by Julia Quinn
She took hold of the back of a chair. She felt as if she might float away. Maybe she should have eaten breakfast.
Although that really didn’t explain the odd sensation that had taken hold somewhat…below her stomach.
She looked at him. He was saying something. But she definitely wasn’t listening. She didn’t even hear him, didn’t hear anything but a wicked little voice inside, telling her to look at his mouth, at those lips, at…
“Olivia? Olivia?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. She squeezed her legs together, thinking that some sort of muscular motion might jolt her from her trance. And she couldn’t think of any other body part he couldn’t see.
But that just seemed to make her feel…squirmier.
His head tilted slightly, and he looked…concerned? Amused? It was hard to tell.
She had to get a hold of herself. Now. She cleared her throat. “You were saying…?”
“Are you all right?”
“Perfectly well,” she said crisply. She liked the sound of that, brisk and businesslike, with every consonant perfectly enunciated.
He watched her for a few moments, but she could not quite read his expression. Or perhaps she just didn’t want to read his expression, because if she did, she suspected she’d realize he was looking at her as if she might suddenly start barking like a dog.
She gave him a tight smile, and said again, “You were saying…?”
“I was saying,” he said slowly, “that I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to be alone with that man. And don’t say that Vladimir would be here, because he hardly counts.”
“No,” she said, thinking of her unsettling last conversation with the prince, “I wouldn’t say that.”
“Good. Then we are in agreement?”
“Well, yes,” she said, “about not wanting to be alone with Prince Alexei, but—” She cleared her throat, hoping it might help her regain her equilibrium. She needed to keep a sharper head around this man. He was staggeringly intelligent, and he would run circles around her if she didn’t stay on her toes. And that would be on her toes, not floating right off them. She cleared her throat again. And then again, because all that clearing was giving her a scratchy throat.
“Do you need something to drink?” he asked solicitously.
“No. Thank you. What I was trying to say was—you do understand that I am not alone here. I have parents.”
“Yes,” he said, not sounding terribly impressed with her argument, “it is my understanding that you do. I have never seen them, however. Not here, at any rate.”
She frowned, glancing over her shoulder into the hall. “I think my mother is still asleep.”
“My point exactly,” Harry said.
“I am grateful for the gesture,” she said, “but I feel I must point out that it is quite unlikely that the prince—or anyone, for that matter—will make a call this early in the morning.”
“I agree,” he told her, “but it is a chance I am not willing to take. Although…” He thought for a moment. “If your brother is willing to come down here and vow to me that he will not allow you out of his sight for the rest of the day, I will happily depart.”
“That presupposes that I want him in my sight for the rest of the day,” Olivia said tartly.
“Then you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
She opened her mouth to speak.
He smiled.
She started wondering why she was fighting so hard.
“Very well,” she said, finally moving out of the doorway and into the room. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”
“You won’t even know I’m here,” he assured her.
That, she highly doubted.
“It’s only because I have no other plans for the morning,” she informed him.
“I understand.”
She gave him a sharp look. It was disconcerting, not being able to tell if he was being sarcastic.
“It’s highly irregular,” she murmured, but true to his word, he was already back at the desk, carefully reading the papers he’d brought with him. Were those the same documents he had worked on so diligently when she’d been spying on him?
She edged a little closer, grabbing a book off a table. She needed an object in her hands, something to use as a prop if he noticed how closely she was watching him.
“You’ve decided to read Miss Butterworth, then?” he asked, not looking up at her.
Her lips parted. How had he known she’d picked up a book? How had he even known she was watching him? His eyes hadn’t left the papers on the desk.
And Miss Butterworth? Really? She looked down at the book in her hands in disgust. If she was going to pick up a random object, surely she could have done better than that.
“I’m trying to be more open-minded,” she said, settling into the first chair she came across.
“A noble pursuit,” he said, not looking up.
She opened the book and looked down, loudly flipping the pages until she found where they’d left off two days earlier. “Pigeons…pigeons…” she murmured.
“What?”
“Just looking for the pigeons,” she said sweetly.
He shook his head, and she thought she saw him smile, but he still didn’t look up.
She sighed loudly, then peeked over.
No reaction.
She then reassured herself that the sigh had not been initiated with the intention of trying to attract his attention. She had sighed because she’d needed to exhale, and if it had been loud, well, that was her habit. And since it had been loud, it had made sense to peek over…
She sighed again. Absolutely not on purpose.
He kept working.
Possible Contents of Sir Harry’s Papers
By Olivia Bevelstoke
Sequel to Miss Butterworth (wouldn’t it be delicious if he turned out to be the author?)
Unauthorized sequel to Miss Butterworth, because it is highly unlikely that he penned the original, splendid as that would be A Secret Diary—with all of his secrets (!!!!!) Something else entirely Order for a new hat
She giggled.
