“That presupposes that I want him in my sight for the rest of the day,” Olivia said tartly.

“Then you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

She opened her mouth to speak.

He smiled.

She started wondering why she was fighting so hard.

“Very well,” she said, finally moving out of the doorway and into the room. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” he assured her.

That, she highly doubted.

“It’s only because I have no other plans for the morning,” she informed him.

“I understand.”

She gave him a sharp look. It was disconcerting, not being able to tell if he was being sarcastic.

“It’s highly irregular,” she murmured, but true to his word, he was already back at the desk, carefully reading the papers he’d brought with him. Were those the same documents he had worked on so diligently when she’d been spying on him?

She edged a little closer, grabbing a book off a table. She needed an object in her hands, something to use as a prop if he noticed how closely she was watching him.

“You’ve decided to read Miss Butterworth, then?” he asked, not looking up at her.

Her lips parted. How had he known she’d picked up a book? How had he even known she was watching him? His eyes hadn’t left the papers on the desk.

And Miss Butterworth? Really? She looked down at the book in her hands in disgust. If she was going to pick up a random object, surely she could have done better than that.

“I’m trying to be more open-minded,” she said, settling into the first chair she came across.

“A noble pursuit,” he said, not looking up.

She opened the book and looked down, loudly flipping the pages until she found where they’d left off two days earlier. “Pigeons…pigeons…” she murmured.

“What?”

“Just looking for the pigeons,” she said sweetly.

He shook his head, and she thought she saw him smile, but he still didn’t look up.

She sighed loudly, then peeked over.

No reaction.

She then reassured herself that the sigh had not been initiated with the intention of trying to attract his attention. She had sighed because she’d needed to exhale, and if it had been loud, well, that was her habit. And since it had been loud, it had made sense to peek over…

She sighed again. Absolutely not on purpose.

He kept working.

Possible Contents of Sir Harry’s Papers

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Sequel to Miss Butterworth (wouldn’t it be delicious if he turned out to be the author?)

Unauthorized sequel to Miss Butterworth, because it is highly unlikely that he penned the original, splendid as that would be A Secret Diary-with all of his secrets (!!!!!) Something else entirely Order for a new hat

She giggled.

“What is so funny?” he asked, finally looking up.

“I couldn’t possibly explain,” she said, trying not to grin.

“Is the joke at my expense?”

“Only a little.”

He quirked a brow.

“Oh very well, it’s entirely at your expense, but it’s no less than you deserve.” She smiled at him, waiting for him to comment, but he did not.

Which was disappointing.

She turned back to Miss Butterworth, but even though the poor girl had just broken both legs in a hideous carriage wreck, the novel was less than gripping.

She started drumming her fingers on one of the open pages. The noise grew louder…and louder…until it seemed to echo through the room.

To her ears, at least. Harry didn’t notice.

She let out a loud exhale and went back to Miss Butterworth and her broken legs.

She turned a page.

And read. And turned another. And read. And turned another. And-

“You’re on Chapter Four already.”

She jumped in her seat, startled by the sound of Harry’s voice so close to her ear. How was it possible that he’d got up without her noticing?

“Must be a good book,” he said.

She gave a shrug. “It’s passable.”

“Is Miss Butterworth recovered from the plague?”

“Oh, that was ages ago. She’s more recently broken both of her legs, been stung by a bee, and nearly sold into slavery.”

“All in four chapters?”

“Closer to three,” she told him, motioning to the chapter head visible on her open page. “I’ve only just started the fourth.”

“I finished my work,” he said, coming around to the front of the sofa.

Ah. Now, finally, she could ask, “What were you doing?”

“Nothing very interesting. Grain reports from my property in Hampshire.”

Compared to her imaginings, this was somewhat disappointing.

He sat down on the other end of the sofa, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. It was a very informal position; it spoke of comfort, and familiarity, and something else-something that made her giddy and warm. She tried to think of another man who would sit near her in so relaxed a pose. There was no one. Just her brothers.

And Sir Harry Valentine was definitely not her brother.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice sly.

She must have looked startled, because he added, “You were blushing.”

Her shoulders drew back. “I’m not blushing.”

“Of course not,” he said without hesitation. “It’s very warm in here.”

Which it wasn’t. “I was thinking about my brothers,” she said. It was a little bit true, and it ought to put a halt to his imaginings about her alleged blush.