What Happens in London by Julia Quinn
She was a coward. A pathetic, spineless, miserable excuse for…for…well, for herself. She’d never backed down from a battle of wills. And she hated herself for doing so now.
When she heard his voice again, it was closer to her ear, his breath hot and moist. “And are you always kind?”
She clenched her teeth. He was goading her. And while she would love to deliver a setdown, she refused to do so. It was what he was trying for, after all. He wanted her to respond, just so that he could do the same.
Besides, she couldn’t think of anything suitably blistering.
His hand moved against her back—subtle, expert pressure that guided her in the dance. They turned, and then again, and she caught a glimpse of Mary Cadogan, eyes wide, mouth in a perfect little oval.
Wonderful. This would be all over town by tomorrow afternoon. One dance with a gentleman ought not cause a scandal, but Mary was sufficiently intrigued by Sir Harry—she would find a way to make it sound breathless and terribly au courant.
“What are your interests, Lady Olivia?” he asked.
“My interests?” she echoed, wondering if anyone had ever asked her this before. Certainly not so directly.
“Do you sing? Paint watercolors? Stab a needle in that fabric that goes in that hoop?”
“It’s called embroidery,” she said, somewhat testily; his tone was almost mocking, as if he didn’t expect her to have interests.
“Do you do it?”
“No.” She hated embroidery. She always had. And she wasn’t good at it, either.
“Do you play an instrument?”
“I like to shoot,” she said bluntly, hoping to put a stop to the conversation. It wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t really a lie, either. She didn’t not like shooting.
“A woman who likes guns,” he said softly.
Good Lord, the evening would never end. She let out a frustrated exhale. “Is this an exceptionally long waltz?”
“I don’t think so.”
Something about his tone caught her attention, and she looked up, just in time to see his lips curve as he said, “It only seems long. Because you don’t like me.”
She gasped. It was true, of course, but he wasn’t supposed to say it.
“I have a secret, Lady Olivia,” he whispered, leaning down just as far as he could without breaking the bounds of propriety. “I don’t like you, either.”
Olivia was still not liking Sir Harry several days later. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t even seen him. She knew he existed, and that seemed to be enough.
Every morning one of the maids entered her bedchamber and opened the curtains, and every morning, as soon as the maid left, Olivia leaped to her feet and yanked them back closed. She refused to give him any reason to accuse her of spying on him again.
Plus, what was to stop him from spying on her?
She hadn’t even left the house since the night of the musicale. She’d feigned a head cold (so easy to claim she’d caught it from Winston) and stayed inside. It wasn’t that she was worried about crossing paths with Sir Harry. Really, what was the likelihood that they would be coming down their front steps at the same time? Or returning from an outing? Or seeing each other on Bond Street? Or at Gunther’s? Or at a party?
She wasn’t going to run into him. She rarely even thought about it.
No, the bigger issue was avoiding her friends. Mary Cadogan had called the day after the musicale and then the day after that and then the day after that. Finally, Lady Rudland had told her that she would send a note when Olivia was feeling better.
She could not imagine having to tell Mary Cadogan about her conversation with Sir Harry. It was bad enough remembering it—which she seemed to do, on a minute-ly basis. To have to recount it to another human being…
It was almost enough to make a head cold devolve into plague.
What I Detest About Sir Harry Valentine
By the normally benevolent Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
I think he thinks I’m unintelligent.
I know he thinks I am unkind.
He blackmailed me into dancing with him.
He’s a better dancer than I am.
After three days of self-imposed isolation, however, Olivia was itching to move past the boundaries of her house and garden. Deciding that the early morning was the best time to avoid other people, she donned her bonnet and gloves, grabbed the freshly delivered morning newspaper, and headed out to her favorite bench in Hyde Park. Her maid, who unlike Olivia did enjoy needlework, followed along, clutching her embroidery and complaining about the hour.
It was a glorious morning—blue sky, puffy clouds, light breeze. Perfect weather, really, and no one out and about. “Come along, Sally,” she called out to her maid, who was lagging at least a dozen steps behind.
“It’s early,” Sally moaned.
“It’s half seven,” Olivia told her, holding steady for a few moments to allow Sally to catch up.
“That’s early.”
“Normally, I would agree with you, but as it happens I believe I am turning over a new leaf. Just see how lovely it is outside. The sun is shining, there is music in the air…”
“I hear no music,” Sally grumbled.
“Birds, Sally. The birds are singing.”
Sally remained unconvinced. “That leaf of yours—I don’t suppose you’d consider turning it back over again?”
Olivia grinned. “It won’t be so bad. As soon as we get to the park, we shall sit and enjoy the sunshine. I will have my newspaper and you your embroidery and no one will bother us.”
Except that after a mere fifteen minutes, Mary Cadogan came positively running up.
“Your mother told me you were here,” she said breathlessly. “You’re feeling better, then?”
“You spoke to my mother?” Olivia asked, unable to believe her bad fortune.
“She told me on Saturday that she would send me a note as soon as you were feeling better.”
