“It’s nothing,” she said, because she could see that he was expecting some kind of response.
“Well, then.” He moved his head, then looked back over the crowd, and the intensity of the moment vanished. “Shall we go find your prince?”
She gave him a pert look, grateful for the opportunity to bring her thoughts back to safer spheres. “Shall I finally indulge you and protest that he is not my prince?”
“I would be most grateful.”
“Very well, he is not my prince,” she recited dutifully.
He almost looked disappointed. “Is that all?”
“You were perhaps expecting great drama?”
“At the very least,” he murmured.
She chuckled to herself and stepped into the ballroom proper, gazing out over the crowd. It was an exceptionally beautiful evening; she wasn’t sure why she had not noticed it earlier. The ballroom was crowded, as all ballrooms were, but something about the air was different. The candles, perhaps? Maybe there were more of them, or maybe they burned brighter. But everyone was bathed in a warm, flattering glow. Everyone looked pretty tonight, Olivia realized, everyone.
What a lovely thing that was. And how happy they all appeared.
“He’s off in the far corner,” she heard Harry say from behind her. “To the right.”
His voice in her ear was warm and soothing, sliding through her with a strange, shivery caress. It made her want to lean back, to feel the air that was next to his body, and then— She stepped forward. Those were not safe thoughts. Not in the middle of a crowded room. Definitely not about Sir Harry Valentine.
“I think you should wait here,” Harry said. “Let him come to you.”
She nodded. “I don’t think he sees me.”
“He will soon.”
Somehow his words felt like a compliment, and she wanted to turn and smile. But she didn’t, and she didn’t know why.
“I should stand with my parents,” she said. “It would be more proper than—Well, than anything else I’ve done this evening.” She looked up at him—at Sir Harry Valentine, her new neighbor, and unbelievably, her new friend. “Thank you for a wonderful adventure.”
He bowed. “It was my pleasure.”
But their farewells felt far too formal, and Olivia couldn’t bear to depart on such a tone. So she grinned at him—her real smile, not the one she kept on her face for social niceties, and asked, “Would you mind terribly if I opened my curtains again at home? It’s getting beastly dark in my bedroom.”
He laughed aloud, with enough volume to attract glances. “Will you be spying on me?”
“Only when you wear funny hats.”
“There is only the one, and I only wear it on Tuesdays.”
And somehow that seemed the perfect way to end their encounter. She bobbed a little curtsy, said farewell, and then slipped off into the crowd before either of them could say anything more.
Not five minutes after Olivia located her parents, Prince Alexei Gomarovsky of Russia located her.
He was, she had to admit, an extremely arresting man. Very handsome, in a cool, Slavic way, with icy blue eyes and hair that was the exact color of her own. Which was rather remarkable, really; one didn’t often see hair quite that blond on a grown man. It did make him stand out in a crowd.
Well, that and the enormous attendant who followed him everywhere. The palaces of Europe could be dangerous places, the prince had told her. A man of his renown could not travel without guards.
Olivia stood between her parents and watched as the crowds fell away to make room for the prince. He stopped directly in front of her, his heels clicking together in an odd military fashion. His posture was amazingly straight, and she had the strangest notion that years from now, when she could not recall the details of his face, she would remember the way he held himself, tall and proud and correct.
She wondered if he had served in the war. Harry had, but he would have been across the Continent from the Russian army, wouldn’t he?
Not that that mattered.
The prince tilted his head ever so slightly to the side and smiled, a close-lipped affair that wasn’t so much unfriendly as it was condescending.
Or maybe it was just a cultural difference. She knew she shouldn’t rush to judgment. Perhaps people smiled differently in Russia. And even if they didn’t—he was royalty. She could not imagine that a prince could reveal his inner self to many people. He was probably a perfectly nice, perpetually misunderstood man. What an isolated life he must lead.
She would hate it.
“Lady Olivia,” he said, his English accented but not excessively so. “I am deeply pleased to see you again this evening.”
She swept into a middling curtsy—lower than she would normally do at such an event, but not so deep as to appear obsequious and out of place. “Your Highness,” she said softly.
When she rose, he took her hand and laid a feather-light kiss on her knuckles. The air crackled with whispers around them, and Olivia was uncomfortably aware of being at the very center of attention. It felt as if everyone in the room had taken a step back, leaving a moat of emptiness around them—the better to see the drama unfolding.
He relinquished her hand slowly, then said, his voice a low murmur, “You are, as you must know, the loveliest woman in attendance.”
“Thank you, Your Highness. You do me a great honor.”
“I speak only the truth. You are a vision of beauty.”
Olivia smiled and tried to be the pretty statue he seemed to want her to be. She wasn’t really certain how she was meant to respond to his repeated compliments. She tried to imagine Sir Harry using such effusive language. He probably would burst out laughing, just trying to get the first sentence out.
“You smile at me, Lady Olivia,” the prince said.
She thought quickly—very quickly. “It is simply the joy from your compliments, Your Highness.”
Dear heavens, if Winston could hear her, he’d be rolling on the ground laughing. Miranda, too.
But the prince obviously approved, for his eyes lit with heat, and he held out his arm. “Come take a walk about the ballroom with me, milaya. Perhaps we shall dance.”
Olivia had no choice but to lay her hand on his arm. He was wearing a formal state uniform of deep crimson, with four gold buttons on each sleeve. The wool was scratchy, and she could only think that he must be dreadfully hot in the crowded ballroom. But he showed no sign of discomfort. If anything, he seemed to radiate a certain coolness, as if he were there to be admired but not touched.
He knew that everyone was watching him. He must be accustomed to such attention. She wondered if he realized how uncomfortable she felt in this tableau. And she was used to having eyes upon her. She knew she was popular, she knew that other young ladies looked to her as an arbiter of fashion and style. But this—this was something else altogether.
“I have been enjoying your English weather,” the prince said, as they turned a corner. Olivia found that she had to focus on her gait to remain in the correct position at his side. Each step was carefully measured, each footfall utterly precise, heel to toe in the exact same motion, every time.
“Tell me,” he added, “is it usually so warm at this time of year?”