost empty champagne flute. “Bored yet?”

Harry kept one eye on Olivia. “No.”

“Interesting,” Seb murmured. He finished his champagne, set the glass down on a nearby table, then leaned in so that Harry could hear him. “Who are we looking for?”

“No one.”

“No, never mind. My mistake. Who are we looking at?”

“No one,” Harry said, taking a half step to the right, trying to see past the extremely portly earl who had just blocked his view.

“Ah. We are just ignoring me for…what reason?”

“I’m not.”

“And yet you are still not looking at me.”

Harry had to admit defeat. Sebastian was fiendishly tenacious, and twice that annoying. He looked his cousin squarely in the eye. “I have seen you before.”

“And yet I remain ever delightful to gaze upon. One misses a great deal, not looking at me.” Sebastian offered a sickly sort of smile. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Not yet.”

Seb’s brows went up. “Are you serious?”

“I’m enjoying myself,” Harry said.

“Enjoying yourself. At a ball.”

“You manage it.”

“Yes, but I’m me. You’re you. You don’t like these things.”

Harry caught a glimpse of Olivia out of the corner of his eye. She caught his attention, and then he caught her eye, and then, simultaneously, they both looked away. She had the prince to keep busy, and he had Sebastian, who was proving himself more of a nuisance than usual.

“Were you just exchanging glances with Lady Olivia?” Sebastian inquired.

“No.” Harry wasn’t the best liar, but he could do quite a good job when he kept it to monosyllables.

Sebastian rubbed his hands together. “The evening grows interesting.”

Harry ignored him. Or tried to.

“They’re already calling her Princess Olivia,” Sebastian said.

“Who are ‘they,’ anyway?” Harry demanded, swinging around to face Sebastian. “They say I killed my fiancée.”

Sebastian blinked. “When did you get engaged?”

“My point precisely,” Harry practically spat. “And she’s not going to marry that idiot.”

“You almost sound jealous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sebastian smiled knowingly. “I thought I saw you with her earlier this evening.”

Harry didn’t bother to deny it. “Polite conversation. She’s my neighbor. Aren’t you always telling me to be more sociable?”

“So you got that whole spying-on-you-from-her-bedroom-window matter settled?”

“A misunderstanding,” Harry said.

“Hmmmm.”

Harry was instantly on alert. Anytime Sebastian appeared thoughtful-the devious I’m-thinking-of-an-evil-plan thoughtful, not the kind and considerate thoughtful-it was time to tread carefully.

“I’d like to meet that prince,” Sebastian said.

“Good God.” Harry was exhausted, just standing next to him. “What are you going to do?”

Sebastian stroked his chin. “I’m not quite certain. But I’m confident the correct course of action will make itself known to me at the proper time.”

“You’re going to make it up as you go along?”

“It usually works rather well.”

There would be no stopping him, this Harry knew. “Listen to me,” he hissed, grabbing his cousin’s arm with enough urgency to obtain his instant attention. Harry could not tell him about his assignment, but Seb would have to know that there was more to this than an infatuation with Lady Olivia. Otherwise, he could ruin the whole thing, with a single reference to Grandmère Olga.

Harry kept his voice low. “This evening, with the prince, I do not speak Russian. And neither do you.” Sebastian wasn’t even close to being fluent, but he could certainly stumble through a conversation.

Harry looked at him intently. “Do you understand?”

Seb’s eyes fixed on his, and then he nodded-once, with a gravity he rarely allowed others to see. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone, and his loose-limbed posture returned, along with his lopsided smile.

Harry stepped back, quietly watching. Olivia and the prince had completed three-fourths of their stately promenade and were now walking directly toward them. The crowds of partygoers swept out of their path, like beads of oil on water, and Sebastian was standing still, his only movement the fingers of his left hand, idly rubbing together, thumb against the rest.

He was thinking. Seb always did that when he was thinking.

And then, with timing so perfect no one could ever believe it wasn’t an accident, Sebastian plucked a new champagne glass from a roving footman’s tray, tilted his head back for a sip, and then-

Harry didn’t know how he managed it, but it was all over the floor-a splintering crash, shards of glass, and champagne, bubbling furiously on the parquet.

Olivia jumped back; the hem of her gown had been splashed.

The prince looked furious.

Harry said nothing.

And then Sebastian smiled.