“Aren’t you going to tell me it won’t be so terrible?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. It will be terrible.”
She slumped. Her mother would have a fit of the vapors if she saw her like this, all slouchy in the presence of a gentleman. But really, couldn’t he have lied and said she was going to have a marvelous time? If he’d lied, she would still be sitting straight.
And if it made her feel better to affix blame upon someone else, so be it.
“At least you have a few days until you have to present yourself,” he offered.
“Only two,” she said gloomily. “And I’ll probably see him tonight, as well.”
“Tonight?”
“The Mottram ball. Are you going?” She flapped her hand in front of her face. “No, of course you’re not.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She felt herself blush. That had been terribly thoughtless of her. “I simply meant that you don’t go out. Not that you couldn’t. You just do not choose to. Or at least I assume that’s the reason.”
He stared at her, so long and so level, that she was compelled to continue. “I watched you for five days, remember.”
“It is something I’m unlikely to forget.” He must have taken pity on her, because he did not pursue the topic further, instead saying, “As it happens I do plan to attend the Mottram ball.”
She smiled, more than a little surprised by the flutters of delight in her midsection. “Then I will see you there.”
“I would not miss it for the world.”
As it happened, Harry hadn’t planned to attend the Mottram ball. He wasn’t even sure if he had received an invitation, but it was easy enough to attach himself to Sebastian, who would certainly be going. This meant he was forced to endure Seb’s interrogation-why did he suddenly wish to go out and who might be responsible for the change of heart? But Harry had plenty of experience dodging Sebastian’s questions, and once they arrived, it was such a crush that he was able to lose his cousin immediately.
Harry remained at the perimeter of the ballroom, casting an appraising eye over the crowd. It was difficult to estimate how many were in attendance. Three hundred? Four? It would be easy to pass along a note without being detected, or to conduct a furtive conversation, all the while appearing as if nothing were amiss.
Harry gave himself a mental shake. He was starting to think like a bloody spy, for God’s sake. Which he did not have to do. His orders had been to keep an eye on Lady Olivia and the prince, together or separately. He wasn’t supposed to attempt to prevent anything or stop anything or really, anything.
Watch and report, that was all.
He didn’t see Olivia or anyone who looked vaguely royal, for that matter, so he got himself a glass of punch and sipped at it for several minutes, entertaining himself by watching Sebastian move about the room, charming everyone in his path.
It was a talent, that. One he most definitely did not possess.
After about thirty minutes of watching and waiting (no reporting to be done, whatsoever), there was a small stir near the east entrance, so Harry began to wend his way over. He got himself as close as he was able, then leaned toward the gentleman next to him and asked, “Do you know what all the fuss is about?”
“Some Russian prince.” The man shrugged, unimpressed. “Been in town for a couple of weeks.”
“Causing quite a stir,” Harry commented.
The man-Harry didn’t know him, but he seemed like the sort who spent his evenings at events such as these-snorted. “The ladies have gone stupid for him.”
Harry returned his attention to the small knot of people near the door. There was the usual movement of bodies, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of the man at the center of it all, but not for long enough to get a good look at him.
The prince was quite blond, that much he’d been able to see, and taller than average, although probably not, Harry noted with some satisfaction, as tall as he was.
There was no reason Harry should be introduced to the prince, and no one who would think to do so, so he hung back, trying to take measure of the man as he moved through the crowd.
He was arrogant, that was for certain. At least ten young ladies were presented to him, and each time, he did not even so much as nod. His chin remained high, and he acknowledged each of them with nothing more than a sharp, downward glance.
He treated the gentlemen with similar disdain, speaking only to three.
Harry wondered if there was anyone in attendance the prince did not consider beneath his notice.
“You look very serious this evening, Sir Harry.”
He turned and smiled before he could think the better of it. Lady Olivia had somehow sneaked up to his side, heartbreakingly beautiful in midnight-blue velvet.
“Aren’t unmarried ladies supposed to wear pastels?” he asked her.
Her brows rose at his impertinence, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “Yes, but I’m no longer so new. It’s my third year out, you know. Practically on the shelf.”
“Somehow I find it difficult to believe that that is anyone’s fault but your own.”
“Ouch.”
He grinned at her. “And how have you been faring this evening?”
“I have nothing to report. We’ve only just arrived.”
He knew that, of course. But he couldn’t very well let on that he’d been watching for her, so he said, “Your prince is here.”
She looked as if she wanted to groan. “I know.”
He leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “Shall I help you to avoid him?”