What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(24)

She looked up at Sir Harry, trying to study his face without being obvious about it. Was he handsome? She supposed. He had a small scar, barely noticeable really, near his left ear, and his cheekbones were a bit more prominent than was classically handsome, but still, he had something. Intelligence? Intensity?

He had a touch of gray at his temples, too, she noticed. She wondered how old he was.

“You’re a very graceful dancer,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help it.

“Have you become immune to compliments, Lady Olivia?”

She gave him a sharp look. It was no less than he deserved. His tone had been equally sharp. Close to insulting.

“I have heard,” he said, expertly turning her to the right, “that you have left shattered hearts all across town.”

She stiffened. It was just the sort of thing people liked to say to her, thinking she’d be proud of it. But she wasn’t proud. And what’s more, it hurt that everyone thought she would be. “That is hardly a kind, or an appropriate, thing to say.”

“Are you always appropriate, Lady Olivia?”

She glared at him, but only for a second. His eyes met hers, and there it was again—the intelligence. The intensity. She had to look away.

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.