She laughed. “It was tea you missed, really? Most gentlemen of my acquaintance would say brandy. Or port.”
“Tea,” he said firmly.
“Do you drink coffee?”
He shook his head. “Too bitter.”
“Chocolate?”
“Only with heaps of sugar.”
“You are a very interesting man, Sir Harry.”
“I am certainly aware that you find me interesting.”
Her cheeks burned. And here she was starting to actually like the man. The worst part of it all was, he had a point. She had been spying on him, and it had been rude. But still, he didn’t need to go out of his way to make her uncomfortable.
The tea arrived, giving her respite from meaningful conversation. “Milk?” she asked.
“Please.”
“Sugar?”
“No. Thank you.”
She didn’t bother to look up as she remarked, “Really? No sugar? Even though you sweeten your chocolate?”
“And my coffee, if I’m forced to drink it. Tea is a different beast altogether.”
Olivia handed him his cup and set to work preparing her own. There was a certain comfort to be found in familiar tasks. Her hands knew just what to do, the memories of the motions long since etched into her muscles. The conversation, too, was bolstering. Simple and meaningless, and yet it restored her equilibrium. So much so that as he took his second sip, she was finally able to upset his equilibrium, smiling sweetly as she said:
“They say you killed your fiancée.”
He choked, which gave her great pleasure (his shock, not his choking; she hoped she’d not become that ruthless), but he recovered quickly, and his voice was smooth and even when he responded, “Do they?”
“They do.”
“Do they say how I killed her?”
“They do not.”
“Do they say when?”
“They might have done,” she lied, “but I wasn’t listening.”
“Hmmm.” He appeared to be considering this. It was a disconcerting sight, this tall, utterly masculine man, sitting in her mother’s mauve sitting room with a dainty teacup in his hand. Apparently pondering murder.
He took a sip. “Did anyone happen to mention her name?”
“Your fiancée’s?”
“Yes.” It was a silky, utterly urbane “yes,” as if they were discussing the weather, or perhaps the likelihood of Bucket of Roses winning the Ascot Cup on Ladies’ Day.
Olivia gave her head a little shake and lifted her own cup to her lips.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, then looked at her directly, his head moving sadly from side to side. “She rests in peace now, that is all that is important.”
Olivia didn’t just choke on her tea, she spit it nearly across the room. And he laughed, the wretch.
“Good God, that was the most fun I’ve had in years,” he said, trying to catch his breath.
“You’re despicable.”
“You accused me of murder!”
“I did not. I only said that someone else did.”
“Oh, yes,” he said mockingly, “there’s a really big difference.”
“For your information, I didn’t believe it.”
“I am warmed to the core by your support.”
“Don’t be,” she said sharply. “It was nothing more than common sense.”
He laughed again. “Is that why you were spying on me?”
“I wasn’t—” Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was she still denying it? “Yes,” she practically spat. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“I might call for a constable first.”
“I might call for a constable first,” she mimicked, using a voice she usually reserved for her siblings.
“You are testy.”
She glared at him.
“Very well, did you at least discover something interesting?”
“Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, I did.”
He waited, then finally said, with no small amount of sarcasm, “Do tell.”
She leaned forward. “Explain the hat.”
He looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “What are you talking about?”
“The hat!” she exclaimed, waving her hands alongside her head, her wrists flicking up as if to indicate the silhouette of a headpiece. “It was ridiculous! It had feathers. And you were wearing it inside.”
“Oh. That.” Harry fought a chuckle. “That was for your benefit, really.”
“You didn’t know I was there!”
“Excuse me, yes I did.”
Her lips parted, and she looked a trifle queasy as she asked, “When did you see me?”
“The first time you stepped in front of the window.” Harry shrugged, raising his eyebrows as if to say—Just try to contradict me. “You’re not as good at concealment as you think.”
She drew back in a huff. It was ludicrous, but he suspected she thought she’d been insulted. “And the papers in the fire?” she demanded.
“Don’t you ever toss papers in the fire?”
“Not in a mad rush, I don’t.”
“Well, that was for your benefit, too. You were going to such trouble. I thought I had best make it worth your while.”
“You…”
She didn’t look able to complete the sentence, so he added, almost offhandedly, “I was near to jumping on the desk and dancing a jig, but I thought that would be too obvious.”
“You were making fun of me the whole time.”
“Well…” He thought about that. “Yes.”
Her lips parted. She looked outraged, and he almost felt apologetic—really, it had to be a male reflex, to feel ashamed when a female had that look on her face. But she had not a leg to stand on, not even a toe. “Might I remind you,” he pointed out, “that you were spying on me. If anyone is the wronged party, it is I.”
“Well, I do think you’ve had your revenge,” she responded primly, her chin poking up in the air.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Lady Olivia. It will be a long time before we are even.”
“What are you planning?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.” He grinned. “Yet.”
