What Happens in London

“Did you know?”

“About the music?”

“It’s a brutal use of the word.”

“I’d heard rumors,” Sebastian admitted.

That was when Olivia noticed the three housemaids, perched on a settee in the corner, gazing at Sebastian with utter rapture.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

He motioned to his mount. “Out for a ride.”

“No, why here?” she ground out. “On this bench. Sitting next to me.”

He thought about that for a moment. “You vex me.”

Her lips pursed. “Well,” she said, somewhat briskly. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

“Oh my,” Olivia gasped. “Do you think that perhaps…sometime…we ought to have some sort of proper meeting?”

He wiped his eyes. “Proper?”

“Like at a dance.”

“We’ve already danced,” he told her.

“Only once, and you didn’t like me then.”

“You didn’t like me, either,” he reminded her.

“You didn’t like me more.”

He thought about that, then nodded. “That’s true.”

Olivia winced. “I was rather horrid, wasn’t I?”

“Well, yes,” he admitted, rather quickly, too.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me.”

He grinned. “It’s good that you can be horrid when necessary. It’s a useful skill.”

Henry the Fifth

“I love your daughter,” Harry said. “And I like her very much as well.”

Olivia put her hand over her heart and squeaked. She didn’t know why she squeaked; it just came out, like a little bubble of pure joy. His words—they were quite simply the most perfect declaration of love imaginable.

“She is beautiful,” Harry went on, “so beautiful it makes my teeth ache, but that’s not why I love her.”

No, that was more perfect, aching teeth and all.

“I love that she reads the newspaper every day.”

Olivia looked down at her father. He was staring at Harry as if he’d gone mad.

“I love that she has no patience for stupidity.”

It was true, Olivia thought with a silly smile. He knew her so well.

“I love that I’m a better dancer than she is.”

Her smile disappeared, but she had to acknowledge the truth of that as well.

“I love that she’s kind to small children and large dogs.”

What? She looked at him in askance.

“I’m guessing,” he admitted. “You seem like the sort.”

She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t laugh.

“But most of all,” Harry said, and although he was looking squarely at Olivia’s father, it felt as if he were looking at her, “I love her. I adore her. And I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my days standing beside her as her husband.”

Olivia looked back down at her father. He was still staring at Harry with an expression of great shock.

“Father?” she asked hesitantly.

“This is highly irregular,” her father said. But he didn’t sound angry, just dazed.

“I would give my life for her,” Harry said.

“You would?” she asked, her voice small, and hopeful, and thrilled. “Oh, Harry, I—”

“Hush,” he said, “I’m talking to your father.”

“I approve,” Lord Rudland suddenly said.

Olivia’s mouth fell into an indignant O. “Because he told me to hush?”

Her father looked up. “It is indicative of uncommon good sense.”

“What?”

“And a healthy dose of self-preservation,” Harry added.

“I like this man,” her father announced.

And then, quite suddenly, Olivia heard another window opening.

“What is going on?” It was her mother, in the drawing room, precisely three windows over from her father. “Who are you talking to?”

“Olivia is getting married, dear,” her father said.

“Good morning, Mama,” Olivia added.

Her mother looked up, blinking. “What are you doing?”

“Apparently getting married,” Olivia said, with a rather silly grin.

“To me,” Harry said, just to clarify.

“Oh, Sir Harry, er…lovely to see you again.” Lady Rudland looked over at him, blinking a few times. “I didn’t see you there.”

He nodded graciously at his future mother-in-law.

Lady Rudland turned to her husband. “She’s marrying him?”

Lord Rudland nodded. “With my heartfelt approval.”

Lady Rudland considered this for a moment, then turned back to Harry. “You may have her in four months.” She looked up at Olivia. “We have much to plan, you and I.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of four weeks,” Harry said.

Lady Rudland turned to him sharply, the index finger of her right hand pointed straight up. It was a gesture Olivia also knew quite well. It meant that the recipient was to argue at his own peril.

“You have a great deal to learn, my boy,” Lord Rudland said.

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed. He motioned up to Olivia. “Don’t move.”

She waited, and a moment later he returned with a small jeweler’s box. “A ring,” he said, even though it was quite obvious. He opened the box, but Olivia was too far away to see anything but a bit of sparkle.

“Can you see it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

He poked his head farther out the window, his eyes narrowing as he measured the distance. “Can you catch it?” he asked.

Olivia heard her mother gasp, but she knew there was only one suitable reply. She gazed upon her future husband with a most supercilious expression and said, “If you can throw it, I can catch it.”

He laughed. And he threw.

And she missed. On purpose.

It was better that way, she thought, when they met in the middle to search for the ring. A proper proposal deserved a proper kiss.

Or, as Harry murmured to her in full sight of both of her parents, perhaps an improper one…

“I received a note from Sir Harry requesting my presence at this window.” Lord Rudland twisted back around to face Harry. “What is this about, young man? And why is my daughter hanging out of her window like a fishwife?”

“Is Mother here?” Olivia asked.

“Your mother is here, too?” her father blustered.

“No, I was just wondering, since you’re here, and—”

“Lord Rudland,” Harry interrupted, his voice loud enough to cut the both of them off, “I would like to request the honor of your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Olivia gasped, then squealed, then jumped up and down, which turned out to be a bad idea. “Ow!” she yelped, smacking her head on the window. She poked her head back out and beamed down at Harry with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed. He’d promised her a proper proposal. And here it was. Nothing could have been so splendid as this.

“Olivia?” her father asked.

She looked down, wiping at her eyes.

“Why is he asking me this through a window?”

Olivia considered the question, considered her possible answers, and decided that honesty was her best alternative. “I am fairly certain you do not wish to know the answer to that question,” she told him.

Her father closed his eyes and shook his head. She had seen that gesture before. It meant he didn’t know what to do with her. Luckily for him, she was about to be taken off his hands.

“I bought another copy of Miss Butterworth,” he said.

“You did?” She leaned on the ledge. “Did you finish it?”

“Indeed.”

“Does it get any better?”

“Well, she does go into surprising detail about the pigeons.”

“No.” Good heavens, she was going to finish that wretched novel. If the author actually showed the death by pigeons…well now, that was worth her time.

“No, really,” Harry said. “It turns out Miss Butterworth was witness to the sad event. She relives it in a dream.”

Olivia shuddered. “Prince Alexei is going to adore it.”

“Actually, he’s hired me to translate the entire book into Russian.”

“You’re joking!”

“No.” He gave her a look that was both sly and satisfied. “I’m working on the first chapter right now.”

“Oh, how exciting. I mean, awful, too, since you actually have to read it, but I suppose it’s a different task altogether when you’re being paid to do so.”

Harry followed suit, pushing her behind him, guarding her with his body.

Olivia understood the need for caution, but she felt as if something inside of her were about to burst, and she just wanted to break free and run, to feel the air whistling past her face as she flew through the halls.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted her mother.

She wanted to take off this dress and burn it, to wash herself, to drink something sweet or sour or minty—whatever would most quickly wipe the taste of fear from her mouth.

She wanted to curl up in her bed, and pull the pillow over her head—she didn’t want to think about any of this. She wanted, for once in her life, to be incurious. Maybe tomorrow she’d want all of the whys and wherefores, but for right now, she just wanted to close her eyes.

And hold Harry’s hand.