“Did not Napoleon say that he was surprised when a hussar reached his thirtieth birthday?” the prince murmured. He turned to Olivia and said, “They have a reputation for…how do you say it…” He moved his fingers in a circular motion near his face, as if that would jog his memory. “Recklessness,” he said suddenly. “Yes, that is it.”
“It is a pity,” he continued. “They are thought to be quite brave, but most often”-he made a slitting motion across his throat-“they are cut down.”
He looked up at Harry and Sebastian (but mostly at Harry) and gave them a bland smile. “Did you find that to be true, Sir Harry?” he asked-softly, stingingly.
“No,” Harry replied. Nothing more, just no.
Olivia’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. Nothing Harry could have said-no protest, no sarcastic remark-could have irritated the prince more.
“Do I hear music?” she asked. But no one was paying her any attention.
“How old are you, Sir Harry?” the prince asked.
“How old are you?”
Olivia swallowed nervously. That could not be an appropriate question to ask of a prince. And she knew he had not used an appropriate tone. She tried to exchange a wary glance with Sebastian, but he was watching the other two men.
“You have not answered my question,” Alexei said dangerously, and indeed, beside him his guard made an ominous shift of position.
“I am twenty-eight,” Harry said, and then, with a pause just long enough to indicate that it had been an afterthought, he added, “Your Highness.”
Prince Alexei’s mouth slid into a very small smile. “We have two more years to make good on Napoleon’s prediction, then, do we not?”
“Only if you plan to declare war on England,” Harry said lightly. “Otherwise, I have retired from the cavalry.”
The two men stared each other down for what seemed an eternity, and then, abruptly, Prince Alexei burst out laughing. “You amuse me, Sir Harry,” he said, but the bite in his voice contradicted his words. “We shall spar again, you and I.”
Harry nodded graciously, with all due deference.
The prince placed his hand over Olivia’s, still resting in the crook of his arm. “But it will have to be later,” he said, giving him a victorious smile. “After I have danced with Lady Olivia.”
And then he turned so that their backs were to Harry and Sebastian, and led her away.
Twenty-four hours later, Olivia was exhausted. She hadn’t got home from the Mottram ball until nearly four in the morning, then her mother had refused to allow her to sleep late, instead dragging her to Bond Street for final fittings for her presentation gown for the prince. Then, of course, there were no naps for the weary because she had to go and be presented, which seemed like a bit of nonsense to her, as she’d spent the better part of the prior evening in the prince’s company.
Didn’t one get “presented” to people one didn’t already know?
She and her parents had gone to Prince Alexei’s residence, a set of apartments in the home of the ambassador. It had been terribly grand, terribly formal, and frankly, terribly dull. Her dress, which had required a corset that would have been far more at home in the previous century, was uncomfortable and hot-except for her arms, which were bare and freezing.
Apparently the Russians did not believe in heating their homes.
The entire ordeal lasted three hours, during which her father drank several cups of a clear spirit that had left him extremely sleepy. The prince had offered her a glass as well, but her father, who had already taken his first taste, immediately whisked it from her hands.
Olivia was supposed to go out again that evening-Lady Bridgerton was hosting a small soirée-but she pleaded exhaustion, and much to her surprise, her mother relented. Olivia suspected that she was tired as well. And her father was in no state to go anywhere.
She took supper in her room (after a nap, a bath, and another, shorter, nap), and was planning to read the newspaper in bed, but just as she was reaching for it, she saw Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron lying on her bedside table.
It was so odd, she thought, picking up the slim volume. Why would Sir Harry give her such a book? What did it say about her that he thought she would enjoy such a thing?
She thumbed through it, taking in passages here and there. It seemed a little frivolous. Did this mean he had thought she was frivolous?
She looked over at her window, shielded by her heavy curtains, pulled tight against the night. Did he still think she was frivolous? Now that he actually knew her?
She turned back to the book in her hands. Would he choose it as a gift for her now? A lurid, gothic novel, that was what he’d called it.
Was that what he thought of her?
She snapped the book shut, then positioned it on her lap, spine down. “One, two, three,” she proclaimed, swiftly pulling her hands away to let Miss Butterworth fall open to whichever page she liked.
It plopped to one side.
“Stupid book,” she muttered, trying it all over again. Because really, she did not possess enough interest to choose a page herself.
It fell over again, to the same side.
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Even more ridiculous: she climbed out of bed, sat herself on the floor, and prepared to repeat the experiment for a third time, because surely it would work if the book was on a properly flat surface.
“One, two, thr-” She snapped her hands back into place; the bloody thing was falling over to the side again.
Now she really felt like a fool. Which was impressive, considering the degree of idiocy required to actually remove herself from bed in the first place. But she was not going to let the bloody little book win, so for her fourth attempt, she let the pages fan open just a bit before she let go. A little encouragement, that’s what it needed.