“What is so funny?” he asked, finally looking up.
“I couldn’t possibly explain,” she said, trying not to grin.
“Is the joke at my expense?”
“Only a little.”
He quirked a brow.
“Oh very well, it’s entirely at your expense, but it’s no less than you deserve.” She smiled at him, waiting for him to comment, but he did not.
Which was disappointing.
She turned back to Miss Butterworth, but even though the poor girl had just broken both legs in a hideous carriage wreck, the novel was less than gripping.
She started drumming her fingers on one of the open pages. The noise grew louder…and louder…until it seemed to echo through the room.
To her ears, at least. Harry didn’t notice.
She let out a loud exhale and went back to Miss Butterworth and her broken legs.
She turned a page.
And read. And turned another. And read. And turned another. And—
“You’re on Chapter Four already.”
She jumped in her seat, startled by the sound of Harry’s voice so close to her ear. How was it possible that he’d got up without her noticing?
“Must be a good book,” he said.
She gave a shrug. “It’s passable.”
“Is Miss Butterworth recovered from the plague?”
“Oh, that was ages ago. She’s more recently broken both of her legs, been stung by a bee, and nearly sold into slavery.”
“All in four chapters?”
“Closer to three,” she told him, motioning to the chapter head visible on her open page. “I’ve only just started the fourth.”
“I finished my work,” he said, coming around to the front of the sofa.
Ah. Now, finally, she could ask, “Wha
t were you doing?”
“Nothing very interesting. Grain reports from my property in Hampshire.”
Compared to her imaginings, this was somewhat disappointing.
He sat down on the other end of the sofa, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. It was a very informal position; it spoke of comfort, and familiarity, and something else—something that made her giddy and warm. She tried to think of another man who would sit near her in so relaxed a pose. There was no one. Just her brothers.
And Sir Harry Valentine was definitely not her brother.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice sly.
She must have looked startled, because he added, “You were blushing.”
Her shoulders drew back. “I’m not blushing.”
“Of course not,” he said without hesitation. “It’s very warm in here.”
Which it wasn’t. “I was thinking about my brothers,” she said. It was a little bit true, and it ought to put a halt to his imaginings about her alleged blush.
“I quite like your twin,” Harry said.
“Winston?” Good heavens, he might have said he liked swinging from trees with monkeys. Or eating their droppings.
“Anyone who can get under your skin can only deserve my respect.”
She scowled at him. “And I suppose you were nothing but sweetness and light with your sister?”
“Absolutely not,” he said with no shame whatsoever. “I was a beast. But”—he leaned forward, his eyes full of mischief—“I always employed stealth.”
“Oh please.” Olivia had enough experience with siblings of the male persuasion to know that he had no idea what he was talking about. “If you are trying to tell me that your sister was not aware of your antics—”
“Oh no, she was most definitely aware.” Harry leaned forward. “But my grandmother was not.”
“Your grandmother?”
“She came to live with us when I was an infant. I was certainly closer to her than to either of my parents.”
Olivia found herself nodding, although she was not sure why. “She must have been lovely.”
Harry let out a bark of laughter. “She was many things, but not lovely.”
Olivia couldn’t help but grin as she asked, “What do you mean?”
“She was very…” He waved a hand in the air as he considered his words. “Severe. And I would have to say that she was quite firm in her opinions.”
Olivia considered that for a moment, then said, “I like women who are firm in their opinions.”
“I expect you do.”
She felt herself smiling, and she leaned forward, feeling a wonderful, almost effervescent kinship. “Would she have liked me?”
The question seemed to have caught him off guard, and his mouth hung open for a few moments before he finally said, looking almost amused by the question, “No. No, I don’t think she would have done.”
Olivia felt her own mouth go slack with shock.
“Did you wish for me to lie to you?”
“No, but—”
He waved her protest away. “She had little patience for anyone. She sacked six of my tutors.”
“Six?”
He nodded.
“My goodness.” Olivia was impressed. “I would have liked her,” she murmured. “I only managed to run off five governesses.”
He gave a slow smile. “Isn’t it strange how unsurprising I find that?”
She scowled at him. Or rather she meant to scowl. It probably came out something closer to a grin. “How is it,” she returned, “that I did not know of your grandmother?”
“You didn’t ask.”
What did he think, that she ran about asking people about their grandparents? But then it occurred to her—what did she know about him, really?
Very little. Very little indeed.
It was odd, because she knew him. She was quite certain she did. And then she realized it—she knew the man, but not the facts that had made him.
“What were your parents like?” she said suddenly.
He looked at her with some surprise.
“I didn’t ask if you had a grandmother,” she said, by way of an explanation. “Shame on me for not thinking of it.”