“My mother,” Olivia muttered, “is remarkably prompt.”
“Isn’t she, though?”
Sally moved over on the bench, barely even looking up from her needlework. Mary settled in between the two of them, scooting this way and that until an inch of bench could be seen between her pink skirts and Olivia’s green.
“I want to know everything,” Mary said to Olivia, her voice low and thrilled.
Olivia briefly considered feigning ignorance but really, what was the point? They both knew exactly what Mary was talking about. “There’s not much to say,” she said, crinkling her newspaper in an attempt to remind Mary that she had come to the park to read. “He recognized me as his neighbor and asked me to dance. It was all very civilized.”
“Did he say anything about his fiancée?”
“Of course not.”
“What about Julian Prentice?”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he would tell a complete stranger, and a lady at that, about his giving another gentleman a blackened eye?”
“No,” Mary said glumly. “It was really too much to hope for. I vow, I cannot get the details from anyone.”
Olivia did her best to appear bored by the entire affair.
“Very well,” Mary continued, undaunted by her companion’s lack of response. “Tell me about the dance.”
“Mary.” It was a bit of a groan, a bit of a snap. Certainly rude, but Olivia desperately did not want to tell Mary anything.
“You must,” Mary insisted.
“Surely there is something else in London of interest besides my one, very short, very dull dance with Sir Harry Valentine.”
“Not really,” Mary answered. She shrugged, then stifled a yawn. “Philomena’s mother dragged her off to Brighton, and Anne is ill. She probably has the same head cold you had.”
Probably not, Olivia thought.
“No one has seen Sir Harry since the musicale,” Mary added. “He has not attended anything.”
T
Not that she would know. She had not looked out the window in days. She hadn’t even looked at the window. Well, not more than six or eight times, anyway.
Each day.
“What did you talk about, then?” Mary asked. “I know you spoke to him. I saw your lips moving.”
Olivia turned on her, eyes flaring with irritation. “You were watching my lips?”
“Oh, please. It’s not as if you’ve never done the same thing.”
Not only true, but irrefutable, since she’d done it with Mary. But a response—no, a retort—was definitely in order, so Olivia gave a little snort and said, “I’ve never done it to you.”
“But you would,” Mary said with certainty.
Also true, but not something Olivia intended to admit.
“What did you talk about?” Mary asked again.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Olivia lied, crinkling her newspaper again—more loudly this time. She’d got through the society pages—she always started at the back of the paper—but she wanted to read the parliamentary report. She always read the parliamentary report. Every day. Even her father didn’t read it every day, and he was a member of the House of Lords.
“You looked angry,” Mary persisted.
I am now, she wanted to grumble.
“Were you?”
Olivia grit her teeth. “I’m sure you were mistaken.”
“I don’t think so,” Mary said, in that excruciating singsong voice she employed when she thought she was in the know.
Olivia looked over at Sally, who was pulling her needle through the fabric, pretending she wasn’t listening. Then she looked back at Mary, giving her an urgent sort of look, as if to say—Not in front of the servants.
It was not a permanent solution to the Mary problem, but it would put her off for a little while, at least.
She crinkled her newspaper again, then looked down at her hands in dismay. She’d got it before the butler had had a chance to iron the paper, and now the ink was coming off on her skin.
“That’s disgusting,” Mary said.
Olivia could think of no response, except, “Where is your maid?”
“Oh, over there,” Mary replied, waving her hand in the general vicinity of behind them. And then Olivia realized she’d made a terrible miscalculation, because Mary immediately turned to Sally and said, “You know my Genevieve, don’t you? Why don’t you go talk to her?”
Sally did know Mary’s Genevieve, and she also knew that Genevieve’s English skills were limited at best, but as Olivia couldn’t very well jump in and insist that Sally not speak to Genevieve, Sally was forced to set down her embroidery and head off to find her.
“There,” Mary announced proudly. “That was neatly done. Now tell me, what was he like? Was he handsome?”
“You’ve seen him.”
“No, was he handsome up close? Those eyes.” Mary shivered.
“Oh!” Olivia exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “They were brown, not bluish gray.”
“That can’t be. I’m quite certain—”
“You got it wrong.”
“No. I never get things like that wrong.”
“Mary, I was this close to his face,” Olivia said, motioning to the distance between them on the bench. “I assure you, his eyes are brown.”
Mary looked horrified. Finally, she shook her head and said, “It must be the way he looks at a person. So piercing. I just assumed his eyes were blue.” She blinked. “Or gray.”
Olivia rolled her eyes and looked straight ahead, hoping that would be the end of it, but Mary was not to be deterred. “You still didn’t tell me about him,” she pointed out.
“Mary, there is nothing to say,” Olivia insisted. She looked down at her lap in dismay. Her newspaper was now a crumpled, unreadable heap. “He asked me to dance. I accepted.”
“But—” And then Mary gasped.
“But what?” Really, Olivia was losing patience with this.
Mary grabbed her arm, actually grabbed it. Hard.
