What Happens in London

“What’s this?” he murmured.

“Shhhh,” she directed. He followed her out into the hall. It wasn’t empty; there were several small groups of people congregating here and there, but it was much less crowded than the main room.

“I’ve been exploring,” she said.

“Apparently so.”

She turned another corner, and another, and the crowds grew progressively thinner, until finally she stopped in a quiet gallery. One side had doors interspersed with tall portraits-perfectly ordered, two paintings between each door. The other side held a neat row of windows.

She stopped directly in front of one of the windows. “Look out,” she urged.

He did, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Shall I open it?” he asked, thinking this might offer more clues.

“Please do.”

He found the lock and undid it, then lifted the window. It glided up without sound, and he poked his head out.

He saw trees.

And her. She had poked her head out right beside him.

“I must confess to confusion,” he said. “What am I looking at?”

“Me,” she said simply. “Us. Together. On the same side of a window.”

He turned. He looked at her. And then…He had to do it. He couldn’t not. He reached for her, and he pulled her to him, and she came willingly, with a smile that spoke of the lifetime they had waiting ahead of them.

He leaned down and kissed her, his lips eager and hungry, and he realized he was shaking, because this was more than a kiss. There was something sacred about this moment, something honorable and true.

“I love you,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it yet. All his plans had been to tell her when he proposed. But he had to. It had grown and spread inside of him, bubbling with warmth and strength, and he just could not keep it back. “I love you,” he said again. “I love you.”

She touched his cheek. “I love you, too.”

For several seconds he could do nothing but stare at her, holding the moment in reverence, letting every speck of it wash over him. And then something else took over, something primal and fierce, and he crushed her to him, kissing her with the urgency of a man who must claim his own.

He couldn’t get enough of her, her touch, her feel, her scent. Tension and need were spiraling within him, and he could feel his grip slipping-on his control, on sense of propriety, on everything except her.

His fingers were grasping at her clothing, desperate to feel her skin, warm and smooth. “I need you,” he groaned, his mouth moving to her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

They twisted and turned away from the window, and Harry found himself leaning up against a door. He took the knob in his hand, turned, and they fell in, stumbling and tumbling, but managing to remain upright.

“Where are we?” Olivia asked, her breath shaking her body.

He shut the door. Locked it. “I don’t care.”

He grabbed her then, pulled her to him. He should have been gentle, he should have been tender. But he was beyond that now. For the first time in his life, he was moved by something beyond his control. He was moved to something he could not resist. His world became nothing but this woman, and their bodies, and showing her, in the most fundamental way possible, how much he loved her.

“Harry,” she gasped, her body arching against his. He could feel every curve through their clothing, and he had to-he couldn’t stop-

He had to feel her. He had to know her.

He said her name, barely recognizing his own voice, grown hoarse with need. “I want you,” he said. And when she moaned incoherently in response, her lips finding his earlobe as his had done hers, he said it again.

“I want you now.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

With a shuddering breath, he pulled away from her and took her face in his hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded.

But that wasn’t good enough. “Do you understand?” he asked, urgency making him sound almost strident. “I need you to say it.”

“I understand,” she whispered. “I want you, too.”

Still, he held off, unable to let himself cut that last thread of sanity, of propriety. He knew he was ready to commit his very life to her, but he had not sworn it in a church, before her family. But by God, if she was going to stop him now, she was going to have to stop him now.

She went very still; for a moment even her breathing seemed to stop, and then she took his face in her hands, the very same position he held with her. Their eyes met, and in her face he saw a love and a trust so big and so deep that it nearly paralyzed him with fear.

How could he possibly be worthy of this? How could he keep her safe and happy and make sure that every second of every day she knew how much he loved her?

She smiled. At first it was sweet, and then it grew clever, and maybe a little bit mischievous. “You’re going to ask me to marry you,” she murmured, “aren’t you?”

His lips parted with shock. “I-”

But she placed one of her hands against his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Just nod if it’s yes.”

He nodded.

“Don’t ask me now,” she said, and she looked almost serene, as if she were a goddess and the mortals around her were doing exactly what she asked of them. “This isn’t the time or the place. I want a proper proposal.”

He nodded again.

“But if I know that you plan to ask me, I might be convinced to act in a manner…”

It was all the permission he needed. He pulled her back for another searing kiss, his fingers finding the cloth- covered buttons at the back of her gown. They slipped easily through the buttonholes, and in seconds the fabric pooled and rustled at her feet.

She was standing before him in her chemise and corset, the pale fabric glowing softly in the moonlight filtering through the uncurtained upper half-moon of the room’s only window. She looked so beautiful, so ethereal and pure-he found himself wanting to stop and drink in the sight of her, even as his body burned for closer contact.

He shrugged off his own coat, then loosened the folds of his cravat. Through it all she just stood there, silently watching him, her eyes wide with wonder and excitement. He undid the first few buttons on his shirt, just enough to pull it over his head and, with whatever last grasp on rational thought he had left, he laid it neatly on a chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle. She let out a little giggle, clasping her hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“You’re so neat,” she said, looking almost embarrassed to be pointing it out.

He glanced pointedly over his shoulder. “There are four hundred people on the other side of this door.”

“But you’re ruining me.”

“I can’t do it neatly?”

Another snort of laughter burst from her mouth. She reached down, picked up her dress, and handed it to him. “Would you mind folding this as well?”

He pressed his lips together to keep from laughing. Wordlessly, he reached out and took it.

“If you are ever short of funds,” she said, watching him lay the dress over the back of a chair, “there are always opportunities for a conscientious lady’s maid.”

He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up in a wry salute. He tapped his left temple, close to his eye, murmuring, “Blind to color, if you recall.”

“Oh, dear.” She clasped her hands together, looking terribly proper. “That would be a problem.”

He took a step toward her, his eyes devouring her. “I might be able to make up for my lack with excessive devotion to my mistress.”

“Loyalty and fidelity is always prized amongst servants.”