Now this was interesting. He moved closer to the window, then—
There was a knock on his door.
“Don’t move,” he ordered, pointing up at her. He shut his window, then strode to the door and opened it.
“Your bath is ready, sir,” his butler announced.
“Thank you. Could you, ah, have them keep it steaming for me? I’ll be a few more minutes.”
“I shall instruct the footmen to keep water on the stove. Will you be requiring a blanket, sir?”
Harry looked down at his hands. Funny, he couldn’t quite feel them properly. “Er, yes. That would be marvelous. Thank you.”
“I will get it at once.”
While the butler went off in search of a blanket, Harry hurried back over to the window and wrenched it open. Olivia now had her back to him. She was sitting on the edge of her windowsill, leaning slightly against the side of the aperture. She had also sought a blanket, he noticed, something soft and powdery blue and—
He shook his head. What did her blanket matter? “One more minute,” he called up. “Don’t go.”
Olivia glanced down at the sound of his voice, just in time to see his window close again. She waited another half minute or so, and then he was back, the wood of the window scraping as he pushed it back up.
“Oh, you got a blanket, too,” she said, as if that were something significant.
“Well, I was cold,” he said, also as if that were important.
They were quiet for a long moment, and then he asked, “Why didn’t you want to see the prince?”
Olivia just shook her head. Not because it wasn’t true, but because she didn’t really think she could talk to him about it. Which was strange, because that afternoon, the first thing she’d thought was that she had to tell him about Prince Alexei’s strange behavior. But now, window to window, with him looking up at her with dark, unfathomable eyes, she didn’t know what to say.
Or how to say it.
“It’s not important,” she finally decided.
He did not speak immediately. When he did, his voice was low, with an edge to it that took her breath away. “If he made you uncomfortable, it is very important to me.”
“He…he…” She kept shaking her head as she spoke, until finally she managed to hold herself still and say, “He just said something about kissing me. It’s nothing really.”
She’d been avoiding looking at Harry, but now she did. He wasn’t moving.
“It’s not the first time a gentleman has done so,” she added. She decided not to mention the part about Vladimir. Frankly, it made her squeamish just to think about it.
“Harry?” she called down.
“I don’t want you seeing him again,” he said in a low voice.
Her first thought was to tell him that he had no authority over her. And indeed, her mouth opened, the words right there on her lips. But then she remembered something he’d said to her. He’d been teasing, or maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe she’d only thought he was teasing when he’d said that she didn’t always think before she spoke.
This time she was going to think.
She didn’t want to see the prince again, either. What was the point in protesting his statement when they both wanted the same thing?
“I don’t know that I will have any choice,” she said. It was true. Short of barricading herself in her room, she had no way of avoiding him.
He looked up, his eyes deadly serious. “Olivia, he is not a nice man.”
“How do you know?”
“I just—” He raked his hand through his hair, letting out what sounded like a frustrated exhale. “I can’t tell you how I know. I mean, I don’t know how I know. It’s a male sort of thing. I can just tell.”
She looked down at him, trying to decipher his words.
He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing both his hands along his forehead. Finally, he looked up and said, “Don’t you know things about other women that men are too dunce-headed to figure out?”
She nodded. He had a point. Quite a good one, actually.
“Just stay away from him. Promise me.”
“I can’t promise that,” she said, although she wished she could.
“Olivia…”
“I can promise I will try. You know that’s the best I can do.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
There was a hesitant, nervous silence, and then she said, “You should go have that bath. You’re shivering.”
“So are you,” he said softly.
She was. She hadn’t realized it, hadn’t noticed that she was shaking, but now…now that she knew…it seemed to grow worse. And then…even worse…and she thought she might cry, but she had no idea why. It was just there, inside of her. Too much feeling. Too much…
Just too much. It was just too much.
She nodded jerkily. “Good night,” she said, rushing out the word. The tears were there, too close, and she didn’t want him to see them.
“Good night,” he said, but she’d managed to pull down her window before he finished. And then she ran to the bed, and buried her face in her pillow.
But she didn’t cry. Even though now she wanted to.
And she still didn’t know why.
Harry held the blanket close as he trudged back out of his office. He was no longer quite so cold, but he felt awful. His chest had an unsettling, hollow feeling to it, and it seemed to intensify with each breath, sliding up his throat, drawing his shoulders up into a tense, unyielding shrug.
It wasn’t cold, he realized. It was fear.
Prince Alexei had frightened Olivia today. Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he’d done or said, and he knew that she would minimize her feelings if he pressed further about them, but something untoward had occurred. And it would happen again, if the prince was allowed free rein.
Harry moved through the front hall, holding the blanket with his left hand while he used his right to rub the back of his neck. He needed to calm down. He needed to catch his breath and think straight. It would be up to the bath, and then into bed, where he could calmly assess the problem and—
His front door began to rattle.
