Olivia was fond of her dignity.

Let’s see, what else…Being eye-and ear-witness to a door being kicked down. She had not enjoyed that. The expressions on her parents’ faces when she was finally brought back to their care-there had been relief, that was true, but that sort of relief required commensurate terror, and Olivia did not want anyone she loved to feel that way ever again.

And then, dear God, this had been the worst: watching Harry as he’d slumped to the floor of the ambassador’s office. She hadn’t realized that he’d been shot. How could she not have realized that? She’d been so busy sobbing in her mother’s arms, she hadn’t seen that he’d gone deathly pale, or that he was clutching his shoulder.

She’d thought she’d been afraid before, but nothing-nothing-could have compared to the terror of those thirty seconds between the time he went down and Vladimir assured her it was nothing but a flesh wound.

And indeed, that was all it was. True to Vladimir’s word, Harry was up and about the very next day. He’d arrived at her home while she was eating breakfast, and then he explained everything-why he hadn’t told her he could speak Russian, what he’d really been doing at his desk when she had spied upon him, even why he had called upon her with Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron that first crazy, wonderful afternoon. It hadn’t been to be neighborly, or because he had had any feelings for her other than disdain. He had been ordered to do so. By no less an authority than the War Office.

It was a lot to take in over coddled eggs and tea.

But she’d listened, and she’d understood. And now everything was settled, every loose end neatly tied. The ambassador had been detained, as had the men who worked for him, including her gray-haired captor. Prince Alexei had sent over a formal letter of apology, on behalf of the entire Russian nation, and Vladimir, true to his word, had disappeared.

And yet she hadn’t seen Harry in over twenty-four hours. He had left after breakfast, and she’d assumed he’d call again, but…

Nothing.

She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t even concerned. But it was odd. Quite odd.

She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on its saucer. Then she picked up both dishes and set them atop Miss Butterworth. Because she kept reaching for the book.

And she didn’t want to pick it up. Not without Harry.

She hadn’t finished the newspaper yet, anyway. She’d read the last half of it, and was rather interested in getting on to the more serious news at the front. There had been rumors that Monsieur Bonaparte was in exceedingly ill health. She supposed he couldn’t have actually died yet; that would have been reported on the front page, with a headline prominent enough that she couldn’t have missed it.

Still, there might be something of note, so she picked up the paper again, and had just found an article to read when she heard a knock on the door.

It was Huntley, carrying a small piece of paper. When he approached, she realized it was actually a card, folded in thirds and sealed at the center with dark blue wax. She murmured her thanks, examining the seal while the butler left the room. It was quite simple: just a V, in a rather elegant script, starting with a swirl and then finishing with a flourish.

She slid her finger underneath and loosened the wax, carefully unfolding the card.

Come to your window.

That was all. Just one sentence. She smiled, looking down at the words for a few seconds more before sliding herself to the edge of her bed. She hopped down, her feet lightly hitting the floor, but she paused for a few seconds before crossing the room. She needed to wait. She wanted to stand here and savor this moment because…

Because he had made it. Harry had created the moment. And she loved him.

Come to your window.

She found herself grinning, almost giggling. She didn’t ordinarily like being ordered about, but in this case it was delightful.

She walked to the window and pulled her curtains open. She could see him through the glass, standing in his own window, waiting for her.

She pushed her window open.

“Good morning,” Harry said. He looked very solemn. Or rather, his mouth looked solemn. His eyes looked like they were up to something.

She felt her own eyes begin to twinkle. Wasn’t that odd? That she could feel it. “Good morning,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I think I needed time to rest.”

He nodded. “One needs time after a shock.”

“You are speaking from experience?” she asked. But she needn’t have done so; from his expression she knew that he was.

“When I was in the army.”

It was funny. Their conversation was simple, but it wasn’t flat. They weren’t awkward; they were merely warming up.

And Olivia was already feeling the first tingles of anticipation.

“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 chuckled. “It’s a change from the War Office documents, I must say.”

“Do you know, I think I would like those better.” Dull, dry facts were much more to her taste.

“You likely would,” he agreed. “But then again, you’re an odd sort of female.”

“Charming as always with the compliments, Sir Harry.”

“As I am a scholar of words, that is only to be expected.”

She realized she was grinning. She was hanging half out of her window, grinning. And she was quite happy to be there.

“Prince Alexei pays quite handsomely,” Harry added. “He feels that Miss Butterworth will be a huge success in Russia.”

“He and Vladimir certainly enjoyed it.”

Harry nodded. “It means I may retire from the War Office.”

“Is that what you wished to do?” Olivia asked. She’d only just found out about his work; she’d not got a sense as to whether he enjoyed it.

“Yes,” he replied. “I don’t think I realized just how much until these last few weeks. I’m tired of all the secrets. I enjoy translation, but if I can keep to gothic novels-”

“Lurid gothic novels,” Olivia corrected.

“Indeed,” Harry agreed. “I-oh, excuse me, our other guest has arrived.”

“Our other-” She glanced this way and that, blinking with confusion. “Someone else is here?”

“Lord Rudland,” Harry said, nodding deferentially at the window below and to the left of Olivia’s.

“Father?” Olivia looked down, startled. And perhaps a bit mortified as well.

“Olivia?” Her father poked the upper half of his body out the window, twisting awkwardly to see her. “What are you doing?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she admitted, the sheepishness of her tone taking an edge off her impertinence.

“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 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.