What Happens in London

Chapter Twelve

Sir Harry?” Olivia called out, coming to her feet. She leaned against the sill, peering out past the darkness to his window, where he sat silhouetted against a flickering rectangle of light. He had gone so still, and so suddenly, at that.

He started at the sound of her voice, looking up at her window, but not quite at her. “Sorry,” he muttered, and he turned quickly back to the book, searching through the words to find his place.

“No, no, don’t be,” she assured him. He really did look a little odd, as if he’d just eaten something that had gone off. “Are you all right?”

He looked up at her, and then-it was really quite impossible to describe, or even understand-what happened. His eyes met hers, and even though it was dark, and she couldn’t see the color, that rich, warm chocolate-she still knew it. And she felt it. And then, quite simply, she lost her breath. Just lost it. Her balance, too. She stumbled back into her chair, and sat there for a moment, wondering why her heart was racing.

All he’d done was look at her.

And she’d…she’d…

She’d swooned.

Oh, dear heavens, he must think her an absolute fool. She had never swooned a day in her life, and-and, oh very well, she hadn’t really swooned, but that was what it felt like, this strange, floaty thing, all fizzy and queer, and now he was going to think she was one of those ladies who had to carry a vinaigrette with her everywhere she went.

Which was bad enough, except that she’d spent half her life poking fun at those ladies. Oh dear oh dear. She scrambled back to her feet and poked her head out the window. “I’m fine,” she called out. “Just lost my footing.”

He nodded slowly, and she realized he wasn’t entirely with her. His thoughts were far, far away. Then, as if quietly coming back into place, he looked up and begged her pardon. “Woolgathering,” he offered as explanation. “It’s late.”

“It is,” she murmured in agreement, although she did not think it could be very much past ten. And all of a sudden she realized that she could not bear to have him say good night, that she was going to have to do it first. Because…because…Well, she didn’t know why, she only knew that it was true.

“I was just about to say that I should really be going,” she said, the words tumbling from her lips. “Well, not going, I suppose, as I don’t really have anywhere to go, since I’m already right here in my room, and I’m not going anywhere but bed, and that’s just a few feet away.”

She smiled at him, as if that could make up for the nonsense coming from her mouth. “As you said,” she continued, “it is growing late.”

He nodded again.

And she had to say something more, because he wasn’t doing so. “Good night then.”

He returned the farewell, but his voice was so soft she didn’t really hear it, rather saw the words on his lips.

And again, like his eyes, when he looked at her, she felt it. It started in her fingertips, floating up her arms until she shivered and exhaled, as if she could set the strange feeling free with her breath.

But it stayed with her, tickling her lungs, dancing across her skin.

She was going mad. That had to be it. Or she was overtired. Too tense from a day with a royal prince.

She stepped inside her room, reaching up to pull her window closed, but then-

“Oh!” She poked her head back out. “Sir Harry!”

He looked up. He hadn’t moved from his spot.

“The book,” she said. “You still have it.”

In unison they both looked out at the strip of space between their buildings.

“It’s not going to work so well tossing it up,” she said, “is it?”

He shook his head, and he smiled, just a little bit, as if he knew he should not. “I shall have to call upon you tomorrow to return it.”

And there it came again, that breathless feeling, all bubbly and strange. “I shall look forward to it,” she said, and closed the window.

And shut the curtains.

And then let out a little squeal, hugging her arms to her body.

What a perfect evening this had turned out to be.

The following afternoon, Harry tucked Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron under his arm and prepared to make the extremely short journey to Lady Olivia’s sitting room. It was, he thought as he made his way over, nearly as far in vertical distance as horizontal. Twelve steps down to his ground floor, another six to the street, eight up to her front door…

Next time he would count the horizontal paces, too. It would be interesting to see how they compared.

He’d quite got over his momentary madness of the night before. Lady Olivia Bevelstoke was astoundingly beautiful; this was not just his opinion, it was a well-accepted fact. Any man would want her, especially one who had been living as monkish an existence as he had these past few months.

The key to his sanity, he was becoming increasingly convinced, was in remembering why he was climbing the front steps to her home. The War Office. The prince. National security…She was his assignment. Winthrop had all but ordered him to insinuate himself into her life.

No, Winthrop had ordered him to insinuate himself into her life. There had been no ambiguity about it.

He was following orders, he told himself as he lifted the knocker at her door. An afternoon with Olivia. For king and country.

