Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

Olivia opened her mouth to say, “Of course not,” but she was beaten to the punch by Sebastian, Harry, and the prince.

Really, whose home was this?

Edward looked over at her-it was interesting, he looked nothing like Harry save for the coloring, which was identical-and said, “Er, do you plan to come in, Lady Olivia?”

She realized that she was still standing near the doorway. All the rest of the gentlemen were sitting down, but it was unlikely that Edward, who had only just met her, would do so while she still stood.

“Actually, I thought I might go out to the garden,” she said, her voice trailing off when she realized that no one was protesting her departure. “Or I’ll sit down.”

She found a seat off to the side, not so far from the three maids, who gave her nervous looks.

“Please,” she said to them, “stay. I couldn’t possibly ask you to miss the rest of the performance.”

They thanked her with such devotion that Olivia could only wonder how she would explain this to her mother. If Sebastian came by each afternoon to read (for surely he would not attempt the entire novel in one swoop), and the maids came to listen, that would be quite a few fireplaces that did not get cleaned out.

“Chapter Two,” Sebastian announced. A reverent hush fell over the room, prompting a most irreverent giggle from Olivia.

The prince shot her a dirty look, as did Vladimir and Huntley.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and placed her hands primly in her lap. It was time, apparently, to be on her best behavior.

Satisfying Endings for Miss Butterworth

By Olivia Bevelstoke

The baron is quite sane, but Priscilla is mad!

Reemergence of pox. New, deadlier strain.

Priscilla leaves the baron and devotes her life to the care and feeding of carrier pigeons.

The baron eats the pigeons.

The baron eats her.

The last one would be a bit of a stretch, but there was no reason why the baron could not have gone mad while exploring in the darkest jungle, where he fell in with a society of cannibals.

It could happen.

She looked over at Harry, trying to see what he thought of the performance. But he looked distracted; his eyes were narrowed in thought but not focused on Sebastian. And his fingers were drumming along the arm of the sofa-a sure sign of a wandering mind.

Was he thinking of their kiss? She hoped not. He did not look remotely transported into rapturous bliss.

Good heavens, she was beginning to sound like Priscilla Butterworth.

Gad.

Several pages into Chapter Two, Harry decided it would not be impolite to quietly excuse himself so that he could read the letter Edward had brought over, presumably from the War Office. He glanced over at Olivia before he left the room, but she was seemingly lost in her own thoughts, staring straight ahead at a blank spot on the wall.

Her lips were moving, too. Not much, but he tended to notice the finer details of her lips.

Edward, too, seemed well situated. He was kitty-corner to the prince, watching Sebastian with a great, big loopy smile on his face. Harry had never seen his brother smile like this before. He laughed, even, when Sebastian mimicked a particularly annoying character. Harry knew he’d never heard his brother laugh.

Once in the hall, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Apparently, Prince Alexei was no longer suspected of wrongdoing. Harry was to stop his assignment at once. There was no explanation as to why the prince was no longer of interest to the War Office, nothing saying how they had come to this determination. Just an order to stop. No please, no thank you.

In any language.

Harry shook his head. Couldn’t someone have figured this out before sending him on such a ridiculous assignment? This was why he stuck to translations. This sort of thing drove him batty.

“Harry?”

He looked up. Olivia had slipped out of the drawing room and was walking toward him, her eyes soft with concern.

“Not bad news, I hope,” she said.

He shook his head. “Just unexpected.” He folded up the paper and placed it back into his pocket. He could dispose of it later, when he was back home.

“I had to leave,” she said, her lips pressed together in what he imagined was her attempt not to smile. She motioned with her head to the open door of the drawing room, through which they could hear snatches of Miss Butterworth.

“Sebastian is that bad, eh?”

“No,” she said, sounding quite amazed. “He’s really quite good. That’s the problem. The book is so bad, but no one seems to realize it. They’re all staring at him like he’s Edmund Kean, performing Hamlet. I just couldn’t keep a straight face any longer.”

“I’m impressed you managed for as long as you did.”

