by Tarah Scott
After all, what could he do? Disown her? Suppressing a snort, she looked him straight in the eye. The duke’s eyes narrowed perceptibly, taking in her simple gown and work-roughened, ink-smudged hands. She arched a brow. She had nothing to hide nor was she ashamed.
“Sit.” He nodded his chin at the leather chair before his desk.
She took the seat and waited. A gleam entered his eye, but since she didn’t know the man, she had no idea what that gleam might mean.
“Lady Blair has informed me of this concert nonsense,” he said.
Ah, he was angry.
“An Enchanted Summer Evening is hardly nonsense,” she disagreed with a shrug.
“A proper lady does not sponsor questionable events.” The craggy lines of his face deepened into a frown. “Nor does a lady keep close company with opera singers,” he spat the words in distaste.
After that glimpse into Louisa’s drawing room, Olivia could well see his point, but at the moment, she’d rather die than agree. “Then, it is fortunate I am not a proper lady,” she said with a toss of her head.
“You are my granddaughter,” he grated.
“Am I?” She didn’t attempt to hold back the snort this time. “How strange. We only just met. Is there proof?”
“You have an insolent mouth on you,” he snapped.
“Because I dare speak the truth?” she challenged with a frosty smile. “Frankly, you have no power over me.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
They locked gazes.
Finally, he sat back in his chair and dropped a hand on each leather-studded arm with a distinct slap. “Give up this foolish venture, and I will bestow upon you a suitable dowry.”
So, he thought to buy her. “You fear for your reputation that much, then?”
“Do not let your pride stand in the way of a good match, girl.”
Girl. To him, she was just a ‘girl,’ but someone who could harm his reputation, damage his ego with gossip. What a fool. She held the power in their relationship—not him. She stood. “I do not need your help.”
The duke stared at her, astonished. “You would refuse a dowry? The chance to find a decent husband?”
A husband would make her dealings with the bank easier—if she were to find one malleable enough, one who would aid her dreams and not destroy them. She’d thought Timothy to be such a one, but apparently, he’d lacked a spine, altogether. Now, she knew in her heart, she’d be better off dealing with the bank alone. She didn’t need to complicate her life with a husband.
“Aye,” she said with a small laugh at her newfound understanding. “I will do much better on my own.”
The duke’s nostrils flared. “You are as headstrong and hot-tempered as your mother.”
Olivia raised her chin. “Why, thank you. That’s the first compliment you have bestowed upon me.”
He rose, tall and stern. He placed his palms flat on the desk and leaned forward, looking very much like a bird of prey. “Do not be a fool,” he hissed. “Your mother lost everything because of pride. Did she not tell you of the Blue Slipper?”
The sapphire encrusted symbol of inheritance, her mother’s by birth. With the Blue Slipper in her mother’s hands, she would have been named the Duchess of Lennox.
With a proud toss of her head, Olivia hissed in return, “My mother had no need for such empty, useless trinkets.”
“You would call the Duchy of Lennox a trinket?” His lip curled in disdain.
“Absolutely. What is all the wealth in the world without love?” Olivia’s lip curled to match. Leaning over the desk herself, she thrust her ink-stained hand beneath his nose. “I do not need your help. Look at my fingers. They are my prize. I know well how to take care of myself.”
He stared at her, his face an unreadable mask. No doubt, fury beyond measure boiled in him. She shrugged. She didn’t care. He and his titles meant nothing to her.
“I bid you good day.” She left him, huffing and puffing, and sailed out the door.
No wonder Deborah was distraught.
Their grandfather was an obstinate, judgmental prig.
* * *
The day was a warm and pleasant one. Not a cloud marred the sky as Olivia crossed the road and took the tree-lined paths of Glasgow Green. Lost in thought, she scarcely heard the birds chirping from the treetops as she walked alongside the River Clyde.
Deborah must have heard of Lord Blair’s reputation. Why hadn’t she exercised caution in his company? Surely, the man could not be that intriguing—not with a reputation of that caliber to precede him.