And really, she was a damn sight better than that Russian countess with all the vodka.

With such focus on duty, however, one would have thought he’d have been more pleased when he arrived in the sitting room and saw that Lady Olivia was not alone. His other assignment, the incredibly well-postured Prince Alexei of Russia, was right there, sitting across from her, looking smug.

It should have been convenient. Instead, it was annoying.

“Sir Harry,” Olivia said, giving him a bright smile as he entered the sitting room. “You remember Prince Alexei, do you not?”

But of course. Almost as well as he remembered his hulking giant of a bodyguard, standing with a deceptive slouch in the corner.

Harry wondered if the fellow followed the prince into his bedroom. That had to be awkward for the ladies.

“What is that in your hand?” the prince asked him.

“A book,” Harry replied, setting Miss Butterworth down on a side table. “One I promised to lend to Lady Olivia.”

“What is it?” the prince demanded.

“Just a silly novel,” Olivia put in. “I don’t think I will like it, but it was recommended by a friend.”

The prince looked unimpressed.

“What do you like to read, Your Highness?” she asked.

“You would not be familiar with it,” he said dismissively.

Harry watched Olivia closely. She was good at this, he realized, this playacting that masqueraded as polite society. There was barely a flash of irritation in her eyes before she suppressed it, with an expression so perfectly pleasant and sunny that it had to be sincere.

Except that he knew it wasn’t.

“I would still like to hear about your reading choices,” she said cordially. “I enjoy learning about other cultures.”

The prince turned to her, and in doing so, turned his back on Harry. “One of my ancestors was a great poet and philosopher. Prince Antiokh Dmitrievich Kantemir.”

Harry found this very interesting; it was well known (among those who knew of Russian culture) that Kantemir had died a bachelor.

“I also read recently all of the fables of Ivan Krylov,” Alexei continued. “Every Russian of education must do so.”

“We have writers like that, too,” Olivia commented. “Shakespeare. Everyone reads Shakespeare. I think it would be almost unpatriotic not to.”

The prince shrugged. His opinion of Shakespeare, apparently.

“Do you read Shakespeare?” Olivia asked.

“I have read some of it in French,” he said. “But I prefer to read in Russian. Our literature is far deeper than yours.”

“I’ve read Poor Liza,” Harry said, even though he knew he should have kept his mouth shut. But the prince was such a pompous ass. It was difficult not to try to prick the air from him.

Prince Alexei turned to him with unconcealed surprise. “I did not know that Bednaya Liza had been translated into English.”

Harry didn’t know, either; he’d read it in Russian, years ago. But he’d already made one rash mistake this afternoon. He wasn’t going to make another, and so he said, “I think I’m thinking of the right book. The author is…oh, I can’t think of it…begins with a K, I think. Karmazanon?”

“Karamzin,” the prince said brusquely, “Nikolai Karamzin.”

“Yes, that’s the one,” Harry said, his tone purposefully breezy. “Poor peasant girl gets ruined by a nobleman, yes?”

The prince gave a curt nod.

Harry shrugged. “Someone must have translated it, then.”

“Perhaps I shall try to find a copy,” the prince said. “It might benefit to my English.”

“Is it very well known?” Olivia put in. “I should love to read it, if we can find a copy in English.”

Harry gave her a dubious look. This was the same woman who had claimed not to like either Henry V or Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.

There was the barest hint of a lull in the conversation before Olivia said, “I just called for tea before you arrived, Sir Harry. Will you join us?”

“I would be delighted.” Harry took a seat across from the prince, flashing him a bland smile.

“I must confess,” Olivia said, “that I am terrible with languages. My governesses despaired of my ever mastering French. I have such admiration for those who can speak more than one. Your English is truly superb, Your Highness.”

The prince acknowledged her compliment with a nod.

“Prince Alexei speaks French as well,” Olivia said to Harry.

“As do I,” he responded, since there didn’t seem any reason to hide it. The prince might let something slip in Russian, but he would never do so in French; there were far too many French speakers in London. Besides, after so many years on the Continent, it would have been strange if he hadn’t picked up some of the language.

“I didn’t realize that,” Olivia said. “Perhaps the two of you can converse. Or maybe not.” She let out a little laugh. “I quake with terror over what you might say about me.”

“Only the deepest of compliments,” the prince said smoothly.

“I doubt my skills are up to par with His Highness’s,” Harry lied. “It would be a frustrating conversation for us both, I am sure.”

