Sebastian stroked his chin. “I’m not quite certain. But I’m confident the correct course of action will make itself known to me at the proper time.”
“You’re going to make it up as you go along?”
“It usually works rather well.”
There would be no stopping him, this Harry knew. “Listen to me,” he hissed, grabbing his cousin’s arm with enough urgency to obtain his instant attention. Harry could not tell him about his assignment, but Seb would have to know that there was more to this than an infatuation with Lady Olivia. Otherwise, he could ruin the whole thing, with a single reference to Grandmère Olga.
Harry kept his voice low. “This evening, with the prince, I do not speak Russian. And neither do you.” Sebastian wasn’t even close to being fluent, but he could certainly stumble through a conversation.
Harry looked at him intently. “Do you understand?”
Seb’s eyes fixed on his, and then he nodded—once, with a gravity he rarely allowed others to see. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone, and his loose-limbed posture returned, along with his lopsided smile.
Harry stepped back, quietly watching. Olivia and the prince had completed three-fourths of their stately promenade and were now walking directly toward them. The crowds of partygoers swept out of their path, like beads of oil on water, and Sebastian was standing still, his only movement the fingers of his left hand, idly rubbing together, thumb against the rest.
He was thinking. Seb always did that when he was thinking.
And then, with timing so perfect no one could ever believe it wasn’t an accident, Sebastian plucked a new champagne glass from a roving footman’s tray, tilted his head back for a sip, and then— Harry didn’t know how he managed it, but it was all over the floor—a splintering crash, shards of glass, and champagne, bubbling furiously on the parquet.
Olivia jumped back; the hem of her gown had been splashed.
The prince looked furious.
Harry said nothing.
And then Sebastian smiled.
Chapter Ten
Lady Olivia!” Sebastian exclaimed. “I am so sorry. Please accept my apologies. Terribly clumsy of me.”
“Of course,” she said, discreetly shaking out one foot, then the next. “It is nothing. Just a spot of champagne.” She smiled up at him, a reassuring it’s-no-trouble-at-all sort of smile. “I’ve heard it is good for the skin.”
She’d heard nothing of the sort, but what else could she say? It wasn’t like Sebastian Grey to be so clumsy, and really, it was just a few drops on her slippers. Beside her, however, the prince was seething with anger. She could feel it in his stance. He’d received more of a splashing than she had, although in all fairness, it had all landed on his boots, and hadn’t she heard that some men cleaned their boots with champagne, anyway?
Still, whatever Prince Alexei had grunted in Russian, she had a feeling it was not complimentary.
“For the skin? Really?” Sebastian asked, giving every appearance of an interest she was quite sure he did not possess. “I’d not heard that. How fascinating.”
“It was in a ladies’ magazine,” she lied.
“Which would explain why I did not know of it,” Sebastian replied smoothly.
“Lady Olivia, will you introduce me to your friend?” Prince Alexei said sharply.
“Of–of course,” Olivia stammered, surprised by his request. He had not seemed interested in meeting very many people in London, with the exception of dukes, royals, and, well, her. Perhaps he wasn’t as arch and proud as she thought. “Your Highness, may I present Mr. Sebastian Grey. Mr. Grey, Prince Alexei Gomarovsky of Russia.”
The two men made their bows, Sebastian’s considerably deeper than the prince’s, which was so shallow as to be almost impolite.
“Lady Olivia,” Sebastian said, once he was through bowing to the prince, “have you met my cousin, Sir Harry Valentine?”
Olivia’s lips parted in surprise. What was he up to? He knew very well that—
“Lady Olivia,” Harry said, suddenly right in front of her. His eyes met hers, and they flared with something she could not quite identify. It sparked through her, made her want to shiver. And then it was gone, as if they were nothing more than mere acquaintances. He gave her a gracious nod, then said to his cousin, “We are already acquainted.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Sebastian said. “I keep forgetting. You are neighbors.”
“Your Highness,” Olivia said to the prince, “may I present Sir Harry Valentine. He lives directly to the south of me.”
“Indeed,” the prince said, and then, while Harry was bowing, he said something in rapid Russian to his attendant, who gave a curt nod.
“You were speaking with each other earlier in the evening,” the prince said.
Olivia stiffened. She had not realized that he had been watching her. And she wasn’t quite certain why this bothered her so much. “Yes,” she said, for there could be no good reason to deny it. “I count Sir Harry among my many acquaintances.”
“For which I am most grateful,” Harry said. His voice had an edge to it, at odds with the gentle sentiment of the words. Stranger still, he was looking at the prince the entire time he spoke.
“Yes,” the prince replied, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “You would be, wouldn’t you?”
Olivia looked at Harry, then at the prince, then back at Harry, who held the prince’s eye as he said, “I would.”
“It’s a lovely party, isn’t it?” Sebastian put in. “Lady Mottram has quite outdone herself this year.”
Olivia nearly burst out with an inappropriate giggle. There was something about his demeanor—so excessively jolly—it should have cut through the tension like a knife. But it didn’t. Harry was watching the prince with cool reserve, and the prince—he was watching Harry with icy disdain.
“Is it chilly in here?” she asked, to no one in particular.
“A bit,” Sebastian replied, since they seemed to be the only ones actually speaking. “I have long thought it must be difficult to be a woman, with all your wispy, unsubstantial garments.”
Olivia’s gown was velvet, but with short capped sleeves, and her arms were prickling with goose bumps. “Yes,” she replied, because no one else was speaking. Then she realized she had nothing more to say beyond that, so she cleared her throat and smiled, first at Harry and the prince, who still were not looking at her, and then at the people behind them, all of whom were looking at her, although they were pretending not to.
“Are you one of Lady Olivia’s many admirers?” Prince Alexei asked Harry.
Olivia turned to Harry with widened eyes. What on earth could he say to so direct a question?
“All of London admires Lady Olivia,” Harry replied deftly.
“She is one of our most admired ladies,” Sebastian added.
Olivia ought to have said something quiet and modest in the wake of such praise, but it was all too strange—too utterly bizarre—to say a thing.
They weren’t talking about her. They were saying her name, and paying her compliments, but it was all a part of some strange and stupid male dance for domination.