Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

“Yes.”

Somehow, with him, it seemed all right.

He nodded. “I thought so. Yours is that kind of face.”

She turned to him with an oddly renewed sense of energy. “Have I told you about Miranda?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“My friend. Who married my brother.”

“Ah, yes. You were writing a letter to her this afternoon.”

Olivia nodded. “She was a bit of an ugly duckling. She was so thin, and her legs so long. We used to joke that they went all the way to her neck. But I never saw her that way. She was just my friend. My dearest, funniest, loveliest friend. We took our lessons together. We did everything together.”

She looked over at him, trying to gauge his interest. Most men would have run for the trees by now-a young woman blithering on about childhood friendship. Good heavens.

But he just nodded. And she knew that he understood.

“When I was eleven-it was my birthday, actually-I had a party-Winston, too-and all of the local children came. I suppose it was considered a coveted invitation. Anyway, there was a girl there-I can’t even remember her name-but she said some horrid things to Miranda. I don’t think it had ever even occurred to Miranda that she wasn’t considered pretty before that day. I know it hadn’t occurred to me.”

“Children can be unkind,” he murmured.

“Yes, well, so can adults,” she said briskly. “Anyway, it’s all neither here nor there. It’s just one of those memories that has stayed with me.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, and then he said, “You didn’t finish the story.”

She turned, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t finish the story,” he said again. “What did you do?”

Her lips parted.

“I can’t imagine you did nothing. Even at eleven, you would not have done nothing.”

A slow smile spread across her face, growing…growing…until she could feel it in her cheeks, and then her lips, and then her heart. “I believe I had words with that girl.”

His eyes caught hers in an odd sort of kinship. “Was she ever invited to your birthday parties again?”

Still, she was smiling. Grinning. “I don’t think she was.”

“I’d bet she hasn’t forgotten your name.”

Olivia felt joy bubbling up from within. “I reckon she hasn’t.”

“And your friend Miranda had the last laugh,” he said. “Marrying the future Earl of Rudland. Was there a bigger catch in the district?”

“No. There wasn’t.”

“Sometimes,” he said thoughtfully, “we do get what we deserve.”

Olivia sat beside him, quietly, happy in her thoughts. Then, out of nowhere, she turned to him and said, “I am a devoted aunt.”

“Your brother and Miranda have children?”

“A daughter. Caroline. She is my absolute most favorite thing in the entire world. Sometimes I think I could just eat her up.” She looked over at him. “What are you smiling about?”

“The tone of your voice.”

“What about it?”

He shook his head. “I have no idea. You sound like…like…I don’t know, almost like you are waiting for dessert.”

She let out a laugh. “I shall have to learn how to divide my attentions. They are expecting another.”

“My congratulations.”

“I didn’t think I liked children,” Olivia mused, “but I adore my niece.”

She was quiet again, thinking how nice it was to be with someone she didn’t have to talk to every moment. But then of course she did speak, because she never stayed silent for long.

“You should visit your sister in Cornwall,” she told him. “Meet your nieces and nephews.”

“I should,” he agreed.

“Family is important.”

He was quiet for a little bit longer than she would have expected before he said, “Yes, it is.”

It wasn’t quite right. Something in his voice rang hollow. Or maybe not. She hoped not. It would be such a disappointment if he turned out to be one of those men who had no care for his family.

But she didn’t want to think about this. Not right now. If he had faults, or secrets, or anything, really, beyond what she saw right at this moment, she didn’t want to know about them.

Not tonight.

Definitely not tonight.

They couldn’t remain in the alcove all night, and so with much regret Olivia stood, perfected her posture, then looked over her shoulder at Harry and said, “Once more into the breach, dear friend.”

He rose to his feet as well, regarding her with a warm, quizzical expression. “I thought you didn’t like to read.”

“I don’t, but for heaven’s sake, it’s Henry the Fifth. Even I couldn’t escape that.” Olivia nearly shuddered, remembering Governess Four, the one who had insisted on doing all the Henrys. Inexplicably, in reverse order. “And I tried. Believe me, I tried.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you were not a model student?” he wondered.

“I was only trying to make Miranda look good by comparison.” It wasn’t strictly true, but Olivia had not minded that it had been the result of her bad behavior. It wasn’t that she didn’t like learning, she just disliked being told what to learn. Miranda, who had always had her nose in a book, was happy to soak in whatever knowledge the governess du jour chose to impart. Olivia was always happiest when they were between governesses, when the two of them were left to their own devices. Instead of being forced to learn by rote and memorization, they had come up with all sorts of games and pneumonics. Olivia had never been so good at maths as when she had no one to teach her.

“I am beginning to think your Miranda must be a saint,” Sir Harry said.

“Oh, she has her moments,” Olivia returned. “You will never meet anyone so stubborn.”

“More than you?”

“Much more.” She looked at him in surprise. She wasn’t stubborn. Impulsive, yes, and more than occasionally foolhardy, but not stubborn. She had always known when to give in. Or to give up.

She cocked her head to the side, regarding him as he looked out over the crowd. What an interesting man he had turned out to be. Who would have dreamed he would have such a devilish sense of humor? Or be so disarmingly perceptive. Talking with him was like finding a friend she’d known all of her life. Which was astonishing. Friends with a gentleman-who would have thought it possible?

She tried to imagine admitting to Mary or Anne or Philomena that she knew she was pretty. She could never. It would be seen as the worst kind of conceit.

With Miranda it would have been different. Miranda would have understood. But Miranda wasn’t often in London anymore, and Olivia was only just now coming to realize what a great big gaping hole this had left in her life.

“You look very serious,” Harry said, and she realized that at some point she had become so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed he’d turned back to her. He was looking at her most intently, his eyes so warm, so focused…on her.

She wondered what he saw there.

And she wondered if she measured up.

And most of all, she wondered why it mattered so much that she did.

“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.”