What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(39)

“What is he doing?” Olivia asked.

“He is being presented to…” Well, hell. He had no idea to whom he was being presented. “…someone.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Young or old?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Young or old?” she repeated. “I know everyone here. It is my vocation to know everyone at these events.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is this something you take special pride in?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“She’s of middling age,” he said.

“What is she wearing?”

“A dress,” he retorted.

“Can you describe it?” she asked impatiently. Then: “You’re as bad as my brother.”

“I quite like your brother,” he said, mostly just to annoy her.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, you’ll get to know him better and change your mind.”

He smiled at that. He couldn’t help it. He wasn’t sure how he could have thought her cold and remote. If anything, she was brimming with mischief and humor. All it seemed she needed was to be in the company of a friend.

“Well?” she demanded. “What sort of dress is she wearing?”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot to get a better look. “Something puffy, with…” He motioned toward his shoulders, as if he had any hope of describing female attire. He shook his head. “I can’t tell the color.”

“Interesting.” Her brow wrinkled. “Does that mean it must be either red or green?”

“Or any one of a thousand shades thereof.”

Her posture changed completely. “That’s really fascinating, did you know?”

“Actually, I’ve always found it more of a nuisance.”

“I suppose you would,” she acknowledged. Then she asked, “The woman he’s talking to—”

“Oh, he’s not talking to her,” Harry said, with a bit more feeling than he’d intended.

She stood on her tiptoes again, not that that would improve her view. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t talk to anyone. Hardly anyone, at least. Mostly he does a lot of looking down his nose.”

“That’s very strange. He talked a great deal to me.”

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know what to say to that, other than the obvious, which was that the prince wanted to get her into his bed. Which didn’t seem appropriate for the moment.

Although he had to give the prince credit for good taste.

“Very well,” Olivia said. “The woman he’s not talking to. Is she wearing a rather vulgar diamond?”

“On her neck?”

“No, through her nose. Of course on her neck.”

He gave her a rather assessing stare. “You are not the person I thought you were.”

“Considering your initial impression of me, that’s probably a good thing. Is she wearing a diamond?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s Lady Mottram,” she said firmly. “Our hostess. Which means he’ll be busy for several minutes. It would be impolite to ignore her.”

“I would not count on his going out of his way to be polite.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t get away. Lady M has tentacles. And two unmarried daughters.”

“Shall we head in the opposite direction?”

Her brows rose impishly. “Let’s.”

She took off, wending her way expertly through the crowd. He followed the sound of her laughter, and, every few seconds when she turned back to make sure he was there, the dazzling flash of her smile.

Eventually they reached an alcove, and she flopped into a seat, breathless and giddy. He stood beside her, his mien considerably more sedate. He didn’t want to sit. Not yet. He needed to keep an eye out for the prince.

“He won’t find us here!” she said gaily.

Nor would anyone else, Harry could not help but notice. There was nothing risqué about the alcove; it was quite properly open to the ballroom. But the way it was angled—off the corner, with its walls curling round like a womb—one had to be at just the right angle to see in.

It could never be a scene of seduction, or any kind of mischief for that matter, but it was remarkably private. Well buffered, too, from the noise of the party.

“That was fun,” Olivia announced.

He was surprised to find himself agreeing with her. “It was, wasn’t it?”

She let out a deflating little sigh. “I suppose I won’t be able to avoid him all night.”

“You can try.”

She shook her head. “My mother will find me out.”

“Is she trying to marry you off to him?” he asked, coming to sit beside her on the curved wooden bench.

“No, she’d not want me to move so far away. But he’s a prince.” She looked up at him with a fatalistic sort of expression. “It’s an honor. His attentions, I mean.”

Harry nodded. Not in agreement, just in sympathy.

“And what’s more—” She broke off, then opened her lips as if to begin again. But she didn’t.