What Happens in London

“She looks a bit like me,” Olivia said distractedly. And then, for no reason that she could identify, she added, “Or rather, I look like her.”

He smiled at that, just a little one, and Olivia had the oddest sense that for once he wasn’t laughing at her. He wasn’t trying to be provoking. He was just…smiling.

It was disconcerting.

She couldn’t look away.

“I have always valued precision in language,” he said softly.

She stared at him. “You are a very strange man.”

She would have been mortified, because that was not the sort of thing she normally said aloud, except that he deserved it. And now he was laughing. Presumably at her.

She touched her neck. Maybe if she pinched herself the welt would pass for a boil.

Diseases I Know How To Feign

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Head cold

Lung Ailment

Megrim

Sprained Ankle

The last wasn’t strictly a disease, but it certainly had its useful moments.

“Shall we dance, Lady Olivia?”

Like right now. Only she’d thought of it too late. “You wish to dance,” she echoed. It seemed inconceivable that he’d want to, even more inconceivable that he might think she would.

“I do,” he said.

“With me?”

He looked amused-condescendingly so-by the question. “I had thought to ask my cousin, as he is the only person in the room with whom I can claim any familiarity, but that would cause a bit of a sensation, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I believe the song has ended,” Olivia said. If it wasn’t true, it would be soon.

“Then we shall dance the next one.”

“I have not agreed to dance with you!” She bit her lip. She sounded like an idiot. A petulant idiot, which was the worst kind.

“You will,” he said confidently.

Not since Winston had told Neville Berbrooke that she was “interested” had she so badly wanted to strike another human being. She would have done so, too, if she’d thought she could get away with it.

“You don’t really have a choice,” he continued.

His jaw or the side of his head? Which would cause more pain?

“And who knows?” He leaned in, his eyes glittering hot in the candlelight. “You might enjoy yourself.”

The side of his head. Definitely. If she came at him with a wide, arcing swing, she might knock him off balance. She’d like to see him sprawled on the floor. It would be a gorgeous sight. He might strike his head on a table, or even better, grasp the tablecloth on the way down, taking the punchbowl and all of Mrs. Smythe-Smith’s cut crystal with him.

“Lady Olivia?”

Shards everywhere. Maybe blood, too.

“Lady Olivia?”

If she couldn’t actually do it, she could fantasize about it.

“Lady Olivia?” He was holding out his hand.

She looked over. He was still upright, not a speck of blood or broken glass in sight. Pity. And he quite clearly expected her to accept his invitation to dance.

He was, unfortunately, right. She didn’t have a choice. She could-and probably would-continue to insist she’d never laid eyes on him before this evening, but they both knew the truth.

Olivia wasn’t quite certain what would happen if Sir Harry announced to the ton that she’d spied on him from her bedroom window for five days, but it would not be good. The speculation would be vicious. At best she’d have to hide at home for a week to avoid gossip. At worst, she could find herself engaged to marry the boor.

Good God.

“I would love to dance,” she said quickly, taking his outstretched hand.

“Enthusiasm as well as precision,” he murmured.

He really was a strange man.

They reached the dance floor a few moments before the musicians lifted their instruments.

“A waltz,” Sir Harry said, upon hearing the first two notes. Olivia gave him a curious, startled look. How did he know such a thing so quickly? Was he musical? She hoped so. It meant the evening would have been even more of a torture to him than it was to her.

Sir Harry took her right hand and held it in its proper position in the air. The contact would have been shocking enough, but his other hand-at the small of her back-it was different. Warm. No, hot. And it made her feel ticklish in very odd places.

She’d danced dozens of waltzes. Maybe even hundreds. But no one’s hand at the small of her back had ever felt quite like this.

It was because she was still rattled. Nervous in his presence. That had to be it.

His grip was firm, but still quite gentle, and he was a good dancer. No, he was a splendid dancer, far better than she was. Olivia faked it well, but she would never be a superb dancer. People said she was, but that was only because she was pretty.

It wasn’t fair, she would be the first to admit it. But one could get away with quite a lot in London, simply by being pretty.

Of course it also meant that one was never presumed to be clever. All of her life it had been that way. People had always expected her to be some sort of china doll, there to look lovely, and be displayed, and do absolutely nothing.

Sometimes Olivia wondered if this might be why she occasionally misbehaved. Never anything on a grand scale; she was far too conventional for that. But she had been known to speak too freely, express an opinion too strongly. Miranda had once said that she would never wish to be that pretty, and Olivia hadn’t understood, not really. Not until Miranda had moved away, and there was no one left with whom to have a truly excellent conversation.

She looked up at Sir Harry, trying to study his face without being obvious about it. Was he handsome? She supposed. He had a small scar, barely noticeable really, near his left ear, and his cheekbones were a bit more prominent than was classically handsome, but still, he had something. Intelligence? Intensity?

He had a touch of gray at his temples, too, she noticed. She wondered how old he was.

“You’re a very graceful dancer,” he said.

She rolled her eyes. She couldn’t help it.

“Have you become immune to compliments, Lady Olivia?”

She gave him a sharp look. It was no less than he deserved. His tone had been equally sharp. Close to insulting.

“I have heard,” he said, expertly turning her to the right, “that you have left shattered hearts all across town.”

She stiffened. It was just the sort of thing people liked to say to her, thinking she’d be proud of it. But she wasn’t proud. And what’s more, it hurt that everyone thought she would be. “That is hardly a kind, or an appropriate, thing to say.”

“Are you always appropriate, Lady Olivia?”

She glared at him, but only for a second. His eyes met hers, and there it was again-the intelligence. The intensity. She had to look away.

She was a coward. A pathetic, spineless, miserable excuse for…for…well, for herself. She’d never backed down from a battle of wills. And she hated herself for doing so now.

When she heard his voice again, it was closer to her ear, his breath hot and moist. “And are you always