What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(43)

He relinquished her hand slowly, then said, his voice a low murmur, “You are, as you must know, the loveliest woman in attendance.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. You do me a great honor.”

“I speak only the truth. You are a vision of beauty.”

Olivia smiled and tried to be the pretty statue he seemed to want her to be. She wasn’t really certain how she was meant to respond to his repeated compliments. She tried to imagine Sir Harry using such effusive language. He probably would burst out laughing, just trying to get the first sentence out.

“You smile at me, Lady Olivia,” the prince said.

She thought quickly—very quickly. “It is simply the joy from your compliments, Your Highness.”

Dear heavens, if Winston could hear her, he’d be rolling on the ground laughing. Miranda, too.

But the prince obviously approved, for his eyes lit with heat, and he held out his arm. “Come take a walk about the ballroom with me, milaya. Perhaps we shall dance.”

Olivia had no choice but to lay her hand on his arm. He was wearing a formal state uniform of deep crimson, with four gold buttons on each sleeve. The wool was scratchy, and she could only think that he must be dreadfully hot in the crowded ballroom. But he showed no sign of discomfort. If anything, he seemed to radiate a certain coolness, as if he were there to be admired but not touched.

He knew that everyone was watching him. He must be accustomed to such attention. She wondered if he realized how uncomfortable she felt in this tableau. And she was used to having eyes upon her. She knew she was popular, she knew that other young ladies looked to her as an arbiter of fashion and style. But this—this was something else altogether.

“I have been enjoying your English weather,” the prince said, as they turned a corner. Olivia found that she had to focus on her gait to remain in the correct position at his side. Each step was carefully measured, each footfall utterly precise, heel to toe in the exact same motion, every time.

“Tell me,” he added, “is it usually so warm at this time of year?”

“We have had more sun than is usual,” she replied. “Is it very cold in Russia?”

“Yes. It is…how do you say it…” He paused, and for the briefest of moments she saw a flash of struggle in his face as he tried to think of the correct words. His lips pressed together with irritation, then he asked her, “Do you speak French?”

“Very badly, I’m afraid.”

“That is a pity.” He sounded vaguely annoyed by her deficiency. “I am more, er…”

“Fluent?” she supplied.

“Yes. It is much spoken in Russia. More even than Russian among many.”

Olivia found that most intriguing, but it seemed impolite to comment upon it.

“Did you receive my invitation this afternoon?”

“Yes, I did,” she replied. “I am honored to accept.”

She wasn’t honored. Well, maybe honored, but certainly not pleased. As expected, her mother had insisted that they accept, and Olivia had already spent three hours in emergency fittings for a new gown. It was to be ice-blue silk, the exact color, Olivia suddenly realized, of Prince Alexei’s eyes.

She hoped he would not think she had planned it on purpose.

“How long do you intend to stay in London?” she asked him, hoping she sounded more eager than desperate.

“It is not certain. It depends on…many things.”

He did not seem inclined to expand upon that cryptic comment, so she smiled—not the real one, she was far too tense to summon that. But he did not know her well enough to see through her society smile. “I do hope you enjoy your stay,” she said prettily, “however long you choose to visit us.”

He nodded regally, declining to comment.

They rounded another corner. Olivia could see her parents now, still across the room. They were watching her, as was everyone else. Even the dancing had stopped. People were talking, but their voices were low. They sounded like insects, buzzing about.

Lord, how she wanted to go home. The prince might be a perfectly nice man. In fact, she hoped he was. It would make the story so much better—if he were a lovely person, trapped in a prison of formality and tradition. And if he was perfectly nice, then she would be perfectly happy to make his acquaintance and talk with him, but not, dear heavens, like this, in front of all the ton, with hundreds of pairs of eyes watching her every movement.

What would happen if she tripped? Stumbled over her feet as they turned the next corner. She could do it up small—with just the tiniest bob. Or she could play it for all it was worth, tumbling to the ground in a mad heap.

It would be spectacular.

Or spectacularly awful. And it didn’t matter which, because she didn’t have the courage to do it, anyway.

Just a few more minutes, she told herself. They were in the final stretch. She would be returned to her parents. Or maybe she would have to dance, but even that would not be so awful. Surely they would not be alone on the dance floor. That would be far too obvious, even for this crowd.

Just a few more minutes, and then it would all be over.



Harry watched the golden couple as closely as he was able, but the prince’s decision to take a turn about the room made his job that much more difficult. It wasn’t imperative that he remain close; the prince wasn’t likely to do or say anything the War Office would find relevant. But Harry was loath to let Olivia out of his sight.