His heart slammed in his chest, and his muscles leaped to readiness, every nerve suddenly poised for a fight. It was late. And he’d been out following mysterious Russians. And…
And he was an idiot. If someone was going to break into his house, he’d not use the bloody front door. Harry stalked over, turned the lock, and pulled it open.
Edward fell in.
Harry stared down at his younger brother with disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Harry?” Edward looked up and squinted, and Harry wanted to know who the hell else he was expecting.
“How much have you had to drink?” Harry demanded.
Edward tried to pull himself to his feet, but after a moment gave up and sat right in the center of the hall, blinking as if he weren’t quite sure how he’d got into the position. “What?”
If anything, Harry’s voice grew quieter. And more deadly. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Uhhhh…well…” Edward’s mouth moved, almost as if he were chewing his cud. He probably was, Harry thought with disgust.
“Don’t bother,” Harry said curtly. What did it matter how many drinks Edward had tossed back? It had been enough to render him senseless. The Lord only knew how he’d got himself home. He was no better than their father. The only difference was that Sir Lionel had confined most of his drunkenness to the home. Edward was making an ass of himself all over London.
“Get up,” Harry ordered.
Edward stared up at him, his face blank.
“Get. Up.”
“Why’re you so angry?” Edward muttered, reaching out for a hand. But Harry didn’t offer one, and so he struggled to his feet of his own accord, grabbing hold of a nearby table for balance.
Harry fought to keep hold of his temper. He wanted to grab Edward and shake and shake and bloody well
scream that he was killing himself, that any day now he’d die the way Sir Lionel had, stupidly and alone.
His father had fallen out a window. He’d leaned too far out and broken his neck. On the table nearby, there had been a glass of wine and an empty bottle.
Or so he’d been told. Harry had been in Belgium. A letter had arrived from his father’s solicitor with the details.
From his mother he had heard nothing.
“Go to bed,” Harry said in a low voice.
Edward wobbled and smirked. “I don’t have to do what you say.”
“Fine then,” Harry spat. He’d had enough of this. It was like his father all over again, except now he could do something. He could say something. He didn’t have to stand there, helpless, and clean up someone else’s mess.
“Do what you want,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “Just don’t puke in my house.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Edward cried out, lurching forward and then grabbing the wall when he stumbled. “You’d like it if I left, so everything could be neat and tidy. You never wanted me.”
“What the hell are you talking about? You’re my brother.”
“You left. You left!” Edward nearly screamed.
Harry stared at him.
“You left me alone. With him. And her. And no one else. You knew Anne was leaving to get married. You knew I’d have no one.”
Harry shook his head. “You were leaving for school. You only had a few months before you would be gone. I made sure of it.”
“Oh, that was just—” Edward’s face contorted and his head moved about unsteadily, and for a moment Harry was sure he was going to vomit. But no, he was just trying to find the right word, the furious, sarcastic word.
And drunk as he was, he couldn’t do so.
“You didn’t…you didn’t even think.” Edward shook a finger at him, then shook it again. “What did you think would happen when he dropped me off?”
“You weren’t supposed to let him drop you off!”
“How was I supposed to know! I was twelve. Twelve!” Edward shouted.
Harry raced through his memory, trying to recall his good-byes. But he could remember almost nothing. He’d been so eager to get out, to leave it all behind. But he’d given advice to Edward, hadn’t he? He’d told him it would all be all right, that he would go to Hesslewhite, and not have to deal with their parents. And he’d told him not to let their father near the school, hadn’t he?
“He pissed in his pants,” Edward said. “On the first day. He fell asleep on my bed and pissed in his pants. I got him up and changed his clothes. But I didn’t have spare bedsheets. And everyone—” His voice choked, and Harry could see the terrified boy in his face, confused and alone.
“Everyone thought it was me,” Edward said. “Splendid way to start off, don’t you think?” He weaved a bit then, buoyed by bravado. “I was the most popular boy after that. Everyone wanted to be friends with me.”
“I’m sorry,” Harry said.
Edward shrugged, then he stumbled. Harry reached out and caught him this time. And then—he wasn’t sure how it happened, or why he did it—he pulled his brother close. Gave him a hug. Just a bit of one. Just for long enough to blink back the tears in his eyes.
“You need to get to bed,” Harry said, his voice hoarse.
Edward nodded, and he leaned on Harry as he helped him to the stairs. He did all right with the first two, but on the third he tripped.
“Thorry,” Edward mumbled, struggling to right himself.
He dropped his s’s. Just like their father.
Harry thought he might be sick.
It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t pretty, but eventually Harry managed to topple Edward into his bed, boots and all. He laid him carefully on his side with his mouth near the edge of the mattress, in case he threw up. And then he did something he’d never done, in all the years he’d maneuvered his father into a similar position.