“Very well.” But he did not answer right away. The muscles of his face moved—not enough to reveal what he was thinking, but more than enough to let her know that he was thinking, that he couldn’t quite decide how to answer. And then he said:
“My father was a drunk.”
Miss Butterworth, which Olivia had not even realized she was still holding, slipped from her fingers and thunked onto her lap.
“He was a rather amiable drunk, but strangely, that doesn’t seem to make it much better.” Harry’s face betrayed no emotion. He was smiling even, as if it were all a joke.
It was easier that way.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Harry shrugged. “He couldn’t help himself.”
“It’s very difficult,” she said softly.
He turned, sharply, because there was something in her voice, something humble, something maybe even…understanding.
But she couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly. She was the one with the tidy, happy family, with the brother who married her best friend, and the parents who actually cared.
“My brother,” she said. “The one who married my friend Miranda. I don’t think I told you, but he’d been married before. His first wife was horrid. And then she died. And then—I don’t know, one would think he’d have been glad to be rid of her, but he just seemed to get more and more miserable.” There was a pause, and then she said, “He drank a great a deal.”
It’s not the same, Harry wanted to say, because it wasn’t her parent, it wasn’t the person who was supposed to love you and protect you and keep your world a right and steady place. It wasn’t the same, because there was no way she’d cleaned up her brother’s vomit 127 times. It wasn’t a mother who never seemed to have anything to say, and it wasn’t…It wasn’t the same, damn it. It wasn’t—
“It’s not the same,” she said quietly. “I don’t think it could possibly be.”
And with those words, those two short sentences, everything inside of him, all those feelings that had been thrashing about—they calmed. Settled into a more comfortable place.
She gave him a tentative smile. Tiny, but true. “But I think I can understand. Maybe a little.”
He looked down for some reason, down at her hands, which were resting atop the book in her lap, and then at the sofa, covered in a pale green stripe. He and Olivia were not exactly next to each other; there was still room for an entire person between them. But they were on the same piece of furniture, and if he reached out his hand, and if she reached out her hand…
His breath caught.
Because she’d reached out her hand.
Chapter Sixteen
He didn’t think about what he did. He couldn’t have thought about it, because if he had, he never would have done it. But when she reached out her hand…
He took it.
It was only then that Harry realized what he had done, and perhaps only then that she realized what she had started, but by then it was far too late.
He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed each of them, right at the base, where she would wear a ring. Where she currently wasn’t wearing a ring. Where, in a flash of terrifying imagination, he saw her wearing his ring.
It should have been a warning. It should have induced sufficient panic to make him drop her hand, flee the room, the house, her company, forever.
But he didn’t. He kept her hand at his lips, unable to part with the touch of her skin.
She was warm, soft.
Trembling.
He looked up, finally, into her eyes. They were wide, gazing at him with trepidation…and trust…and maybe…desire? He couldn’t be sure, because he knew she couldn’t be sure. She wouldn’t know desire, wouldn’t understand the sweet torture of it, the
bodily longing for another human being.
He knew it, and he realized that he’d known it almost constantly since he’d known her. There had been that first, electrical moment of attraction, true, but that wasn’t meaningful. He didn’t know her then, hadn’t even liked her.
But now…it was different. It wasn’t just her beauty he wanted, or the curve of her breast, or the taste of her skin. He wanted her. All of her. He wanted whatever it was that made her read newspapers instead of novels, and he wanted that little piece of unconventionality that made her open a window and read silly novels to him across the space between their houses.
He wanted her razor-sharp wit, the triumph on her face when she speared him with a particularly apt retort. And he wanted the look of horrified befuddlement when he bested her.
He wanted the fire behind her eyes, and he wanted the taste of her lips, and yes, he wanted her beneath him, around him, on top of him…in every possible position, in every single way.
He was going to have to marry her. It was that simple.
“Harry?” she whispered, and his gaze fell to her lips.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he said softly, without thinking, without even considering that it might be something he should ask her.
He leaned forward, and in that last second before his lips touched hers, he felt washed clean. This was his new beginning.
He kissed her then, the first touch achingly gentle, nothing more than a brush of his lips against hers. But the contact was electric. Breathtaking, in every literal sense of the word. He drew back, just far enough to see her expression. She was gazing at him with a sense of wonder, her cornflower eyes drinking him in.
She whispered his name.
It was his undoing. He pulled her to him again, this time with all the urgency rushing through his veins. He kissed her hungrily, all caution sliding away, and before he knew it, his hands were in her hair, and the pins were falling out, and all he could think was that he wanted to see her again with her hair down.
Her hair down, floating across her skin. And nothing else.
His body, already tight with desire, grew impossibly hard, and in one wretched burst of sanity, he realized that if he did not set her away from him immediately, he was going to rip the clothes from her body and take her right there in her parents’ drawing room.