Truly, she knew only one way to help her cousin.
She would take up the matter directly with Lord Nicholas Blair herself.
Chapter Five
Blackmailed
Nicholas balanced his chair on its two back legs in the dimly lit card room. He scarcely noticed the cards in his hand. He had women on his mind. Two, to be exact—opposites in the extreme.
Foremost was the chit, Olivia. Deborah’s cousin. The harridan who had authored the letter that had dragged him from his friend’s house party in Culzean Castle, and back down to Glasgow. What had she called him? Ah, yes, a spineless coward and a scoundrel absconding responsibility for the pursuit of pleasure, a man thinking more with his base parts than with his brain.
He winced. The words hit closer to home than he cared to admit—especially since he couldn’t stop thinking of the redhead he’d kissed in his mother’s garden. Since he’d left Wedderburn Manor, he’d wanted no one else. Now there was a tempting vixen, a bonny, unforgettable lass, one entirely different from Deborah’s shrew of a cousin.
“Abandon?” Lord Fredrick’s voice boomed through his thoughts. “Play?”
Nicholas glanced up.
Lord Fredrick sat across the table puffing his cheroot in long, vigorous pulls. The thin wisps of smoke spiraled over his head in mesmerizing circles, calling Nicholas back to his thoughts like a siren. By George, he’d never touched Deborah in his life. He hadn’t even seen the lass in two years—maybe longer. Even then, she’d never caught his eye. He didn’t care for the timid types. He liked his women capricious, strong-willed, surprising. Nae, Deborah was too timorous to dream up this mad scheme. This was clearly the work of her cousin—no doubt, she wanted to extort him.
“Which is it, lad? Abandon or play?” Lord Fredrick’s voice held a hint of dry amusement.
Nicholas flipped his cards with his thumb, slammed his chair down, then dropped his hand on the table with a grunt. A chuckle circled the table.
“You’ve lost again, Blair.”
“You’re off your game. Oh, that I have lived to see the day.”
Nicholas exhaled through his nose. Devil take it, had he really lost again? That made every game of Three-Card Loo that night. He stood and cocked a brow at the mahogany paneling closing around him. He felt trapped. Surprisingly, not by the chit who had authored the scathing letter, but by the sheer monotony of the endless parties, the card games, and even the vapid women with whom he kept company.
A bagpipe blared an Irish reel on the other side of the tavern’s backroom door. A wave of laughter followed, along with the thump of dancing feet. Simple pleasures. A song. A dance. A woman, hearth, and home. Children.
Damnation. What was he thinking? For the first time, he noticed the men around the table, watching him in overt amusement.
“You have a woman on your mind now, haven’t you?” Lord Fredrick chuckled and took another puff on his cheroot.
Nicholas shrugged. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
A footman handed him his hat and coat at the door. Then, he left the card room, pushed through the throng of dancers and out into the crisp, night air.
“A ride, my lord?” a man called from a parked coach. “Two shillings to Parsonage Square.”
Nicholas shook his head and turned down the darkened street. He was a block away from his residence of choice whenever he stayed in Glasgow: Madame Prescott�
��s House of Pleasure. Almost two weeks had come and gone since he’d last enjoyed Demelza’s company.
The maid saw him coming and opened the door.
“You have returned, my lord.” Demelza flew to him from the stairs.
She ran her hands over his shoulders, just as he liked, yet strangely, even more than the last time, he felt no response. Perhaps he was just tired.
“A game of cards?” she asked. “Wine? Whisky?”
Nicholas yawned. “Bed.”
Her trademark sultry smile played over her lips.
He followed her up the stairs, dimly aware of her sashaying hips preceding him. She teased him, of course, but he had other concerns. He planned to visit Olivia first thing in the morning. After all, he could scarcely show up at the duke’s residence to inquire about the matter of Deborah’s pregnancy. Real or not, it wouldn’t matter. The duke, her grandfather, would behead him first and ask questions later.
