by Julia Quinn
“Julian Prentice.”
Mary gasped with delighted horror. “Is he here?”
“I don’t think so. But Winston said that it was not such a vicious thing as we thought. Apparently Julian was so sotted Sir Harry could have knocked him down by blowing on him.”
“Except for the blackened eye,” Mary reminded her, ever the stickler for detail.
“The point is, I don’t think he thrashed him.”
Mary paused for a second, then must have decided it was time to move on. She looked this way and that, then scratched at the spot where the stiff lace of her gown bent up against her collarbone. “Er, speaking of your brother, is he attending?”
“Heavens, no.” Olivia managed not to roll her eyes, but it was a close thing. Winston had given a rather convincing show of a head cold and bundled himself off to bed. Their mother had been so well fooled that she had asked the butler to check in on him at hourly intervals and send for her if he worsened.
Which had provided a bright spot in the evening. Olivia had it on the best of authority that there would be a gathering at White’s later that evening. Ah well, it would have to proceed without Winston Bevelstoke.
Which very well might have been her mother’s intention.
“Do you know,” Olivia murmured, “the older I get, the more I admire my mother.”
Mary looked at her as if she’d gone eccentric. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s nothing.” Olivia gave a little wave. It would be far too difficult to explain. She stretched her neck a bit, trying to make it look as if she weren’t perusing the crowd. “I don’t see him.”
“Who?” Mary asked.
Olivia fought off the urge to bat her. “Sir Harry.”
“Oh, he’s here,” Mary said confidently. “I saw him.”
“He’s not here now.”
Mary—who had just moments earlier admonished Olivia for her lack of discretion—displayed astonishing flexibility as she twisted herself nearly backward. “Hmmm.”
Olivia waited for more.
“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.
“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.
Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”
Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t not turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.
Of course she didn’t know that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.
Olivia decided to cling to that thought.
“Look what I brought,” Mary said, digging into her sovereign purse.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Olivia said, peering down at the beadwork.
“Isn’t it? Mama got it in Bath. Oh, here we are.” Mary pulled out two little tufts of cotton. “For my ears,” she explained.
Olivia’s lips parted with admiration. And envy. “You don’t have two more, do you?”
“Sorry,” Mary said with a shrug. “It’s a very small purse.” She turned forward. “I think they’re ready to begin.”
One of the Smythe-Smith mothers called out for everyone to sit down. Olivia’s mother looked over at her, saw that Mary had taken her seat, and gave a little wave before finding a spot next to Mary’s mother.
Olivia took a deep breath, mentally preparing for her third encounter with the Smythe-Smith string quartet. She’d perfected her technique the year before; it involved breathing deeply, finding a spot on the wall behind the girls from which she must not avert her eyes, and pondering various traveling opportunities, no matter how plebian or routine:
Places I Would Rather Be, Edition 1821 By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
France With Miranda With Miranda in France In bed with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with either a cup of chocolate or a newspaper
She looked over at Mary, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. The cotton was sticking partway out of her ears, and Olivia very nearly had to sit on her hands just to keep from yanking it out.
If it had been Winston or Miranda, she would definitely have done so.
The strains of Bach, recognizable only by its Baroque…well, she wouldn’t call it melody, precisely, but it did have something to do with notes moving up and down a scale. Whatever it was, it slapped her ears, and Olivia snapped her head back toward the front.
Eyes on the spot, eyes on the spot.
She’d rather be:
Swimming
On horseback
Not swimming on horseback
Asleep
Eating an ice
Did that qualify as a place? It was more of an experience, really, as was “asleep,” but then again, “asleep” implied being in bed, which was a place. Although, technically speaking, one could fall asleep sitting up. Olivia never did so, but her father frequently nodded off during her mother’s prescribed “family time” in the sitting room, and Mary, apparently, could even do so during this cacophony.
Traitor. Olivia would never have brought only one set of cotton.
Eyes on the spot, Olivia.
Olivia sighed—a bit too loudly, not that anyone could hear—and went back to her deep breaths. She focused on a sconce behind the violist’s miserable head—no, make that the miserable violist’s head…
Really, that one girl did not look happy. Did she know how dreadful the quartet was? Because the other three clearly had no clue. But the viola player, she was different, she was…
Making Olivia actually hear the music.
Not good! Not good! Her brain rebelled, and she started back with those blasted breaths again, and…
And then, somehow, it was done, and the musicians were standing and making rather pretty curtsies. Olivia found herself blinking excessively; her eyes didn’t seem to be working properly after so much time on one spot. “You fell asleep,” she said to Mary, giving her a betrayed sort of look.
“I did not.”
“Oh, you did.”
“Well, these worked, at any rate,” Mary said, yanking the cotton from her ears. “I could hardly hear a thing. Where are you going?”
Olivia was already halfway down the aisle. “To the washroom. Really must…” And that, she decided, would have to suffice. She had not forgotten the possibility that Sir Harry Valentine was somewhere in the room, and if ever a situation called for making haste, this was it.
It wasn’t that she was a coward—not at all. She wasn’t trying to avoid the man, she was merely trying to avoid his having the opportunity to surprise her.
Be prepared. If it hadn’t been her motto before, then she was adopting it now.
Wouldn’t her mother be impressed? She was always telling her to be more improving. No, that wasn’t proper English. What did her mother say? Didn’t matter; she was almost to the door. She need only push past Sir Robert Stoat, and—
“Lady Olivia.”
Drat. Who—
She turned. And felt her stomach drop. And realized that Sir Harry Valentine was much taller than he’d seemed in his office.
“I’m sorry,” she said serenely, because she had always been rather good at playacting. “Have we been introduced?”
But from the mocking curve of his smile, she was fairly certain she’d not been able to mask her first flash of surprise.
“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, and she shivered, because his voice—it wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. It sounded like the smell of brandy, and it felt like the taste of chocolate. And she wasn’t so certain why she’d shivered, because now she felt rather warm.
“Sir Harry Valentine,” he murmured, exec
uting 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.
Chapter Four
That 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 to
ward him, his voice dropping into annoying registers. “Did she admit to everything? 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—