She wasn’t so sure it made sense at all.
She looked up. The butler stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a calling card upon it.
“A guest, my lady.”
She glanced up at the clock on the sitting-room mantel. It was a bit early for visitors, and her mother was still out shopping for hats. “Who is it, Huntley?”
“Sir Harry Valentine, my lady. I believe he has let the house to the south.”
Slowly, Olivia set down her pen. Sir Harry? Here?
Why?
“Shall I show him in?”
Olivia didn’t know why he was asking. If Sir Harry was in the front hall, he could practically see Huntley talking to her. There would be no pretending she was unavailable. She nodded, straightened the pages of the letter and tucked them into a drawer, and then stood, feeling as if she needed to be on her feet when he arrived.
Within moments he appeared in the doorway, clad in his customary dark hues. He carried a small package under his arm.
“Sir Harry,” she said lightly, rising to her feet. “What a surprise.”
He nodded his greeting. “I always strive to be a good neighbor.”
She nodded in return, watching warily as he entered the room.
She could not imagine why he might have chosen to call. He had been most unpleasant toward her the day before in the park, and the truth was, she had not behaved any better. She could not remember the last time she had treated anyone so poorly, but in her defense, she was terrified that he would attempt to blackmail her again, this time for something far more dangerous than a dance.
“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said.
“Not at all.” She motioned to the desk. “I was writing a letter to my sister.”
“I did not realize you had one.”
“My sister-in-law,” she amended. “But she is as a sister to me. I have known her all of my life.”
He waited until she took a seat on the sofa, then sat in the Egyptian-style chair directly across from her. He did not appear to be uncomfortable, which Olivia found interesting. She hated sitting in that chair.
“I brought you this,” he said, handing her the parcel.
“Oh. Thank you.” She took it with some awkwardness. She did not want gifts from this man, and she certainly did not trust his motivations for presenting her with one.
“Open it,” he urged.
It was wrapped plainly, and her fingers were shaking-hopefully not so much that he could see. It took her a few tries to undo the knot in the string, but eventually she was able to peel back the paper.
“A book,” she said with a touch of surprise. She’d known that was what it had to be, from the weight and the shape of the package, but still, it was a very odd choice.
“Anyone can bring flowers,” he remarked.
She turned it over-it had been upside down when she’d unwrapped it-and looked at the title. Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. Now she was really surprised. “You brought me a gothic novel?”
“A lurid gothic novel,” he corrected. “It seemed the sort of thing you might enjoy.”
She looked up at him, assessing that comment.
He looked back, as if daring her to question him.
“I don’t really read,” she murmured.
His brows rose.
“I mean I can,” she said quickly, irritation rising within her, as much at herself as at him. “I just don’t much enjoy it.”
His brows remained up.
“Am I not supposed to admit that?” she asked pertly.
He smiled slowly, and an agonizingly long moment passed before he said, “You don’t think before you speak, do you?”
“Not very often,” she admitted.
“Try it,” he said, motioning toward the book. “I thought you might find it more entertaining than the newspaper.”
It was just the sort of thing a man would say. No one ever seemed to understand that she preferred the news of the day to silly figments of someone else’s imagination.
“Have you read it?” she asked, looking down as she opened to a random page.
“Gad, no. But my sister recommended it highly.”
She looked up sharply. “You have a sister?”
“You seem to find that surprising.”
She did. She wasn’t sure why, except that her friends had seen fit to tell her everything about him, and somehow that had been left off.
“She lives in Cornwall,” he said, “surrounded by cliffs, legend, and a gaggle of small children.”
“What a lovely description.” And she meant it, too. “Are you a devoted uncle?”
“No.”
Her surprise must have shown, because he said, “Am I not supposed to admit that?”
She laughed without meaning to. “Touché, Sir Harry.”
“I would like to be a devoted uncle,” he told her, his smile growing warm and true, “but I have not had the opportunity to meet any of them.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “You were on the Continent for so many years.”
His head tilted ever so slightly to the side. She wondered if he always did that when he was curious. “You know quite a bit about me,” he said.
“Everyone knows that much about you.” Really, the man should not be surprised.
“There is not much privacy in London, is there?”
“Almost none at all.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she’d said, what she might have just admitted to. “Would you care for tea?” she asked, deftly changing the topic.
“I would love some, thank you.”
Once she’d rung for Huntley and given him instructions, Sir Harry said, quite conversationally, “When I was in the army, that was what I missed the most.”
“Tea?” That seemed difficult to believe.
He nodded. “I longed for it.”
“It wasn’t provided for you?” For some reason Olivia found this simply unacceptable.
“Sometimes. Other times we had to make do.”
Something about his voice-wistful and young-made her smile. “I do hope ours meets with your approval.”
“I’m not picky.”
“Really? I would think that with such a love for it, you would be a connoisseur.”
“Rather, I went without so many times that I appreciate every drop.”
She laughed. “It was tea you missed, really? Most gentlemen of my acquaintance would say brandy. Or port.”
“Tea,” he said firmly.
“Do you drink coffee?”
He shook his head. “Too bitter.”
“Chocolate?”
“Only with heaps of sugar.”
“You are a very interesting man, Sir Harry.”
“I am certainly aware that you find me interesting.”
Her cheeks burned. And here she was starting to actually like the man. The worst part of it all was, he had a point. She had been spying on him, and it had been rude. But still, he didn’t need to go out of his way to make her uncomfortable.
The tea arrived, giving her respite from meaningful conversation. “Milk?” she asked.
“Please.”
“Sugar?”
“No. Thank you.”
She didn’t bother to look up as she remarked, “Really? No sugar? Even though you sweeten your chocolate?”
“And my coffee, if I’m forced to drink it. Tea is a different beast altogether.”
Olivia handed him his cup and set to work preparing her own. There was a certain comfort to be found in familiar tasks. Her hands knew just what to do, the memories of the motions long since etched into her muscles. The conversation, too, was bolstering. Simple and meaningless, and yet it restored her equilibrium. So much so that as he took his second sip, she was finally able to upset his equilibrium, smiling sweetly as she said:
“They say you killed your fiancée.”
He choked, which gave her great pleasure (his shock, not his choking; she hoped she’d not become that ruthless), but he recovered quickly, and his voice was smooth and even when he responded, “Do they?”