Afterwards, he’d pay a visit to his mother. Doubtless, she’d know the identity of the mysterious beauty he’d kissed in the garden. The corner of his lip lifted in a smile as he felt himself harden. The thought of her, even nearly two weeks later, sent a shiver of arousal through him. Clearly, he was smitten. They reached the room.
“My lord,” Demelza turned and reached for his trousers.
He inhaled and yawned, then brushed her probing hands away with an irritated sweep of his hand, stalked to the bed and fell across the counterpane, face down.
“My lord?” Demelza queried.
The mattress dipped as she joined him. She pulled at his shoulders until he rolled onto his back. She’d let her gown fall to her waist, but the sight of her naked breasts did little to excite him. Her lips puckered in a pout, as she ran her hands over his chest.
“What’s this?” She withdrew Olivia’s letter from his inner waistcoat pocket.
He grunted. “A lie.”
“A lie?” She arched a finely plucked brow.
Unbidden, she opened the parchment and read aloud.
Honorable Sir,
It is my duty to inform you of a matter you must immediately set to rights. My cousin, Deborah Hay, has informed me of a delicate matter that you must address with the utmost urgency, and in order to assure there are no misunderstandings, I must come, at once and with unnatural candor, to the point.
Deborah is expecting your child. You must discharge your duty and…
“Argh,” Nicholas growled, and swatted the letter from her hand.
“Is it true?” Demelza ran her fingers over his body.
“Nae,” he grunted. “Not a word of it.”
“Oh?” Demelza tilted her head to the side. “You have been so distracted of late. Quite unlike yourself.”
So, she’d noticed. He shrugged and yawned again. “I am tired.”
“Men do not come here to sleep, my lord.” She slid her fingers into his trousers.
He lay still, again experiencing a decided lack of interest to the painted woman’s attempts to arouse him. Clearly, his body had decided to mutiny at the prospect of Demelza’s charms for even a night. He’d obviously outgrown his fascination with her.
In the morning, he’d have to find a hotel. Perhaps, they would finished building that new one by the river…his horse would appreciate the stables there, far more than the brothel’s cramped accommodations. No doubt, they would employ better stable hands, as well. He’d ridden his finest red roan from Culzean Castle. Such a horse needed daily exercise, a proper stretching of the legs.
Dimly, he noted that Demelza had increased her vigor, trying her best to spark his interest. He yawned, yet again. He could always return to the King’s Arms, a quaint establishment that housed the Hunter’s Club, his favorite card room in Glasgow—not that he’d been particularly interested in cards, of late, either.
He winced at Demelza’s ministrations. By George, she would bloody soon rub him raw if he didn’t put them both out their misery. Closing his eyes, he summoned again the image of the mysterious, auburn-haired lass. His cock lifted at once.
Demelza moaned in relief. Caught in his fantasy, he thrust his cock gently between her lips until he’d hardened enough. Without bothering to undress further, he took her quickly, his mind still on quite another shapely form. To his surprise, he spilled his seed in less than a dozen strokes. As usual, Demelza faked her pleasure, one perfectly timed to coincide with his. Only gold or silver baubles or a five-pound note could elicit a true response.
He rose. She slithered over the counterpane and grasped his manhood, then sucked the tip as he withdrew a fifty-pound note from his inner waistcoat pocket. A gleam of true pleasure lit her eyes as he pulled himself free.
“My lord.” She grabbed the note as if he might change his mind.
He tucked his manhood away and buttoned his trousers. Then, he picked up the letter from the floor.
“You are not staying?” Demelza asked.
“Nae.” He strode to the door.
“You’re not coming back.” It was a statement, not a question.
He dropped his hand on the knob.
“I will miss you, my lord.”
She wouldn’t miss him. She’d miss his money. He didn’t mind, of course. It was their agreed upon arrangement and she’d relieved him well enough, for a time. Now, he wanted something much more. He wanted the hunt, the challenge of coaxing a lass into his bed—a lass who might stay there for a lifetime…and not just any lass. He knew the one he wanted.
First, he needed to set Deborah’s scheming cousin to rights.