She made a funny little huffing sound—it was quite endearing, really—and he decided to go in for the winning blow with, “Oh, and by the way, I have never been betrothed.”
She blinked, looking somewhat confused by his sudden change of topic.
“The dead fiancée?” he supplied helpfully.
“Not so dead, then?”
“Never even alive to begin with.”
She nodded slowly, then asked, “Why did you come here today?”
Harry certainly wasn’t going to tell her the truth, that she was now his assignment, and he was supposed to make sure that she didn’t unwittingly commit treason. So he just said, “It seemed polite.”
He was going to have to spend a great deal of time with her in the next few weeks, or if not with her, then at least in her vicinity. He no longer suspected that there had been any nefarious purpose to her spying on him. He never had, really, but it would have been foolish not to be careful. Still, her story about the dead fiancée was so ludicrous it had to be true. It did seem exactly the reason a bored debutante would spy on a neighbor.
Not that he knew much of bored debutantes.
But he supposed he would soon.
He smiled at her. He was enjoying himself far more than he’d expected to.
She looked as if she might roll her eyes, and for some reason he wanted her to. He liked her much more when her face was in motion, replete with emotion. At the Smythe-Smith musicale, she had been cool and uncompromisingly reserved. Except for a few unharnessed flashes of ire, she had been devoid of expression.
It had grated. It had got under his fingernails, like an itch that could never be satisfied.
She offered more tea, and he took it, strangely content to prolong the visit. As she was pouring, however, the butler enter
ed the room again, bearing a silver tray.
“Lady Olivia,” he intoned. “This arrived for you.”
The butler bent down so that Lady Olivia could remove a card from the tray. It looked like an invitation of sorts, festive and grand, with a ribbon and a seal.
A seal?
Harry shifted his position ever so slightly, trying to get a better view. Was it a royal seal? The Russians did like their royal trappings. He supposed the British did, too, but that was neither here nor there. She wasn’t being pursued by King George.
She glanced at the card in her hands, then moved to set it down on the table beside her.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
“I’m sure it can wait. I wouldn’t wish to be rude.”
“Do not mind me,” he assured her. He motioned toward the card. “It does look interesting.”
She blinked a few times, looking first at the card and then up at him with a curious expression.
“Grand,” Harry clarified, thinking his first choice of adjectives had not been well thought.
“I know who it’s from,” she said, apparently unaffected by the knowledge.
He cocked his head, hoping the motion would serve as the question it would be impolite to voice aloud.
“Oh, very well,” she said, sliding her finger under the seal. “If you insist.”
He hadn’t insisted in the least, but he wasn’t about to say anything that might make her change her mind.
And so he waited patiently while she read, enjoying the play of emotion across her face. She rolled her eyes once, let out a small but beleaguered exhalation, and then finally groaned.
“Unpleasant news?” Harry inquired politely.
“No,” she said. “Just an invitation I’d rather not accept.”
“Then don’t.”
She smiled tightly. Or maybe it was ruefully. He couldn’t be sure.
“This is more of a summons,” she told him.
“Oh, come now. Who has the authority to issue a summons to the illustrious Lady Olivia Bevelstoke?”
Wordlessly, she handed him the card.
Chapter Eight
Reasons Why a Prince Might Pay Attention to Me
By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
Ruination
Marriage
Neither option was particularly appealing. Ruination, for obvious reasons, and marriage for…well, a whole host of reasons.
Reasons Why I Would Not Care to Marry a Russian Prince
By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
I don’t speak Russian.
I can’t even manage French.
I don’t want to move to Russia.
I hear it’s quite cold there.
I would miss my family.
And tea.
Did they drink tea in Russia? She looked over at Sir Harry, who was still examining the card she’d handed to him. For some reason she thought he would know. He’d traveled widely, or at least as widely as the army would have needed him to, and he did like tea.
And her list hadn’t even begun to touch upon the royal aspects of marriage to a prince. The protocol. The formality. It sounded an absolute nightmare.
A nightmare in a very cold climate.
Quite honestly, she was beginning to think that ruination was the lesser of the two evils.
“I did not realize you moved in such rarefied circles,” Sir Harry said, once he was done with his perusal of the invitation.
“I don’t. I’ve met him twice. No”—she thought back over the past few weeks—“three times. That’s all.”
“You must have made quite an impression.”
Olivia sighed wearily. She’d known that the prince had found her attractive. She’d had enough men pursue her in the past that she could recognize the signs. She’d tried to dissuade him as politely as she could, but she couldn’t very well rebuff him completely. He was a prince, for heaven’s sake. If there was going to be tension between their two nations, she wasn’t going to be the cause of it.
“Will you go?” Sir Harry asked.
Olivia grimaced. The prince, who was apparently unaware of the English custom that gentlemen called upon ladies, had requested that she pay him a visit. He had gone so far as to specify a time, two days hence, at three in the afternoon, which led Olivia to feel that he had taken a rather liberal view of the word “request.”
