She was being fanciful. No one would know.
Except Harry.
Her heart jumped. Literally jumped in her chest.
Harry would know. He would remember every last detail, and when he looked at her, his eyes hot with desire, she would melt anew.
And suddenly she was no longer so sure she would be able to carry this off. No one would know what she’d been doing from looking at her. But if someone happened to look at her while she was looking at Harry…
She stood. Squared her shoulders. Tried to be resolute. She could do this. She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, comfortable in any social situation, wasn’t she? She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, soon to be…
She let out a little squeal at the thought of it. Soon to be Lady Valentine. She liked that. Lady Valentine. It was so romantic. Really, names didn’t get much better than that.
She turned toward the door. Reached for the knob.
But someone opened it first. So she stepped back to avoid being hit by the door.
But she couldn’t avoid—
“Oh!”
Where the hell was Olivia?
Harry had been back at the party for more than half an hour and he still hadn’t caught a glimpse of her. He’d played his part to perfection, chatting with any number of bright young ladies, even dancing with one of the Smythe-Smiths. He’d checked on Sebastian, not that he needed it—his shoulder had not been troubling him for several days.
Olivia had said that she was planning to go to the ladies’ retiring room to check on her appearance, so he’d not expected her to arrive promptly, but still, shouldn’t she have been done by now? He’d thought she’d looked rather nice when he’d last seen her. What more could she have needed to do?
“Oh, Sir Harry!”
He turned at the sound of a female voice. It was that young lady Olivia had been sitting with in the park. Blast, what was her name?
“Have you seen Olivia?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t been in the ballroom long, though.”
The young woman frowned. “I don’t know where she could be. I was with her earlier.”
Harry regarded her with increased interest. “You were?”
She nodded, waving one of her hands off to the side, presumably to indicate another location. “I was helping her with her hair. Someone spilled champagne on her dress, you know.”
Harry was not sure how that related to her hair, but he knew better than to ask. Whatever story Olivia had concocted, it had convinced her friend, and he wasn’t going to contradict.
The young lady frowned, tilting her head this way and that as she glanced out over the crowd. “I really needed to tell her something.”
“When did you last see her?” Harry asked, keeping his tone polite, almost paternal.
“Goodness, I’m not sure. An hour ago? No, it couldn’t have been that long.” She continued her visual search of the dance floor, but Harry couldn’t tell if she was looking for Olivia or merely inspecting the guest list.
“Do you see her?” Harry murmured, mostly because it was damned awkward, standing there next to her while she looked at everyone in the room besides him.
She shook her head, and then, apparently spotting someone she deemed of greater importance, said, “Do let her know I’m looking for her when you find her.” With a little wave, she headed back into the crowd.
That was singularly unhelpful, Harry decided, as he moved toward the doors to the garden. He didn’t think Olivia would have gone outside, but the ballroom was sunken, and one had to ascend three steps to reach the doors. He’d be much more likely to be able to see her from there.
But when he reached his vantage point, he was once again stymied. Everyone else he knew seemed to be in attendance, but Olivia was nowhere to be found. There was Sebastian, still charming the ladies with his made-up tales of derring-do. Edward was at his elbow, trying to appear older than he really was. Olivia’s friend （whose name he still could not recall） was sipping a glass of lemonade, pretending she was listening to the elderly gentleman who was shouting something at her. And there was Olivia’s twin brother, leaning against the back wall, his expression bored.
Even Vladimir was there, walking across the ballroom with great purpose, not bothering to excuse himself as he shoved aside various lords and ladies. He did look rather serious, Harry thought, and he was wondering if he ought to investigate when he realized the giant Russian was heading for him.
“You come with me,” he said to Harry.
Harry started. “You speak English?”
“Nyeh tak khorosho, kak tiy govorish po-russki.”
Not as well as you speak Russian.
“What is going on?” Harry asked. In English, just to be careful.
Vladimir’s eyes met his with steely purpose. “I know Winthrop,” he said.
It was almost enough to convince Harry to trust him.
And then Vladimir said, “Lady Olivia has disappeared.”
Suddenly it didn’t matter if he trusted him or not.
Olivia had no idea where she was.
Or how she’d got there.
Or why her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound together, and a gag had been wrapped around her mouth.
Or, she thought, blinking frantically to adjust to the dim light, why she hadn’t been blindfolded.
She was lying on her side, on a bed, staring at a wall. Maybe whoever had done this to her had figured that if she couldn’t move or make a noise, it wouldn’t matter what she saw.
But who? Why? What had happened to her?
She tried to think, tried to calm her racing mind. She’d been in the washroom. Mary Cadogan had been there, and then she’d left, and Olivia had been alone for how long? At least a few minutes. Maybe as many as five.
She’d finally summoned the nerve to go back to the party, but the door had opened and then…
What happened? What happened?
Think, Olivia, think.
Why couldn’t she remember? It was as if a big gray smudge had been wiped across her memory.
She started to breathe more heavily. Quick and deep. Panicked. She couldn’t think straight.
She started to struggle, even though she knew it was fruitless. She managed to flip over, away from the wall. She couldn’t seem to calm down, to focus, to—
“You’re awake.”
She froze. In an instant she went still, her only movement the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
She did not recognize the voice. And when its owner came closer, she did not recognize the man, either.
Who are you?
But of course she couldn’t speak. He saw the question, however; saw it in her panicked eyes.
“It does not matter who I am,” he said, his voice carrying some sort of accent. But she couldn’t tell where he was from. Just as she’d always been terrible with languages, she never could place accents, either.
The man drew closer, then sat in a chair near her. He was older than she was, although not as old as her parents, and his graying hair was clipped close to his head. His eyes—she couldn’t tell what color they were in the darkness. Not brown. Something lighter.
“Prince Alexei has taken quite a fancy to you,” he said.
Her eyes widened. Prince Alexei had done this to her?
Her captor chuckled. “You do not hide your emotions well, Lady Olivia. It was not the prince who brought you here. But it will be the prince”—he leaned closer, menacingly, until she could smell his breath—“who will pay to bring you back.”