“We have had more sun than is usual,” she replied. “Is it very cold in Russia?”
“Yes. It is…how do you say it…” He paused, and for the briefest of moments she saw a flash of struggle in his face as he tried to think of the correct words. His lips pressed together with irritation, then he asked her, “Do you speak French?”
“Very badly, I’m afraid.”
“That is a pity.” He sounded vaguely annoyed by her deficiency. “I am more, er…”
“Fluent?” she supplied.
“Yes. It is much spoken in Russia. More even than Russian among many.”
Olivia found that most intriguing, but it seemed impolite to comment upon it.
“Did you receive my invitation this afternoon?”
“Yes, I did,” she replied. “I am honored to accept.”
She wasn’t honored. Well, maybe honored, but certainly not pleased. As expected, her mother had insisted that they accept, and Olivia had already spent three hours in emergency fittings for a new gown. It was to be ice-blue silk, the exact color, Olivia suddenly realized, of Prince Alexei’s eyes.
She hoped he would not think she had planned it on purpose.
“How long do you intend to stay in London?” she asked him, hoping she sounded more eager than desperate.
“It is not certain. It depends on…many things.”
He did not seem inclined to expand upon that cryptic comment, so she smiled—not the real one, she was far too tense to summon that. But he did not know her well enough to see through her society smile. “I do hope you enjoy your stay,” she said prettily, “however long you choose to visit us.”
He nodded regally, declining to comment.
They rounded another corner. Olivia could see her parents now, still across the room. They were watching her, as was everyone else. Even the dancing had stopped. People were talking, but their voices were low. They sounded like insects, buzzing about.
Lord, how she wanted to go home. The prince might be a perfectly nice man. In fact, she hoped he was. It would make the story so much better—if he were a lovely person, trapped in a prison of formality and tradition. And if he was perfectly nice, then she would be perfectly happy to make his acquaintance and talk with him, but not, dear heavens, like this, in front of all the ton, with hundreds of pairs of eyes watching her every movement.
What would happen if she tripped? Stumbled over her feet as they turned the next corner. She could do it up small—with just the tiniest bob. Or she could play it for all it was worth, tumbling to the ground in a mad heap.
It would be spectacular.
Or spectacularly awful. And it didn’t matter which, because she didn’t have the courage to do it, anyway.
Just a few more minutes, she told herself. They were in the final stretch. She would be returned to her parents. Or maybe she would have to dance, but even that would not be so awful. Surely they would not be alone on the dance floor. That would be far too obvious, even for this crowd.
Just a few more minutes, and then it would all be over.
Harry watched the golden couple as closely as he was able, but the prince’s decision to take a turn about the room made his job that much more difficult. It wasn’t imperative that he remain close; the prince wasn’t likely to do or say anything the War Office would find relevant. But Harry was loath to let Olivia out of his sight.
It was probably only because he knew that Winthrop was suspicious of him, but Harry had disliked the prince immediately. He didn’t like his proud stance, never mind that his own years in the military had left him with remarkably straight shoulders of his own. He didn’t like the prince’s eyes, nor the way they seemed to narrow upon everyone he met. And he did not like the way his mouth moved when he spoke, his upper lip curled into a perpetual snarl.
Harry had met people like the prince. Not royalty, that was true, but grand dukes and the like, preening about Europe as if they owned the place.
Which they did, he supposed, but they were still a bunch of asses, in his opinion.
“Ah, there you are.” It was Sebastian, holding an almost empty champagne flute. “Bored yet?”
Harry kept one eye on Olivia. “No.”
“Interesting,” Seb murmured. He finished his champagne, set the glass down on a nearby table, then leaned in so that Harry could hear him. “Who are we looking for?”
“No one.”
“No, never mind. My mistake. Who are we looking at?”
“No one,” Harry said, taking a half step to the right, trying to see past the extremely portly earl who had just blocked his view.
“Ah. We are just ignoring me for…what reason?”
“I’m not.”
“And yet you are still not looking at me.”
Harry had to admit defeat. Sebastian was fiendishly tenacious, and twice that annoying. He looked his cousin squarely in the eye. “I have seen you before.”
“And yet I remain ever delightful to gaze upon. One misses a great deal, not looking at me.” Sebastian offered a sickly sort of smile. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Not yet.”
Seb’s brows went up. “Are you serious?”
“I’m enjoying myself,” Harry said.
“Enjoying yourself. At a ball.”
“You manage it.”
“Yes, but I’m me. You’re you. You don’t like these things.”
Harry caught a glimpse of Olivia out of the corner of his eye. She caught his attention, and then he caught her eye, and then, simultaneously, they both looked away. She had the prince to keep busy, and he had Sebastian, who was proving himself more of a nuisance than usual.
“Were you just exchanging glances with Lady Olivia?” Sebastian inquired.
“No.” Harry wasn’t the best liar, but he could do quite a good job when he kept it to monosyllables.
Sebastian rubbed his hands together. “The evening grows interesting.”
Harry ignored him. Or tried to.
“They’re already calling her Princess Olivia,” Sebastian said.
“Who are ‘they,’ anyway?” Harry demanded, swinging around to face Sebastian. “They say I killed my fiancée.”
Sebastian blinked. “When did you get engaged?”
“My point precisely,” Harry practically spat. “And she’s not going to marry that idiot.”
“You almost sound jealous.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Sebastian smiled knowingly. “I thought I saw you with her earlier this evening.”
Harry didn’t bother to deny it. “Polite conversation. She’s my neighbor. Aren’t you always telling me to be more sociable?”
“So you got that whole spying-on-you-from-her-bedroom-window matter settled?”
“A misunderstanding,” Harry said.
“Hmmmm.”
Harry was instantly on alert. Anytime Sebastian appeared thoughtful—the devious I’m-thinking-of-an-evil-plan thoughtful, not the kind and considerate thoughtful—it was time to tread carefully.
“I’d like to meet that prince,” Sebastian said.
“Good God.” Harry was exhausted, just standing next to him. “What are you going to do?”