Chapter Six
A Friendship Lost
Louisa sang like an angel, but Olivia couldn’t enjoy a single note. Her thoughts whirled in endless circles as she sat in the very last row of the Theater Royale’s mezzanine. The print shop roof had sprung another leak during the night. That made four now. She grimaced. She’d have to climb up and mend the roof tiles herself. She couldn’t afford a roofer.
On the stage, Louisa belted her aria. The stage lights caught on the glass beads sewn onto her dress, making her glisten like a star. Olivia glanced around at the enraptured audience and permitted herself a small smile. They were so entranced, they would insist on at least two encores—both of which Olivia had contracted Louisa to sing, The Soldier’s Adieu and Fly Swiftly, Ye Moments. The songs were new, popular, and as yet, she was the only music publishing house to carry them. They would sell well.
Finally, Louisa shrilled the last note and the large, red velvet curtain dropped, signaling the start of intermission.
Olivia rose from her seat and descended the marble stairs leading into the opera house lobby. Halfway down, she paused with her hand on the brass railing and surveyed the small groups of elegantly clad women and men as they chatted under the pendant chandelier. So many potential customers. With a bright smile, she joined them and wound her way through the crowd.
She’d just dropped what must have been her fiftieth hint that Mackenzie Publishing House kept a wide variety of sheet music for the musically inclined when she heard her name.
“Olivia! Olivia, child.”
Olivia turned to see Lady Blair standing under a large, gilt framed mirror and waving her fan. Dressed in a dark burgundy satin gown with a matching turban and a strand of pearls clasped about her neck, she exuded an unmatchable air of grace and elegance.
Olivia smiled and hurried to her side, but she’d only closed the distance halfway when she suddenly remembered her letter. Heavens, what if her rake of a son had told her what she’d written? She tripped as a thread of alarm snaked through her.
“Olivia? What is it, child?” A flare of concern crossed Lady Blair’s face. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Olivia bobbed a quick curtsey. “Forgive me, my lady. I was simply lost in thought.” She searched Lady Blair’s face for any sign of displeasure, but to her great relief, found none.
“Lost in thought, child? I must admit, you do seem rather distracted.” Lady Blai
r’s eyes took on a sly, hopeful expression. “May I inquire the nature?”
Olivia suppressed a snort. She recognized that look. As ever, Lady Blair sought to play the role of the matchmaker. “I fear I will only disappoint you in that regard,” she replied.
Few men desired a wife who understood a printing press better than how to dance a quadrille.
“Do come visit Wedderburn, will you, child?” Lady Blair gave her arm a warm squeeze. “My son will be here tomorrow. I would so dearly love the two of you to meet.”
Olivia shifted uneasily. Tomorrow? Hopefully, his return signaled his plan to make things right with Deborah. Lord above, she could only pray he’d keep her part in the matter to himself.
“That would be lovely, my lady.” She forced a smile. “If you will excuse me, I must be going. Duty calls.”
Lady Blair smiled in approval. “You do your father credit, child. I wish you the best of luck. Please, when you return home, give him my greetings.”
This time, the smile curving Olivia’s lips was genuine as she ducked away.
The bell chimed shortly after, signaling the end of intermission and Olivia returned to her seat. Again, Louisa delivered a flawless performance, and again, Olivia paid little heed. Time flew, and before she thought possible, Louisa lay dying on the stage, warbling her last solo as the women in the audience sniffed emotionally behind their fans.
Finally, the last note died away, and the audience rose to applaud, Olivia among them. Again and again, they called Louisa back on stage until at last, she smoothed her skirts for the encore. The piano began to play, but by the third note, Olivia’s heart began to pound. Louisa was singing the wrong song. Why?
As the strains of Moore’s When Love Is Kind filled the opera house, Olivia began to panic. She didn’t have Moore’s score, nor any sheet music of the song. Only James Rotherham’s publishing house still carried the song. She clenched her fingers into fists. When her customers arrived in the morning to discover she hadn’t a single sheet printed, they would think her a liar. Her reputation would be ruined.