He waited.
He stood by the door until Edward’s breathing was quiet and even, and then he stayed there for several minutes more.
Because people weren’t meant to be alone. And they weren’t meant to be scared. Or feel small. And they shouldn’t have to count how many times something bad happened, and they shouldn’t worry that it might happen again.
And as he stood there in the darkness, he realized what he had to do. Not just for Edward, but for Olivia. And maybe for himself, too.
Chapter Fifteen
By the following morning Olivia was feeling not quite so out of sorts. The light of day and a good night’s rest, it seemed, could do a great deal to restore the spirits, even if she hadn’t come to any grand conclusions.
Why I Was Crying Last Night
By Olivia Bevelstoke
Actually, I wasn’t crying.
But it seemed like it.
She decided to try it from a different angle.
Why I Wasn’t Crying Last Night
By Olivia Bevelstoke
She sighed. She had no idea.
But there was always denial. And so she resolved not to think about it, at least until she’d managed to get some breakfast. She was always more levelheaded on a full stomach.
She was halfway through her morning routine, trying to sit still while her maid pinned her hair, when a knock sounded at the door.
“Enter!” she called out, then murmured to Sally, “Did you order chocolate?”
Sally shook her head, and they both looked up as a maid entered, announcing that Sir Harry was waiting for her in the drawing room.
“At this time of the morning?” It was nearly ten, so hardly the crack of dawn, but still, unconscionably early for a gentleman to call.
“Shall I have Huntley tell him that you are unavailable?”
“No,” Olivia replied. Harry wouldn’t call so early without a good reason. “Please inform him that I shall be down straightaway.”
“But you haven’t had breakfast, my lady,” Sally said.
“I’m sure I won’t waste away for want of one breakfast.” Olivia lifted her chin, regarding her reflection in the mirror. Sally was working on something rather elaborate, involving braids, clips, and at least a dozen pins. “Perhaps something simpler this morning?”
Sally’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “We’re more than halfway done, I promise.”
But Olivia was already pulling out pins. “Just a little bun, I think. Nothing fancy.”
Sally sighed and started to adjust the coiffure. In about ten minutes Olivia was done and heading downstairs, trying to ignore the fact that the rush had meant that a lock of her hair had already fallen free and had to be tucked behind her ear. When she arrived at the drawing room, Sir Harry was seated all the way on the far side, at the small writing table by the window.
He appeared to be…working?
“Sir Harry,” she said, looking at him with some confusion. “It’s so early.”
“I have come to a conclusion,” he told her, rising to his feet.
She looked at him expectantly. He sounded so…definitive.
He clasped his hands in front of him, his stance wide. “I cannot allow you to be alone with the prince.”
He had said as much the night before, but really, what could he do?
“There is only one solution,” he continued. “I shall be your bodyguard.”
She stared at him, stunned.
“He has Vladimir. You have me.”
She continued to stare at him, still stunned.
“I will stay here with you today,” he explained.
She blinked several times, finally finding her voice. “In my drawing room?”
“You should not feel that you have to entertain me,” he said, motioning to some papers he had set down on the small writing desk. “I brought work with me.”
Good heavens, did he intend to move in? “You brought work?”
“I’m sorry, but I really can’t lose an entire day.”
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Her mouth opened, but it was a few seconds before she said, “Oh.”
Because really, what else could there possibly be to say to that?
He gave her what she suspected he thought was an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you get yourself a book and join me?” he asked, motioning to the seating area in the center of the room. “Oh right, you don’t like books. Well, the newspaper will do just as well. Sit down.”
Again it took her several moments before she managed to speak. “You’re inviting me to join you in my drawing room?”
He gave her a steady look, then said, “I’d rather be in my own drawing room, but I hardly think that would be acceptable.”
She nodded slowly, not because she was agreeing with him, although she supposed she was, on the last statement at least.
“We are in accord, then,” he stated.
“What?”
“You’re nodding.”
She stopped nodding.
“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.
“Sit?”
“I really must get back to work,” he explained.
“To work,” she echoed, because she was clearly at her conversational best this morning.
He looked at her, his brows arching, and it was only then that she realized that what he meant was that he could not sit until she did. She started to say, “Please,” as in, Please, do make yourself at home, because she had had over twenty years of courtesy drummed into her. But good sense (and perhaps a fair bit of self-preservation) took hold, and she switched to, “You really shouldn’t feel you need to stay here all day.”
His lips pressed together, and tiny lines fanned out from the corners. There was something resolute in his dark eyes, something steely and immovable.
He wasn’t asking her permission, she realized. He was telling her what to do.
It should have raised her hackles. It was everything she detested in a man. But all she could do was stand there, feeling…fluttery. Her feet were squirming in her slippers, she realized, getting ready to rise to her tiptoes, her body suddenly too light to remain fixed to the ground.