Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

“Oh, there’s my mother,” Olivia said, twisting to look behind her. “She’s calling me from down the hall. I must go.”

“I shall see you tonight,” Harry said.

She smiled. “I can’t wait.”

By the time Harry arrived at the ambassador’s residence, the ball was in full swing. He couldn’t quite determine what aspects of Russian culture were being celebrated; the music was German and the food was French. But no one seemed to care. The vodka was flowing freely, and the room echoed with peals of laughter.

Harry immediately looked for Olivia, but she was nowhere to be seen. He was fairly certain she would have already arrived; her carriage had left her house over an hour before his had departed. But it was a crowded room. He’d find her soon.

Sebastian’s shoulder was nearly improved, but he had insisted upon wearing a sling under his coat-the better to attract the women, he’d told Harry. And indeed, it worked. They were mobbed instantly, and Harry was happy to stand back, watching with amusement as Sebastian basked in the worry and concern of London’s fair ladies.

Harry noted that Sebastian did not give an accurate depiction of the accident. In fact, all details were rather vague. There was certainly nothing about standing atop a table, acting out a cliff scene from a gothic novel. It was hard to tell exactly what Sebastian had said, but Harry heard one lady whisper to another that he’d been attacked by footpads, the poor, poor dear.

Harry fully expected to hear that Sebastian had fought off an entire French regiment by the end of the evening.

Harry leaned over to Edward as Sebastian graciously accepted the heartrending concern of one particularly buxom widow. “Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone how this really happened. He’ll never forgive you.”

Edward nodded, but just barely. He was far too busy watching and learning from Seb to pay attention to Harry.

“Enjoy the leavings,” Harry said to his brother, smiling to himself as he realized that he was through with Sebastian’s left-over females.

Life was good. Very good. As perfect and fabulous as it had ever been, in fact.

Tomorrow he would propose, and tomorrow she would say yes.

She would, wouldn’t she? He couldn’t possibly be so misguided about her feelings.

“Have you seen Olivia?” he asked Edward.

Edward shook his head.

“I’m going to try to find her.”

Edward nodded.

Harry decided that it was useless to attempt to conduct a conversation with his brother with so many young ladies flitting about, and he moved away, trying to see above the crowd as he walked over to the opposite side of the ballroom. There was a small knot of people near the punch bowl, Prince Alexei at the center, but he did not see Olivia. She’d said she would be wearing blue, which would make her easier to spot, but it was always harder for him to distinguish colors in the evening.

Her hair…Now, that was a different story. Her hair would shine like a beacon.

He kept moving through the crowd, looking this way and that, and then finally, just when he was starting to get frustrated, he heard from behind him:

“Looking for someone?”

He turned, and it was as if his life was illuminated by her smile. “Yes,” he said, feigning perplexity, “but I can’t quite find her…”

“Oh, stop,” Olivia said, batting him lightly on the arm. “What has taken you so long? I have been here for hours.”

He raised a brow at that.

“Oh, very well, one hour at least. Probably ninety minutes.”

He glanced over at his cousin and brother, still holding court across the room. “We had difficulties adjusting Sebastian’s sling with his coat.”

“And people say women are fussy.”

“While I would have to argue on behalf of my gender, I am always happy to impugn my cousin.”

She laughed at that, a bright, musical sound, then grabbed his hand. “Come with me.”

He followed her through the crowds, impressed by her single-minded determination to get to wherever it was she was going. She weaved this way and that, laughing all the way, until she reached an arched door at the far side of the room.

“What’s this?” he murmured.

“Shhhh,” she directed. He followed her out into the hall. It wasn’t empty; there were several small groups of people congregating here and there, but it was much less crowded than the main room.

“I’ve been exploring,” she said.

“Apparently so.”

She turned another corner, and another, and the crowds grew progressively thinner, until finally she stopped in a quiet gallery. One side had doors interspersed with tall portraits-perfectly ordered, two paintings between each door. The other side held a neat row of windows.

She stopped directly in front of one of the windows. “Look out,” she urged.

