What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(63)

“A noble pursuit,” he said, not looking up.

She opened the book and looked down, loudly flipping the pages until she found where they’d left off two days earlier. “Pigeons…pigeons…” she murmured.

“What?”

“Just looking for the pigeons,” she said sweetly.

He shook his head, and she thought she saw him smile, but he still didn’t look up.

She sighed loudly, then peeked over.

No reaction.

She then reassured herself that the sigh had not been initiated with the intention of trying to attract his attention. She had sighed because she’d needed to exhale, and if it had been loud, well, that was her habit. And since it had been loud, it had made sense to peek over…

She sighed again. Absolutely not on purpose.

He kept working.



Possible Contents of Sir Harry’s Papers By Olivia Bevelstoke



Sequel to Miss Butterworth (wouldn’t it be delicious if he turned out to be the author?) Unauthorized sequel to Miss Butterworth, because it is highly unlikely that he penned the original, splendid as that would be A Secret Diary—with all of his secrets (!!!!!) Something else entirely Order for a new hat

She giggled.

“What is so funny?” he asked, finally looking up.

“I couldn’t possibly explain,” she said, trying not to grin.

“Is the joke at my expense?”

“Only a little.”

He quirked a brow.

“Oh very well, it’s entirely at your expense, but it’s no less than you deserve.” She smiled at him, waiting for him to comment, but he did not.

Which was disappointing.

She turned back to Miss Butterworth, but even though the poor girl had just broken both legs in a hideous carriage wreck, the novel was less than gripping.

She started drumming her fingers on one of the open pages. The noise grew louder…and louder…until it seemed to echo through the room.

To her ears, at least. Harry didn’t notice.

She let out a loud exhale and went back to Miss Butterworth and her broken legs.

She turned a page.

And read. And turned another. And read. And turned another. And— “You’re on Chapter Four already.”

She jumped in her seat, startled by the sound of Harry’s voice so close to her ear. How was it possible that he’d got up without her noticing?

“Must be a good book,” he said.

She gave a shrug. “It’s passable.”

“Is Miss Butterworth recovered from the plague?”

“Oh, that was ages ago. She’s more recently broken both of her legs, been stung by a bee, and nearly sold into slavery.”

“All in four chapters?”

“Closer to three,” she told him, motioning to the chapter head visible on her open page. “I’ve only just started the fourth.”

“I finished my work,” he said, coming around to the front of the sofa.

Ah. Now, finally, she could ask, “What were you doing?”

“Nothing very interesting. Grain reports from my property in Hampshire.”

Compared to her imaginings, this was somewhat disappointing.

He sat down on the other end of the sofa, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. It was a very informal position; it spoke of comfort, and familiarity, and something else—something that made her giddy and warm. She tried to think of another man who would sit near her in so relaxed a pose. There was no one. Just her brothers.

And Sir Harry Valentine was definitely not her brother.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice sly.

She must have looked startled, because he added, “You were blushing.”

Her shoulders drew back. “I’m not blushing.”

“Of course not,” he said without hesitation. “It’s very warm in here.”

Which it wasn’t. “I was thinking about my brothers,” she said. It was a little bit true, and it ought to put a halt to his imaginings about her alleged blush.

“I quite like your twin,” Harry said.

“Winston?” Good heavens, he might have said he liked swinging from trees with monkeys. Or eating their droppings.

“Anyone who can get under your skin can only deserve my respect.”

She scowled at him. “And I suppose you were nothing but sweetness and light with your sister?”

“Absolutely not,” he said with no shame whatsoever. “I was a beast. But”—he leaned forward, his eyes full of mischief—“I always employed stealth.”

“Oh please.” Olivia had enough experience with siblings of the male persuasion to know that he had no idea what he was talking about. “If you are trying to tell me that your sister was not aware of your antics—”

“Oh no, she was most definitely aware.” Harry leaned forward. “But my grandmother was not.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She came to live with us when I was an infant. I was certainly closer to her than to either of my parents.”

Olivia found herself nodding, although she was not sure why. “She must have been lovely.”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “She was many things, but not lovely.”