What Happens in London

“I hate when authors do that,” Olivia announced.

“Shush. We must begin at the beginning, which is not when Miss Butterworth arrived at Thimmerwell Hall, nor even when she arrived at Fitzgerald Place, her home before Thimmerwell Hall. No, we must begin on the day she was born, in a manger-”

“A manger!” Olivia nearly shrieked.

He grinned up at her. “I was just making sure you were listening.”

“Wretch.”

He chuckled and read on. “…the day she was born, in a small cottage in Hampshire, surrounded by roses and butterflies, on the last day before the town was ravaged by pox.”

He looked up.

“No, don’t stop,” she said. “It’s just starting to get interesting. What sort of pox, do you think?”

“You’re a bloodthirsty wench, did you know?”

She cocked her head to the side in a gesture of agreement. “I’m fascinated by pestilence. I always have been.”

He skimmed quickly down the page. “I’m afraid you are destined for disappointment. The author gives no medical description whatsoever.”

“Maybe on the next page?” she asked hopefully.

“I shall continue,” he announced. “The epidemic took her beloved father, but miraculously spared the baby and her mother. Also among the fallen were her paternal grandmother, both grandfathers, three great- aunts, two uncles, a sister, and a second cousin.”

“You’re having fun with me again,” she accused.

“I’m not!” he insisted. “I swear to you, it’s all here. It was quite an epidemic there in Hampshire. If you hadn’t chucked the book at me, you could see for yourself.”

“No one writes that badly.”

“Apparently someone does.”

“I’m not sure who is worse, the author for writing this drivel, or us, for reading it.”

“I’m having great fun,” he declared. And he was. It was the most unlikely thing, sitting here at his window, reading an excruciatingly bad novel to Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, the most sought-after young lady of the ton. But the breeze was lovely, and he’d been cooped up all day, and sometimes, when he looked up at her, she was smiling. Not at him, although she did that, too. No, the smiles that seemed to tingle through him were the ones on her face when she didn’t realize he was looking, when she was simply enjoying the moment, smiling into the night.

She was not just pretty, she was beautiful, with the sort of face that made men weep: heart-shaped, with perfect porcelain skin. And her eyes-women would kill for eyes of that color, that amazing cornflower blue.

She was beautiful, and she knew it, but she did not wield her beauty like a weapon. It was simply a part of who she was, as natural as two hands and feet, ten fingers and toes.

She was beautiful, and he wanted her.

Chapter Twelve

Sir Harry?” Olivia called out, coming to her feet. She leaned against the sill, peering out past the darkness to his window, where he sat silhouetted against a flickering rectangle of light. He had gone so still, and so suddenly, at that.

He started at the sound of her voice, looking up at her window, but not quite at her. “Sorry,” he muttered, and he turned quickly back to the book, searching through the words to find his place.

“No, no, don’t be,” she assured him. He really did look a little odd, as if he’d just eaten something that had gone off. “Are you all right?”

He looked up at her, and then-it was really quite impossible to describe, or even understand-what happened. His eyes met hers, and even though it was dark, and she couldn’t see the color, that rich, warm chocolate-she still knew it. And she felt it. And then, quite simply, she lost her breath. Just lost it. Her balance, too. She stumbled back into her chair, and sat there for a moment, wondering why her heart was racing.

All he’d done was look at her.

And she’d…she’d…

She’d swooned.

Oh, dear heavens, he must think her an absolute fool. She had never swooned a day in her life, and-and, oh very well, she hadn’t really swooned, but that was what it felt like, this strange, floaty thing, all fizzy and queer, and now he was going to think she was one of those ladies who had to carry a vinaigrette with her everywhere she went.

Which was bad enough, except that she’d spent half her life poking fun at those ladies. Oh dear oh dear. She scrambled back to her feet and poked her head out the window. “I’m fine,” she called out. “Just lost my footing.”

He nodded slowly, and she realized he wasn’t entirely with her. His thoughts were far, far away. Then, as if quietly coming back into place, he looked up and begged her pardon. “Woolgathering,” he offered as explanation. “It’s late.”

“It is,” she murmured in agreement, although she did not think it could be very much past ten. And all of a sudden she realized that she could not bear to have him say good night, that she was going to have to do it first. Because…because…Well, she didn’t know why, she only knew that it was true.

“I was just about to say that I should really be going,” she said, the words tumbling from her lips. “Well, not going, I suppose, as I don’t really have anywhere to go, since I’m already right here in my room, and I’m not going anywhere but bed, and that’s just a few feet away.”

She smiled at him, as if that could make up for the nonsense coming from her mouth. “As you said,” she continued, “it is growing late.”

He nodded again.

And she had to say something more, because he wasn’t doing so. “Good night then.”

He returned the farewell, but his voice was so soft she didn’t really hear it, rather saw the words on his lips.

And again, like his eyes, when he looked at her, she felt it. It started in her fingertips, floating up her arms until she shivered and exhaled, as if she could set the strange feeling free with her breath.

But it stayed with her, tickling her lungs, dancing across her skin.

She was going mad. That had to be it. Or she was overtired. Too tense from a day with a royal prince.

She stepped inside her room, reaching up to pull her window closed, but then-

“Oh!” She poked her head back out. “Sir Harry!”

He looked up. He hadn’t moved from his spot.

“The book,” she said. “You still have it.”

In unison they both looked out at the strip of space between their buildings.

“It’s not going to work so well tossing it up,” she said, “is it?”

He shook his head, and he smiled, just a little bit, as if he knew he should not. “I shall have to call upon you tomorrow to return it.”

And there it came again, that breathless feeling, all bubbly and strange. “I shall look forward to it,” she said, and closed the window.

And shut the curtains.

And then let out a little squeal, hugging her arms to her body.

What a perfect evening this had turned out to be.

The following afternoon, Harry tucked Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron under his arm and prepared to make the extremely short journey to Lady Olivia’s sitting room. It was, he thought as he made his way over, nearly as far in vertical distance as horizontal. Twelve steps down to his ground floor, another six to