Again, a lull, and again, Olivia leaped into the breach. “Perhaps you can say something for us in Russian,” she said to the prince. “I am not sure that I have ever heard the language spoken aloud. Have you, Sir Harry?”

“I believe so,” he murmured.

“Oh, of course you would have done, during your time on the Continent. I imagine you must have heard any number of languages.”

Harry nodded politely, but she had already turned back to Alexei. “Would you say something? French I do recognize, even if I can hardly understand a word. But Russian-well, I have no idea what it sounds like. Is it a bit like German?”

“Nyet,” the prince replied.

“Ny-oh!” Olivia beamed. “That must mean no.”

“Da,” the prince said.

“And that must be yes!”

Harry wasn’t sure whether he was amused or nauseated.

“Say something more,” she urged. “I can’t really hear the rhythm of the language from single-syllable words.”

“Very well,” the prince said. “Let me see…”

They waited patiently while he thought of something to say. After a few moments he spoke.

And Harry decided that he had never hated another human being as much as he hated Prince Alexei Gomarovsky of Russia.

“What did you say?” Olivia asked with an expectant smile.

“Only that you are more beautiful than the oceans, sky, and fog.”

Or, depending on the translation, I’m going to pump you until you scream.

“That’s so poetic,” Olivia murmured.

Harry did not trust himself to speak.

“Can you say something more?” Olivia entreated.

The prince demurred. “I could not think of anything more-how do you say it?”

Offensive.

“Delicate,” the prince finished, looking extremely pleased with his choice of word. “Delicate enough for you.”

Harry coughed. It was either that or gag. Or really, it must have sounded like a bit of both, because Olivia looked at him with an expression of panic. He could do nothing but roll his eyes in return. No reasonable man could listen to this drivel without some sort of reaction.

“Oh, here comes the tea,” Olivia said, sounding more than a little relieved. “Mary, we will need another setting. Sir Harry has decided to join us.”

After Mary had set the tray down and gone off to fetch another cup, Olivia looked over at Harry and said, “You don’t mind if I begin to pour, do you?”

“Of course not,” he said, and happened to glance at the prince, who was regarding him with nothing less than a smirk.

Harry gave him an equally juvenile look in return. He couldn’t help it. And, he reasoned, it would help to maintain the fiction that he was just another jealous suitor. But really, did Alexei think that Olivia signaled her favor by serving him tea before Harry had a cup?

“Do you enjoy our English tea, Your Highness?” Olivia asked. “Although I suppose it isn’t really English. But we have made it our own, I think.”

“I find it a most pleasant custom,” the prince said.

“Do you take milk?”

“Please.”

“Sugar?”

“Yes.”

She prepared his cup, speaking as she spooned the sugar. “Sir Harry recently told me that tea was what he missed the most while serving in the army.”

“Is that so?” Prince Alexei responded.

Harry was not sure who the prince was speaking to but decided to answer nonetheless. “There were many nights when I would have killed for a hot beverage.”

“I expect there were many nights when you killed, anyway,” the prince returned.

Harry gave him a cool look. “I was armed at various times with a saber, a rifle, and bayonet. I killed frequently.”

The prince met his stare with equal measure. “You sound as if you enjoyed it.”

“Never,” Harry said curtly.

One corner of the prince’s mouth curved very slightly. “Evil is sometimes necessary for good to flower, da?”

Harry acknowledged this with a single nod.

The prince took a sip of his tea, even though Harry had not yet been served. “Do you fence, Sir Harry?”

“Only passably.” This was true. They hadn’t had a proper fencing master at Hesslewhite. As a result, Harry’s sword skills were far more military than competitive. He was mediocre at the parry, but he knew how to go in for the kill.

“Here is that extra cup,” Olivia announced, taking it from the maid, who had just returned. “Sir Harry, you take yours without sugar, do you not?”

“You remember,” he murmured.

She smiled at him, a happy, earnest thing that floated across him like a warm breeze. He felt himself smiling back, unbidden, unfeigned. She looked at him, and he at her, and for one breathtaking moment they were alone in the room.

But then she turned away, murmuring something about tea. She busied herself fixing his cup, and he found that he was transfixed by her hands, lovely and elegant, and yet somehow not quite graceful. He liked that. Every goddess needed imperfections.

She looked up again and saw that he had been watching her. She smiled again, and then he had to do the same, and-

And then the damned prince had to go and open his mouth.