“What is it now?”
Mary pointed a finger in the direction of the Serpentine. “Over there.”
Olivia saw nothing.
“On the horse,” Mary hissed.
Olivia shifted her gaze to the left and then—
Oh, no. It couldn’t be.
“Is that him?”
Olivia didn’t answer.
“Sir Harry,” Mary clarified.
“I know who you’re talking about,” Olivia snapped.
Mary craned her neck. “I think it is Sir Harry.”
Olivia knew it was, not so much because it looked like the gentleman in question, but rather because how could her luck be anything but?
“He rides well,” Mary murmured admiringly.
Olivia decided it was time to think religiously and pray. Maybe he wouldn’t see them. Maybe he would but decide to ignore them. Maybe lightning—
“I think he saw us,” Mary said, all glee and delight. “You should wave. I would, but we haven’t been introduced.”
“Don’t give him any encouragement,” Olivia ground out.
Mary turned on her in an instant. “I knew you didn’t like him.”
Olivia closed her eyes in misery. This was supposed to have been a peaceful, solitary outing. She wondered how long it would be until Mary caught Anne’s head cold.
Then she wondered if there was anything she could do to hasten the infection.
“Olivia,” Mary hissed, jabbing her in the ribs.
Olivia opened her eyes. Sir Harry was now quite a bit closer, clearly riding in their direction.
“I wonder if Mr. Grey is here as well,” Mary said hopefully. “He might be Lord Newbury’s heir, you know.”
Olivia pasted a tight smile onto her face as Sir Harry approached, apparently without his might-be-an-heir cousin. He did ride well, she noticed, and his mount was very fine—a gorgeous brown gelding with white socks. He was dressed for a ride—a real one, not a stately trot on the park path. His dark hair was wind-blown, and his cheeks had a bit of color in them, and it should have made him look more approachable and friendly, but, Olivia thought with some disdain, he’d need to smile for that.
Sir Harry Valentine did not do smiles. Certainly not in her direction.
“Ladies,” he said, coming to a halt in front of them.
“Sir Harry.” It was all Olivia could manage, given that she was loath to unclench her teeth.
Mary kicked her.
“May I introduce Miss Cadogan,” Olivia said.
He tilted his head graciously. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Sir Harry,” Mary said, giving him a nod of greeting in return. “It is a pleasant morning, is it not?”
“Very much so,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Olivia?”
“Indeed,” she said tightly. She turned toward Mary, hoping he would follow suit and direct his questions at her.
But of course he did not. “I have not seen you in Hyde Park before, Lady Olivia,” he said.
“I don’t normally venture forth this early.”
“No,” he murmured, “I would imagine you have very important things to do at home at this time of the morning.”
Mary gave her a curious look. It was a cryptic statement.
“Things to do,” he went on, “people to watch…”
“Is your cousin riding as well?” Olivia asked quickly.
His brows rose mockingly. “Sebastian is rarely seen before noon,” he replied.
“But you are an early riser?”
“Always.”
Another thing to detest about him. Olivia didn’t mind getting up early, but she hated people who were cheerful about it.
Olivia made no further comment, purposefully trying to extend the moment into awkwardness. Perhaps he would take the hint and leave. Anybody with sense k
She reached up and rubbed the side of her neck, hoping he would take the hint. But then—because clearly everyone was against her, even herself—she had an extremely ill-timed burst of memory. About her imaginary boils. And the plague. Of the bubonic variety. And heaven help her, she laughed.
Except she couldn’t laugh, not with Mary sitting right next her and Sir Harry looking down his arrogant nose, so she clamped her mouth shut. Except that sent the air through her nose, and she snorted. Most inelegantly. And that tickled.
Which made her laugh for real.
“Olivia?” Mary asked.
“It’s nothing,” she said, waving her hand at Mary as she turned the other way, trying to cover her face. “Really.”
Sir Harry said nothing, thank God. Although it was probably only because he thought her insane.
But Mary—now she was a different story, and she never knew when to let go. “Are you sure, Olivia, because—”
Olivia still looked down into her shoulder, because somehow she knew she’d laugh anew if she didn’t. “I just thought of something, that is all.”
“But—”
Amazingly, Mary stopped pestering her.
Olivia would have been relieved, except that it seemed highly unlikely that Mary might suddenly develop tact and sense. And indeed, she was proved correct, because Mary hadn’t cut herself off out of any sympathy for Olivia. She’d cut herself off because—
“Oh, look, Olivia! It’s your brother.”
♥ Uploaded by Coral ♥
Chapter Six
Harry had been planning to head home. It was his custom to take an early-morning ride, even in town, and he’d been just about ready to exit the park when he spied Lady Olivia sitting on a bench. He found this sufficiently intriguing to stop and be introduced to her friend, but after a few moments of idle chatter, he decided he didn’t find either one of them sufficiently intriguing to keep him from his work.
Especially since Lady Olivia Bevelstoke was the reason he’d fallen so far behind in the first place.