And her list hadn’t even begun to touch upon the royal aspects of marriage to a prince. The protocol. The formality. It sounded an absolute nightmare.
A nightmare in a very cold climate.
Quite honestly, she was beginning to think that ruination was the lesser of the two evils.
“I did not realize you moved in such rarefied circles,” Sir Harry said, once he was done with his perusal of the invitation.
“I don’t. I’ve met him twice. No”—she thought back over the past few weeks—“three times. That’s all.”
“You must have made quite an impression.”
Olivia sighed wearily. She’d known that the prince had found her attractive. She’d had enough men pursue her in the past that she could recognize the signs. She’d tried to dissuade him as politely as she could, but she couldn’t very well rebuff him completely. He was a prince, for heaven’s sake. If there was going to be tension between their two nations, she wasn’t going to be the cause of it.
“Will you go?” Sir Harry asked.
Olivia grimaced. The prince, who was apparently unaware of the English custom that gentlemen called upon ladies, had requested that she pay him a visit. He had gone so far as to specify a time, two days hence, at three in the afternoon, which led Olivia to feel that he had taken a rather liberal view of the word “request.”
“I don’t see how I can refuse,” she replied.
“No.” He looked down again at the invitation, shaking his head. “You can’t.”
She groaned.
“Most women would find it flattering.”
“I suppose it is. I mean, yes, of course it is. He is a prince.” She tried to put a little excitement into her voice. She didn’t think she succeeded.
“But you still don’t wish to go?”
“It’s a nuisance, is what it is.” She gave him a direct look. “Have you ever been presented at court? No? It’s dreadful.”
He laughed, but she was too worked up to do anything but continue. “The dress has to be just so, with hoops and panniers even though no one has worn that nonsense for years. Your curtsy must be exactly the right depth, and heaven forbid you smile at the wrong moment.”
“Somehow I don’t think Prince Alexei expects you to don hoops and panniers.”
“I know he doesn’t, but it’s still going to be grotesquely formal, and I don’t know the first thing about Russian protocol. Which means my mother will insist upon finding someone to teach me, although where she will find a tutor at this late date, I don’t know. And then I will have to spend the next two days learning how deep a Russian curtsy must be, and are there any topics it would be considered impolite to discuss, and oh!”
She left off with the oh, because honestly, the entire topic was giving her a stomachache. Nerves. It was nerves. She hated nerves.
She looked over at Sir Harry. He was sitting very still, with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Aren’t you going to tell me it won’t be so terrible?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. It will be terrible.”
She slumped. Her mother would have a fit of the vapors if she saw her like this, all slouchy in the presence of a gentleman. But really, couldn’t he have lied and said she was going to have a marvelous time? If he’d lied, she would still be sitting straight.
And if it made her feel better to affix blame upon someone else, so be it.
“At least you have a few days until you have to present yourself,” he offered.
“Only two,” she said gloomily. “And I’ll probably see him tonight, as well.”
“Tonight?”
“The Mottram ball. Are you going?” She flapped her hand in front of her face. “No, of course you’re not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She felt herself blush. That had been terribly thoughtless of her. “I simply meant that you don’t go out. Not that you couldn’t. You just do not choose to. Or at least I assume that’s the reason.”
He stared at her, so long and so level, that she was compelled to continue. “I watched you for five days, remember.”
“It is something I’m unlikely to forget.” He must have taken pity on her, because he did not pursue the topic further, instead saying, “As it happens I do plan to attend the Mottram ball.”
She smiled, more than a little surprised by the flutters of delight in her midsection. “Then I will see you there.”
“I would not miss it for the world.”
As it happened, Harry hadn’t planned to attend the Mottram ball. He wasn’t even sure if he had received an invitation, but it was easy enough to attach himself to Sebastian, who would certainly be going. This meant he was forced to endure Seb’s interrogation—why did he suddenly wish to go out and who might be responsible for the change of heart? But Harry had plenty of experience dodging Sebastian’s questions, and once they arrived, it was such a crush that he was able to lose his cousin immediately.
Harry remained at the perimeter of the ballroom, casting an appraising eye over the crowd. It was difficult to estimate how many were in attendance. Three hundred? Four? It would be easy to pass along a note without being detected, or to conduct a furtive conversation, all the while appearing as if nothing were amiss.
Harry gave himself a mental shake. He was starting to think like a bloody spy, for God’s sake. Which he did not have to do. His orders had been to keep an eye on Lady Olivia and the prince, together or separately. He wasn’t supposed to attempt to prevent anything or stop anything or really, anything.
Watch and report, that was all.
He didn’t see Olivia or anyone who looked vaguely royal, for that matter, so he got himself a glass of punch and sipped at it for several minutes, entertaining himself by watching Sebastian move about the room, charming everyone in his path.
It was a talent, that. One he most definitely did not possess.
After about thirty minutes of watching and waiting （no reporting to be done, whatsoever）， there was a small stir near the east entrance, so Harry began to wend his way over. He got himself as close as he was able, then leaned toward the gentleman next to him and asked, “Do you know what all the fuss is about?”
“Some Russian prince.” The man shrugged, unimpressed. “Been in town for a couple of weeks.”
“Causing quite a stir,” Harry commented.
The man—Harry didn’t know him, but he seemed like the sort who spent his evenings at events such as these—snorted. “The ladies have gone stupid for him.”
Harry returned his attention to the small knot of people near the door. There was the usual movement of bodies, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of the man at the center of it all, but not for long enough to get a good look at him.
The prince was quite blond, that much he’d been able to see, and taller than average, although probably not, Harry noted with some satisfaction, as tall as he was.
There was no reason Harry should be introduced to the prince, and no one who would think to do so, so he hung back, trying to take measure of the man as he moved through the crowd.
He was arrogant, that was for certain. At least ten young ladies were presented to him, and each time, he did not even so much as nod. His chin remained high, and he acknowledged each of them with nothing more than a sharp, downward glance.