He did, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Shall I open it?” he asked, thinking this might offer more clues.

“Please do.”

He found the lock and undid it, then lifted the window. It glided up without sound, and he poked his head out.

He saw trees.

And her. She had poked her head out right beside him.

“I must confess to confusion,” he said. “What am I looking at?”

“Me,” she said simply. “Us. Together. On the same side of a window.”

He turned. He looked at her. And then…He had to do it. He couldn’t not. He reached for her, and he pulled her to him, and she came willingly, with a smile that spoke of the lifetime they had waiting ahead of them.

He leaned down and kissed her, his lips eager and hungry, and he realized he was shaking, because this was more than a kiss. There was something sacred about this moment, something honorable and true.

“I love you,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to say it yet. All his plans had been to tell her when he proposed. But he had to. It had grown and spread inside of him, bubbling with warmth and strength, and he just could not keep it back. “I love you,” he said again. “I love you.”

She touched his cheek. “I love you, too.”

For several seconds he could do nothing but stare at her, holding the moment in reverence, letting every speck of it wash over him. And then something else took over, something primal and fierce, and he crushed her to him, kissing her with the urgency of a man who must claim his own.

He couldn’t get enough of her, her touch, her feel, her scent. Tension and need were spiraling within him, and he could feel his grip slipping-on his control, on sense of propriety, on everything except her.

His fingers were grasping at her clothing, desperate to feel her skin, warm and smooth. “I need you,” he groaned, his mouth moving to her cheek, her jaw, her neck.

They twisted and turned away from the window, and Harry found himself leaning up against a door. He took the knob in his hand, turned, and they fell in, stumbling and tumbling, but managing to remain upright.

“Where are we?” Olivia asked, her breath shaking her body.

He shut the door. Locked it. “I don’t care.”

He grabbed her then, pulled her to him. He should have been gentle, he should have been tender. But he was beyond that now. For the first time in his life, he was moved by something beyond his control. He was moved to something he could not resist. His world became nothing but this woman, and their bodies, and showing her, in the most fundamental way possible, how much he loved her.

“Harry,” she gasped, her body arching against his. He could feel every curve through their clothing, and he had to-he couldn’t stop-

He had to feel her. He had to know her.

He said her name, barely recognizing his own voice, grown hoarse with need. “I want you,” he said. And when she moaned incoherently in response, her lips finding his earlobe as his had done hers, he said it again.

“I want you now.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

With a shuddering breath, he pulled away from her and took her face in his hands. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

She nodded.

But that wasn’t good enough. “Do you understand?” he asked, urgency making him sound almost strident. “I need you to say it.”

“I understand,” she whispered. “I want you, too.”

Still, he held off, unable to let himself cut that last thread of sanity, of propriety. He knew he was ready to commit his very life to her, but he had not sworn it in a church, before her family. But by God, if she was going to stop him now, she was going to have to stop him now.

She went very still; for a moment even her breathing seemed to stop, and then she took his face in her hands, the very same position he held with her. Their eyes met, and in her face he saw a love and a trust so big and so deep that it nearly paralyzed him with fear.

How could he possibly be worthy of this? How could he keep her safe and happy and make sure that every second of every day she knew how much he loved her?

She smiled. At first it was sweet, and then it grew clever, and maybe a little bit mischievous. “You’re going to ask me to marry you,” she murmured, “aren’t you?”

His lips parted with shock. “I-”

But she placed one of her hands against his mouth. “Don’t say anything. Just nod if it’s yes.”

He nodded.

“Don’t ask me now,” she said, and she looked almost serene, as if she were a goddess and the mortals around her were doing exactly what she asked of them. “This isn’t the time or the place. I want a proper proposal.”

He nodded again.

“But if I know that you plan to ask me, I might be convinced to act in a manner…”

It was all the permission he needed. He pulled her back for another searing kiss, his fingers finding the cloth-covered buttons at the back of her gown. They slipped easily through the buttonholes, and in seconds the fabric pooled and rustled at her feet.