What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(61)

Chapter Fifteen




By the following morning Olivia was feeling not quite so out of sorts. The light of day and a good night’s rest, it seemed, could do a great deal to restore the spirits, even if she hadn’t come to any grand conclusions.



Why I Was Crying Last Night

By Olivia Bevelstoke



Actually, I wasn’t crying.

But it seemed like it.



She decided to try it from a different angle.



Why I Wasn’t Crying Last Night

By Olivia Bevelstoke



She sighed. She had no idea.

But there was always denial. And so she resolved not to think about it, at least until she’d managed to get some breakfast. She was always more levelheaded on a full stomach.

She was halfway through her morning routine, trying to sit still while her maid pinned her hair, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter!” she called out, then murmured to Sally, “Did you order chocolate?”

Sally shook her head, and they both looked up as a maid entered, announcing that Sir Harry was waiting for her in the drawing room.

“At this time of the morning?” It was nearly ten, so hardly the crack of dawn, but still, unconscionably early for a gentleman to call.

“Shall I have Huntley tell him that you are unavailable?”

“No,” Olivia replied. Harry wouldn’t call so early without a good reason. “Please inform him that I shall be down straightaway.”

“But you haven’t had breakfast, my lady,” Sally said.

“I’m sure I won’t waste away for want of one breakfast.” Olivia lifted her chin, regarding her reflection in the mirror. Sally was working on something rather elaborate, involving braids, clips, and at least a dozen pins. “Perhaps something simpler this morning?”

Sally’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “We’re more than halfway done, I promise.”

But Olivia was already pulling out pins. “Just a little bun, I think. Nothing fancy.”

Sally sighed and started to adjust the coiffure. In about ten minutes Olivia was done and heading downstairs, trying to ignore the fact that the rush had meant that a lock of her hair had already fallen free and had to be tucked behind her ear. When she arrived at the drawing room, Sir Harry was seated all the way on the far side, at the small writing table by the window.

He appeared to be…working?

“Sir Harry,” she said, looking at him with some confusion. “It’s so early.”

“I have come to a conclusion,” he told her, rising to his feet.

She looked at him expectantly. He sounded so…definitive.

He clasped his hands in front of him, his stance wide. “I cannot allow you to be alone with the prince.”

He had said as much the night before, but really, what could he do?

“There is only one solution,” he continued. “I shall be your bodyguard.”

She stared at him, stunned.

“He has Vladimir. You have me.”

She continued to stare at him, still stunned.

“I will stay here with you today,” he explained.

She blinked several times, finally finding her voice. “In my drawing room?”

“You should not feel that you have to entertain me,” he said, motioning to some papers he had set down on the small writing desk. “I brought work with me.”

Good heavens, did he intend to move in? “You brought work?”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t lose an entire day.”

Her mouth opened, but it was a few seconds before she said, “Oh.”

Because really, what else could there possibly be to say to that?

He gave her what she suspected he thought was an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you get yourself a book and join me?” he asked, motioning to the seating area in the center of the room. “Oh right, you don’t like books. Well, the newspaper will do just as well. Sit down.”

Again it took her several moments before she managed to speak. “You’re inviting me to join you in my drawing room?”

He gave her a steady look, then said, “I’d rather be in my own drawing room, but I hardly think that would be acceptable.”

She nodded slowly, not because she was agreeing with him, although she supposed she was, on the last statement at least.

“We are in accord, then,” he stated.

“What?”

“You’re nodding.”

She stopped nodding.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Sit?”

“I really must get back to work,” he explained.

“To work,” she echoed, because she was clearly at her conversational best this morning.

He looked at her, his brows arching, and it was only then that she realized that what he meant was that he could not sit until she did. She started to say, “Please,” as in, Please, do make yourself at home, because she had had over twenty years of courtesy drummed into her. But good sense (and perhaps a fair bit of self-preservation) took hold, and she switched to, “You really shouldn’t feel you need to stay here all day.”

His lips pressed together, and tiny lines fanned out from the corners. There was something resolute in his dark eyes, something steely and immovable.