What Happens in London

kind?”

She clenched her teeth. He was goading her. And while she would love to deliver a setdown, she refused to do so. It was what he was trying for, after all. He wanted her to respond, just so that he could do the same.

Besides, she couldn’t think of anything suitably blistering.

His hand moved against her back-subtle, expert pressure that guided her in the dance. They turned, and then again, and she caught a glimpse of Mary Cadogan, eyes wide, mouth in a perfect little oval.

Wonderful. This would be all over town by tomorrow afternoon. One dance with a gentleman ought not cause a scandal, but Mary was sufficiently intrigued by Sir Harry-she would find a way to make it sound breathless and terribly au courant.

“What are your interests, Lady Olivia?” he asked.

“My interests?” she echoed, wondering if anyone had ever asked her this before. Certainly not so directly.

“Do you sing? Paint watercolors? Stab a needle in that fabric that goes in that hoop?”

“It’s called embroidery,” she said, somewhat testily; his tone was almost mocking, as if he didn’t expect her to have interests.

“Do you do it?”

“No.” She hated embroidery. She always had. And she wasn’t good at it, either.

“Do you play an instrument?”

“I like to shoot,” she said bluntly, hoping to put a stop to the conversation. It wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t really a lie, either. She didn’t not like shooting.

“A woman who likes guns,” he said softly.

Good Lord, the evening would never end. She let out a frustrated exhale. “Is this an exceptionally long waltz?”

“I don’t think so.”

Something about his tone caught her attention, and she looked up, just in time to see his lips curve as he said, “It only seems long. Because you don’t like me.”

She gasped. It was true, of course, but he wasn’t supposed to say it.

“I have a secret, Lady Olivia,” he whispered, leaning down just as far as he could without breaking the bounds of propriety. “I don’t like you, either.”

Olivia was still not liking Sir Harry several days later. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t even seen him. She knew he existed, and that seemed to be enough.

Every morning one of the maids entered her bedchamber and opened the curtains, and every morning, as soon as the maid left, Olivia leaped to her feet and yanked them back closed. She refused to give him any reason to accuse her of spying on him again.

Plus, what was to stop him from spying on her?

She hadn’t even left the house since the night of the musicale. She’d feigned a head cold (so easy to claim she’d caught it from Winston) and stayed inside. It wasn’t that she was worried about crossing paths with Sir Harry. Really, what was the likelihood that they would be coming down their front steps at the same time? Or returning from an outing? Or seeing each other on Bond Street? Or at Gunther’s? Or at a party?

She wasn’t going to run into him. She rarely even thought about it.

No, the bigger issue was avoiding her friends. Mary Cadogan had called the day after the musicale and then the day after that and then the day after that. Finally, Lady Rudland had told her that she would send a note when Olivia was feeling better.

She could not imagine having to tell Mary Cadogan about her conversation with Sir Harry. It was bad enough remembering it-which she seemed to do, on a minute-ly basis. To have to recount it to another human being…

It was almost enough to make a head cold devolve into plague.

What I Detest About Sir Harry Valentine

By the normally benevolent Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

I think he thinks I’m unintelligent.

I know he thinks I am unkind.

He blackmailed me into dancing with him.

He’s a better dancer than I am.

After three days of self-imposed isolation, however, Olivia was itching to move past the boundaries of her house and garden. Deciding that the early morning was the best time to avoid other people, she donned her bonnet and gloves, grabbed the freshly delivered morning newspaper, and headed out to her favorite bench in Hyde Park. Her maid, who unlike Olivia did enjoy needlework, followed along, clutching her embroidery and complaining about the hour.

It was a glorious morning-blue sky, puffy clouds, light breeze. Perfect weather, really, and no one out and about. “Come along, Sally,” she called out to her maid, who was lagging at least a dozen steps behind.

“It’s early,” Sally moaned.

“It’s half seven,” Olivia told her, holding steady for a few moments to allow Sally to catch up.

“That’s early.”

“Normally, I would agree with you, but as it happens I believe I am turning over a new leaf. Just see how lovely it is outside. The sun is shining, there is music in the air…”

“I hear no music,” Sally grumbled.

“Birds, Sally. The birds are singing.”

Sally remained unconvinced. “That leaf of yours-I don’t suppose you’d consider turning it back over again?”

Olivia grinned. “It won’t be so bad. As soon as we get to the park, we shall sit and enjoy the sunshine. I will have my newspaper and you your embroidery and no one will bother us.”

Except that after a mere fifteen minutes, Mary Cadogan came positively running up.

“Your mother told me you were here,” she said breathlessly. “You’re feeling better, then?”

“You spoke to my mother?” Olivia asked, unable to believe her bad fortune.

“She told me on Saturday that she would send me a note as soon as you were feeling better.”

“My mother,” Olivia muttered, “is remarkably prompt.”

“Isn’t she, though?”

Sally moved over on the bench, barely even looking up from her needlework. Mary settled in between the two of them, scooting this way and that until an inch of bench could be seen between her pink skirts and Olivia’s green.

“I want to know everything,” Mary said to Olivia, her voice low and thrilled.

Olivia briefly considered feigning ignorance but really, what was the point? They both knew exactly what Mary was talking about. “There’s not much to say,” she said, crinkling her newspaper in an attempt to remind Mary that she had come to the park to read. “He recognized me as his neighbor and asked me to dance. It was all very civilized.”

“Did he say anything about his fiancee?”

“Of course not.”

“What about Julian Prentice?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he would tell a complete stranger, and a lady at that, about his giving another gentleman a blackened eye?”

“No,” Mary said glumly. “It was really too much to hope for. I vow, I cannot get the details from anyone.”

Olivia did her best to appear bored by the entire affair.

“Very well,” Mary continued, undaunted by her companion’s lack of response. “Tell me about the dance.”

“Mary.” It was a bit of a groan, a bit of a snap. Certainly rude, but Olivia desperately did not want to tell Mary anything.

“You must,” Mary insisted.

“Surely there is something else in London of interest besides my one, very short, very dull dance with Sir Harry Valentine.”

“Not really,” Mary answered. She shrugged, then stifled a yawn. “Philomena’s mother dragged her off to Brighton, and Anne is ill. She probably has the same head cold you had.”