Olivia's head turned, dark eyes falling upon the scoundrel. It seemed to take a few moments for the socialite to process his presence through a stare clouded with drink. Her brow furled slightly at him, but the tears didn't stop. Nor did she make an attempt to wipe them away from her face. The way they flowed down her cheeks was almost unnatural, considering the woman didn't make a single sound. She was a master at the art of crying; after all, she had plenty of practice. 

She was also a prime target. Olivia bled wealth. It showed in the fine cloth of her bodice to the panels of her skirts. Even the petticoat underneath was too much--it was silk. She wore an engagement band on her finger, a lovely rock set inside it, and her brown curls were drawn back with a leather thong.

"I'm fine," she answered, her voice hardly above a whisper. Eyelashes fluttered as she blinked a few tears away and tried quietly to rein them in. The truth was, she didn't like that her vision focused enough that she saw him clearly. She wanted to pretend Anthony was her beloved, come back from the sea. After all, he must have left Whitby, right?

"I'm sorry for my rudeness," the girl--for she was only twenty-one--offered after a moment. "Where are my manors, good sir? Have a seat." She lifted a gloved hand upward, gesturing at the stool beside her.