What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(82)

Good heavens, she couldn’t even think the words. She did not regret what she had done. She could never; it was the most wonderful, amazing, spectacular experience of her life. But now she was…sticky.

Their departure was also delayed by several stolen kisses, at least two lustful glances that had threatened to send them right back to the divan, and one extremely mischievous pinch on the behind.

Olivia was still congratulating herself on that one.

But eventually they managed to look respectable enough to rejoin polite society, and it was decided that Olivia would depart first. Harry would follow five minutes later.

“Are you certain my hair looks presentable?” she asked as she placed her hand on the doorknob.

“No,” he admitted.

She felt her eyes widen with alarm.

“It does not look bad,” he said, with a man’s typical inability to accurately describe coiffure, “but I don’t think it looks precisely the same as it did when you arrived.” He smiled weakly, clearly aware of his shortcomings in this regard.

She rushed back over to the room’s lone mirror, but it was over the mantel, and even on her tiptoes she couldn’t quite catch a glimpse of her entire face. “I can’t see a thing,” she grumbled. “I am going to have to find a washroom.”

And so their plans changed. Olivia would leave, find a washroom, and then remain there for at least ten minutes, so that Harry could leave five minutes after she departed and arrive back at the ballroom five minutes before she arrived.

Olivia found the subterfuge exhausting. How did people manage such things, sneaking about like thieves? She would make a terrible spy.

Her frustration must have shown on her face, because Harry came over and kissed her once, softly, on the cheek. “We shall be married soon,” he promised, “and we will never have to do this again.”

She opened her mouth to point out that her mother would insist upon a three-month engagement at the very least, but he held up a hand and said, “Don’t worry, that’s not your proposal. When I propose, you’ll know it. I promise.”

She smiled to herself and murmured her farewell, peeking out the door first to make sure no one was coming, then slipping out into the quiet, moonlit gallery.

She knew the location of the washroom; she’d been there once already that evening. She tried to walk at precisely the correct speed. Not too fast; she did not want to look as if she was rushing. Not too slowly, either; it was always best to appear as if one had a purpose.

She encountered no one on her way to the washroom, for which she was grateful. When she opened the door, however, and stepped into the outer chamber, where ladies could wash their hands and check their appearances, she was met with:

“Olivia!”

Olivia nearly jumped out of her skin. Mary Cadogan was standing at the mirror, pinching her cheeks.

“Good heavens, Mary,” Olivia said, trying to catch her breath. “You gave me a start.” She desperately did not want to get caught up into a conversation with Mary Cadogan, but on the other hand, if she had to run into someone, she was grateful it was a friend. Mary might wonder at Olivia’s mussed appearance, but she would never suspect the truth.

“Is my hair an absolute fright?” Olivia asked, reaching up to pat it. “I slipped. Someone spilled champagne.”

“Oh, I hate that.”

“What do you think?” Olivia asked, hoping that she had successfully diverted Mary from asking any more questions.

“It’s not so bad,” Mary said consolingly. “I can help you. I’ve dressed my sister’s hair dozens of times.” She pushed Olivia into a chair and began to adjust her pins. “Your dress looks as if it suffered no harm.”

“I’m sure the hem is stained,” Olivia said.

“Who spilled the champagne?” Mary asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“I’ll bet it was Mr. Grey. He has one arm in a sling, you know.”

“I saw,” Olivia murmured.

“I heard he was pushed down a flight of stairs by his uncle.”

Olivia just barely managed to contain her horror at the rumor. “That can’t be true.”

“Why not?”

“Well…” Olivia blinked, trying to come up with an acceptable answer. She didn’t want to say that Sebastian had fallen off a table in her house—Mary would positively pummel her with questions if she knew that Olivia had any special knowledge of the incident. Finally she settled on: “If he’d fallen down a flight of stairs, don’t you think he’d have suffered more serious injury?”

Mary appeared to consider this. “Maybe it was a short flight of stairs. His front steps, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Olivia said, hoping that would be the end of it.

“Although,” Mary continued, putting an end to Olivia’s hopes, “one would think there would be witnesses if it had happened outside.”

Olivia decided not to comment.

“I suppose it could have happened at night,” Mary mused.

Olivia was beginning to think that Mary ought to consider writing a Miss Butterworth-style novel of her own. She certainly possessed the imagination for it.

“There,” Mary declared. “As good as new. Or almost. I couldn’t quite recreate the little curl over your ear.”