What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(19)

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.