“I don’t see how I can refuse,” she replied.
“No.” He looked down again at the invitation, shaking his head. “You can’t.”
She groaned.
“Most women would find it flattering.”
“I suppose it is. I mean, yes, of course it is. He is a prince.” She tried to put a little excitement into her voice. She didn’t think she succeeded.
“But you still don’t wish to go?”
“It’s a nuisance, is what it is.” She gave him a direct look. “Have you ever been presented at court? No? It’s dreadful.”
He laughed, but she was too worked up to do anything but continue. “The dress has to be just so, with hoops and panniers even though no one has worn that nonsense for years. Your curtsy must be exactly the right depth, and heaven forbid you smile at the wrong moment.”
“Somehow I don’t think Prince Alexei expects you to don hoops and panniers.”
“I know he doesn’t, but it’s still going to be grotesquely formal, and I don’t know the first thing about Russian protocol. Which means my mother will insist upon finding someone to teach me, although where she will find a tutor at this late date, I don’t know. And then I will have to spend the next two days learning how deep a Russian curtsy must be, and are there any topics it would be considered impolite to discuss, and oh!”
She left off with the oh, because honestly, the entire topic was giving her a stomachache. Nerves. It was nerves. She hated nerves.
She looked over at Sir Harry. He was sitting very still, with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Aren’t you going to tell me it won’t be so terrible?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. It will be terrible.”
She slumped. Her mother would have a fit of the vapors if she saw her like this, all slouchy in the presence of a gentleman. But really, couldn’t he have lied and said she was going to have a marvelous time? If he’d lied, she would still be sitting straight.
And if it made her feel better to affix blame upon someone else, so be it.
“At least you have a few days until you have to present yourself,” he offered.
“Only two,” she said gloomily. “And I’ll probably see him tonight, as well.”
“Tonight?”
“The Mottram ball. Are you going?” She flapped her hand in front of her face. “No, of course you’re not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She felt herself blush. That had been terribly thoughtless of her. “I simply meant that you don’t go out. Not that you couldn’t. You just do not choose to. Or at least I assume that’s the reason.”
He stared at her, so long and so level, that she was compelled to continue. “I watched you for five days, remember.”
“It is something I’m unlikely to forget.” He must have taken pity on her, because he did not pursue the topic further, instead saying, “As it happens I do plan to attend the Mottram ball.”
She smiled, more than a little surprised by the flutters of delight in her midsection. “Then I will see you there.”
“I would not miss it for the world.”
As it happened, Harry hadn’t planned to attend the Mottram ball. He wasn’t even sure if he had received an invitation, but it was easy enough to attach himself to Sebastian, who would certainly be going. This meant he was forced to endure Seb’s interrogation—why did he suddenly wish to go out and who might be responsible for the change of heart? But Harry had plenty of experience dodging Sebastian’s questions, and once they arrived, it was such a crush that he was able to lose his cousin immediately.
/>
Harry remained at the perimeter of the ballroom, casting an appraising eye over the crowd. It was difficult to estimate how many were in attendance. Three hundred? Four? It would be easy to pass along a note without being detected, or to conduct a furtive conversation, all the while appearing as if nothing were amiss.
Harry gave himself a mental shake. He was starting to think like a bloody spy, for God’s sake. Which he did not have to do. His orders had been to keep an eye on Lady Olivia and the prince, together or separately. He wasn’t supposed to attempt to prevent anything or stop anything or really, anything.
Watch and report, that was all.
He didn’t see Olivia or anyone who looked vaguely royal, for that matter, so he got himself a glass of punch and sipped at it for several minutes, entertaining himself by watching Sebastian move about the room, charming everyone in his path.
It was a talent, that. One he most definitely did not possess.
After about thirty minutes of watching and waiting (no reporting to be done, whatsoever), there was a small stir near the east entrance, so Harry began to wend his way over. He got himself as close as he was able, then leaned toward the gentleman next to him and asked, “Do you know what all the fuss is about?”
“Some Russian prince.” The man shrugged, unimpressed. “Been in town for a couple of weeks.”
“Causing quite a stir,” Harry commented.
The man—Harry didn’t know him, but he seemed like the sort who spent his evenings at events such as these—snorted. “The ladies have gone stupid for him.”
Harry returned his attention to the small knot of people near the door. There was the usual movement of bodies, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of the man at the center of it all, but not for long enough to get a good look at him.
The prince was quite blond, that much he’d been able to see, and taller than average, although probably not, Harry noted with some satisfaction, as tall as he was.
There was no reason Harry should be introduced to the prince, and no one who would think to do so, so he hung back, trying to take measure of the man as he moved through the crowd.
He was arrogant, that was for certain. At least ten young ladies were presented to him, and each time, he did not even so much as nod. His chin remained high, and he acknowledged each of them with nothing more than a sharp, downward glance.