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.”
Probably not, Olivia thought.
“No one has seen Sir Harry since the musicale,” Mary added. “He has not attended anything.”
This did not surprise Olivia. He was most likely at his desk, furiously scribbling away. Possibly wearing that ridiculous hat.
Not that she would know. She had not looked out the window in days. She hadn’t even looked at the window. Well, not more than six or eight times, anyway.
Each day.
“What did you talk about, then?” Mary asked. “I know you spoke to him. I saw your lips moving.”
Olivia turned on her, eyes flaring with irritation. “You were watching my lips?”
“Oh, please. It’s not as if you’ve never done the same thing.”
Not only true, but irrefutable, since she’d done it with Mary. But a response—no, a retort—was definitely in order, so Olivia gave a little snort and said, “I’ve never done it to you.”
“But you would,” Mary said with certainty.
Also true, but not something Olivia intended to admit.
“What did you talk about?” Mary asked again.
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Olivia lied, crinkling her newspaper again—more loudly this time. She’d got through the society pages—she always started at the back of the paper—but she wanted to read the parliamentary report. She always read the parliamentary report. Every day. Even her father didn’t read it every day, and he was a member of the House of Lords.
“You looked angry,” Mary persisted.
I am now, she wanted to grumble.
“Were you?”
Olivia grit her teeth. “I’m sure you were mistaken.”
“I don’t think so,” Mary said, in that excruciating singsong voice she employed when she thought she was in the know.
Olivia looked over at Sally, who was pulling her needle through the fabric, pretending she wasn’t listening. Then she looked back at Mary, giving her an urgent sort of look, as if to say—Not in front of the servants.
It was not a permanent solution to the Mary problem, but it would put her off for a little while, at least.
She crinkled her newspaper again, then looked down at her hands in dismay. She’d got it before the butler had had a chance to iron the paper, and now the ink was coming off on her skin.
“That’s disgusting,” Mary said.
Olivia could think of no response, except, “Where is your maid?”
“Oh, over there,” Mary replied, waving her hand in the general vicinity of behind them. And then Olivia realized she’d made a terrible miscalculation, because Mary immediately turned to Sally and said, “You know my Genevieve, don’t you? Why don’t you go talk to her?”
Sally did know Mary’s Genevieve, and she also knew that Genevieve’s English skills were limited at best, but as Olivia couldn’t very well jump in and insist that Sally not speak to Genevieve, Sally was forced to set down her embroidery and head off to find her.
“There,” Mary announced proudly. “That was neatly done. Now tell me, what was he like? Was he handsome?”
“You’ve seen him.”
“No, was he handsome up close? Those eyes.” Mary shivered.
“Oh!” Olivia exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “They were brown, not bluish gray.”
“That can’t be. I’m quite certain—”
“You got it wrong.”
“No. I never get things like that wrong.”
“Mary, I was this close to his face,” Olivia said, motioning to the distance between them on the bench. “I assure you, his eyes are brown.”
Mary looked horrified. Finally, she shook her head and said, “It must be the way he looks at a person. So piercing. I just assumed his eyes were blue.” She blinked. “Or gray.”
Olivia rolled her eyes and looked straight ahead, hoping that would be the end of it, but Mary was not to be deterred. “You still didn’t tell me about him,” she pointed out.
“Mary, there is nothing to say,” Olivia insisted. She looked down at her lap in dismay. Her newspaper was now a crumpled, unreadable heap. “He asked me to dance. I accepted.”
“But—” And then Mary gasped.
“But what?” Really, Olivia was losing patience with this.
Mary grabbed her arm, actually grabbed it. Hard.
“What is it now?”
Mary pointed a finger in the direction of the Serpentine. “Over there.”
Olivia saw nothing.
“On the horse,” Mary hissed.
Olivia shifted her gaze to the left and then—
Oh, no. It couldn’t be.
“Is that him?”
Olivia didn’t answer.
“Sir Harry,” Mary clarified.
“I know who you’re talking about,” Olivia snapped.
Mary craned her neck. “I think it is Sir Harry.”
Olivia knew it was, not so much because it looked like the gentleman in question, but rather because how could her luck be anything but?
“He rides well,” Mary murmured admiringly.
Olivia decided it was time to think religiously and pray. Maybe he wouldn’t see them. Maybe he would but decide to ignore them. Maybe lightning— “I think he saw us,” Mary said, all glee and delight. “You should wave. I would, but we haven’t been introduced.”
“Don’t give him any encouragement,” Olivia ground out.
Mary turned on her in an instant. “I knew you didn’t like him.”
Olivia closed her eyes in misery. This was supposed to have been a peaceful, solitary outing. She wondered how long it would be until Mary caught Anne’s head cold.
Then she wondered if there was anything she could do to hasten the infection.
“Olivia,” Mary hissed, jabbing her in the ribs.
Olivia opened her eyes. Sir Harry was now quite a bit closer, clearly riding in their direction.
“I wonder if Mr. Grey is here as well,” Mary said hopefully. “He might be Lord Newbury’s heir, you know.”
Olivia pasted a tight smile onto her face as Sir Harry approached, apparently without his might-be-an-heir cousin. He did ride well, she noticed, and his mount was very fine—a gorgeous brown gelding with white socks. He was dressed for a ride—a real one, not a stately trot on the park path. His dark hair was wind-blown, and his cheeks had a bit of color in them, and it should have made him look more approachable and friendly, but, Olivia thought with some disdain, he’d need to smile for that.
Sir Harry Valentine did not do smiles. Certainly not in her direction.