“And the prince,” she added, shaking her head with disbelief. “He’s positively entranced. I can’t believe it. I would never have thought he’d like this sort of thing.”

The prince, Harry thought. Now there was a relief. He wouldn’t have to deal with the bastard ever again. He wouldn’t have to follow him, he wouldn’t have to speak with him…Life would return to normal. It would be lovely.

Except…

Olivia.

He watched her as she tiptoed back to the doorway and peeked in. Her movements were a little blocky, and for a moment he thought she might trip. She wasn’t clumsy, not exactly. But she moved in her own inimitable way, and he realized he could watch her for hours, do nothing but sit and stare at the way her hands carried out mundane tasks. He could watch her face, enjoying every play of emotion, every movement of her brow, of her lips.

She was so beautiful it made his teeth ache.

He made a mental note not to attempt poetry.

She let out a little, “Oh!” and leaned in farther.

He took a step forward and murmured in her ear, “For someone who is not interested, you’re quite interested.”

She hushed him, then gave him a little shove so that he wasn’t crowding her.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Her eyes widened, and her face took on an expression of delight. “Your cousin is performing a death scene. Your brother has got up on the table, too.”

“Edward?” he asked doubtfully.

She nodded, taking another peek. “I can’t tell who is killing whom-Oh, never mind. Edward’s dead.”

That was quick.

“Oh, wait-” She craned her neck. “No, he’s dead. Sorry.” She turned. Smiled at him.

He felt it everywhere.

“He was rather good at it,” she murmured. “I think he takes after your cousin.”

He wanted to kiss her again.

“Clutched his heart”-she clutched hers-“groaned, and then, when it was all done, he let out one last shudder, and it wasn’t really all done.” She grinned again. “And then it was done.”

He had to kiss her. Now.

“What’s that room over there?” he asked, pointing to a door.

“My father’s office, why?”

“What about that one?”

“Music room. We never use it.”

He grabbed her hand. They were using it now.

Olivia barely had time to catch her breath before she found herself in Rudland House’s small music room with the door closed behind her. And after that, she managed only the “Wh” in What are you doing? before it was perfectly clear what he was doing.

His hands were back in her hair, and her back was to the wall, and he was kissing her. Madly, passionately, bone-meltingly kissing her.

“Harry!” she gasped, when his lips left hers to nibble on her ear.

“I can’t help it,” he said, his words ticklish against her skin. She could hear the smile in his voice. He sounded happy.

She felt happy. And more.

“You were there,” he said, one of his hands moving down her side, around her back. “You were there, and I had to kiss you, and that’s all there was to it.”

Forget the flowery words of Miss Butterworth’s mad baron. That was the most romantic thing Olivia had ever heard.

“You exist,” he said, his voice deepening with desire. “Ergo, I need you.”

No, that was the most romantic thing.

And then he whispered something in her ear. Something about lips and hands, and the heat of her body, and she had to wonder if maybe that was the most romantic of all.

She had been desired by men before. Some had even claimed they loved her. But this-this was different. There was an urgency in his body, in his breath, in the pulse of his blood under his skin. He wanted her. He needed her. It went beyond words, beyond anything he might try to explain. But it was something she understood, something she felt deep within.

It made her feel deliciously powerful. And at the same time powerless, because whatever it was that was racing through him, it was spreading to her as well, causing a quickness inside in her veins, an inability to draw breath. It felt as if her entire body were rushing through her, moving from the inside out until she could do nothing but touch him. She had to grab him, squeeze him. She needed him close, and so she reached around with her hands, entwining herself around his neck.

“Harry,” she whispered, and she heard the delight in her voice. This moment, this kiss-it was everything she’d been waiting for.

It was everything she wanted.

And a million things more.

His hands slid down her back, pulling her from the wall, and they turned and swirled across the carpet until they both fell over the arm of the sofa. He landed atop her, the warm, solid weight of his body pinning her to the cushions. It should have been the strangest sensation. It should have been terrifying-her body compressed, her movement diminished. But instead it just felt like the most normal, natural thing in the world, that she would be on her back, and this man on top of her, hot, powerful, and hers.