What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(76)

Harry exchanged an amused glance with Olivia. He couldn’t help it.

But Alexei was not done. “It would be my honor if you would be a guest at the party next week. It is to be at my cousin’s home. The ambassador. A celebration of Russian culture.” He looked back to the rest of the crowd. “You are all invited, of course.” He turned to Harry, and their eyes met. He shrugged, as if to say—even you.

Harry nodded his reply. It seemed he wasn’t to be done with the Russian prince just yet. If Olivia was going, he was going. That was all there was to it.

Lady Rudland thanked the prince for his kind invitation, then turned to Harry and said, “I think Mr. Grey needs to lie down.”

“Of course,” Harry murmured. He said his goodbyes and helped Sebastian to the drawing-room door. Olivia walked alongside, and when they reached the front door, she said, “Will you let me know how he is doing?”

He flashed her a very small, very secret smile. “Be at your window at six in the evening.”

He should have left right then. There were too many people milling about, and Sebastian was clearly in pain, but he could not resist one last look at her face. And in that moment he finally understood what people meant when they said someone’s eyes lit up.

Because when he told her to be at her window at six, she smiled. And when he looked into her eyes, it was as if the whole world was bathed in a soft, happy glow, and all of it, every little bit of good and fun and happiness—it all came from her. From this one woman, standing next to him at her front door in Mayfair.

And that was when he knew. It had happened. It had happened right there, in London.

Harry Valentine had fallen in love.





Chapter Nineteen




That evening, promptly at six, Olivia opened her window, leaned on the sill, and looked out.

And there was Harry, leaning on his windowsill, gazing up. He looked utterly delicious, his lips curved into the perfect smile, a little bit boyish, a little bit sly. She liked him like this, happy and relaxed. His dark hair was no longer neatly styled, and she was struck by a sudden urge to touch it, to run her fingers through, to muss it up even more.

Good heavens, she must be in love.

It should have been a revelation. She should have been struck down with the shock of it. But instead she just felt lovely. Perfectly, fabulously wonderful.

Love. Love. LOVE. She tested the word out in her mind, in different pitches and tones. They all sounded splendid.

Really, the emotion had a great deal to recommend it.

“Good evening,” she said, a silly grin on her face.

“Good evening to you.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Just a moment or two. You’re quite fantastically prompt.”

“I don’t believe in keeping people waiting,” she said. She leaned forward, and almost had enough courage to lick her lips. “Unless they deserve punishment.”

That seemed to intrigue him. He edged farther out his window, too, until they were both hanging just a little bit too far out. He looked as if he were going to speak, but then some devil must have overtaken him, because he burst out laughing.

And then she did, too.

And they were both just…giggling, really, until they had tears in their eyes.

“Oh my,” Olivia gasped. “Do you think that perhaps…sometime…we ought to have some sort of proper meeting?”

He wiped his eyes. “Proper?”

“Like at a dance.”

“We’ve already danced,” he told her.

“Only once, and you didn’t like me then.”

“You didn’t like me, either,” he reminded her.

“You didn’t like me more.”

He thought about that, then nodded. “That’s true.”

Olivia winced. “I was rather horrid, wasn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, rather quickly, too.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me.”

He grinned. “It’s good that you can be horrid when necessary. It’s a useful skill.”

She leaned on her elbow, settling her chin onto her hand. “Funny, my brothers never seemed to think so.”

“Brothers are like that.”

“Were you?”

“Me? Never. I encouraged it, actually. The more horridly my sister behaved, the more opportunity there was to watch her get in a great deal of trouble.”

“You’re very crafty,” she murmured.

He answered with a shrug.

“I’m still curious,” she said, refusing to allow a change of topic. “How is it useful to know how to be horrid?”

“That is a very good question,” he said solemnly.

“You haven’t an answer, have you?”

“I have not,” he admitted.

“I could be an actress,” she suggested.

“And lose your respectability?”

“A spy, then.”

“Even worse,” he said, with great firmness.

“You don’t think I could be a spy?” She was being an utter flirt, but she was having far too much fun to hold back. “Surely England could have used someone like me. I should have had the war tidied up in no time.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” he said, and strangely enough, he sounded as if he might have meant it.