A Stranger's Kiss (Lords of Chance Book 2)

by Tarah Scott

  As Louisa began the second verse, Olivia leapt from her seat, dashed down the stairs, and headed down the hallway to the back of the opera house. Nausea roiled her stomach. She couldn’t afford another financial blunder, not with the final concert payment due—as well as the payments for the ink and printing press repairs. The pending loss of sales would be a devastating blow to her already fragile position.

  She bit her lip and charged around the corner. To her surprise, a burly, red-faced man with a crooked nose lounged against the door leading to the back of the stage.

  “If you will excuse me?” Olivia huffed.

  He crossed his arms and peered down at her with a grin. “You must be Miss Olivia?”

  Olivia raised a haughty brow. “Have we met?”

  He eyed her boldly, then dropped his head close to hers. “We could have, if you like.” The faint stench of rotten fish rolled over her face.

  Olivia stepped back. “Move out of my way,” she ordered with a stern glare. She’d met plenty of his kind. All bark and no bite.

  She took another step toward the door, fully expecting him to stand aside. To her shock, he grabbed her arm instead.

  “Mistress Hamilton doesn’t wish to see you, lass—but I can’t say the same.”

  “Unhand me. At once.” She tried to wrench free of his hold.

  “Let the lass go,” a man’s cool voice ordered sharply from behind.

  The burly man released Olivia like a hot potato. Olivia exhaled and stepped back as Lord Randall stepped into view, looking neat and suave in a black coat with an intricately tied white cravat, a fine pair of dark gray breeches and the curl of his silver-handled walking stick hooked lazily over his muscular arm.

  “Good evening, Miss Mackenzie.” He reached for her hand and lifted her fingers gently to his lips, his silver cufflinks glittering in the hallway’s dim lamplight. “I trust you are well?”

  She wouldn’t be if Louisa barged through the door and saw Lord Randall paying attention to her once again.

  She snatched back her hand. “I am fine, thank you.”

  He smiled. “Perhaps, may I be of service?”

  Olivia hesitated, torn between leaving and speaking with Louisa. There still might be one more encore, a chance to correct the error. “I must speak with Louisa, my lord. I shan’t keep her long.”

  Lord Randall frowned. “You seem to suffer a misunderstanding, Miss Mackenzie. Miss Hamilton’s time is no concern of mine.” He paused, then added with a rueful smile, “I fear I was rather drunk when we last met at her evening party. My behavior was not the best. Please, accept my apologies.”

  Miss Hamilton’s time is no concern of mine? Somehow, Olivia didn’t think Louisa would agree, not when she’d gushed over the man for weeks.

  “Am I forgiven?” Lord Randall pressed.

  Why did the glint in his eye remind her of a hawk? And why did she feel like the prey? “Of course, my lord. Think no more of the matter.”

  Judging by the rounds of applause from the hall, it was already too late. Damnation. She had to find some way to soothe Louisa’s ruffled feathers before she ended up in the poorhouse. The woman had broken her contract and sung the wrong encore songs out of spite. It was a blow, assuredly. She had to make sure the matter ended there. She didn’t dare even think of what might happen should Louisa refuse to participate in An Enchanted Evening, as well.

  “I will have my carriage brought around to the back,” Lord Randall’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  And have Louisa see her in his carriage? Olivia snorted. “Good evening, my lord,” she said firmly. “If you will excuse me, I must be going.”

  She didn’t wait for his reply. He called her name, but the sound only lent an extra urgency to her step as she bolted out the back door and out into the pleasant spring evening.

  She didn’t live far away, just across Glasgow Green. The voices of the opera house patrons mingled with the clip clop of hooves, filling the night air, as Olivia crossed the street and took the river path leading into the park.

  She hurried under the bright moon, the light more than enough to guide her way. Her thoughts spun in worried circles, but gradually, the soothing murmur of the River Clyde calmed her mind, and by the time she emerged from under the trees, she had the beginnings of a plan.

  First thing in the morning, she would visit James Rotherham and Lewis Prescott, music publishers, both. They had, on occasion, assisted her father in the past, and even though she suspected Prescott of secretly wishing failure upon her ventures, she had no choice but to ask if she could borrow the score of Moore’s When Love Is Kind. How could they refuse if she shared the profits? If William rushed to set the type, she might be able to print enough to satisfy her most loyal customers before they arrived.

  Of course, she still had other monies due, but she would solved those before by paying higher fees. The only true issue that remained would be paying Mr. Pitt of the Theatre Royale. Olivia winced. She’d never sell herself to the man. Never.

  The shop bell jingled as she slipped through the door and, as ever, she paused to let the sounds of her father’s piano soothe her troubled mind.

  “How were the sales?” Mrs. Lambert asked as Olivia stepped into the parlor.

  Olivia faked a bright smile. “Promising,” she replied. It was true. The sales were promising—providing she could print the goods.

  She crossed to where her father hunched over the piano, his fingers flying over the keys.

  “Olivia,” he greeted warmly. “My, child, how you’ve grown.”

  “Yes, Papa,” she murmured.

  “And your mother?” he asked, lifting his fingers from the keys.

  Gently, Olivia placed his hands back on the piano. “That’s a lovely tune, Father. Is it new?”

  He smiled absently. “Why, yes. It reminds me of your mother on a spring day.”

  Then, just like that, the music swept him away, once again. It was easy—too easy. Olivia suppressed a sigh.

  “Will you need me in the morning, child?” Mrs. Lambert asked as Olivia dropped the shillings onto her outstretched palm.

  With so much work to be done, she would need her help the entire day. “Please, Mrs. Lambert. I would be grateful.”

  The woman and her mole hairs nodded. She tucked the coins into her pocket, then paused. “You’re a good lass, Olivia. Someday, your luck will change. My bones tell me this is so.”

  Olivia could only hope. “Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.”

  She watched her vanish into the night, then closed and locked the door.

  For a moment, she leaned her forehead against the wood and closed her eyes. If only she could turn back time and become a child once again, a child with both a mother and a father. Of course, it was impossible. Perhaps, she could find a husband to love, instead. A man who would accept her father and support her dream of publishing his music to the world. The thought pulled a bitter laugh from her lips. The first dream was more likely than the second. With a snort, she headed to the print room to ready the press.

  Tomorrow would be a busy day. She had publishers to visit and hopefully music to print. As for Louisa, she’d have to pay her a visit—a long overdue one.

  * * *

  The next morning, Olivia sailed into the print shop, irritated. Lewis Prescott had lent her the score. He’d even sold her a packet of paper—but at a steep price and he’d demanded half the profits. She stripped off her gloves and glanced around the shop. Empty. Not a customer in sight. Even worse, she saw neither hide nor hair of the shop boy.

  She slammed the basket of paper on the counter. “William? William?” She paused and raised her voice, “William?”

  On the third call, William stumbled through the curtains at the back of the shop, rubbing sleep from his eyes with ink-stained hands. He was a lanky lad with a shock of brown hair and a large gap between his two front teeth that lent a whistle to his speech.

  “Where have you been?” Olivia seethed. “If I had been a th
ief, I could have walked off with everything here whilst you slept.”

  William winced. “I didn’t hear the bell, Miss,” he swore, the word ‘miss’ sounding more like ‘mithhhst.’ “Not once, all morning long.”

  Olivia bristled. If true, it was the worst of news. “It is more likely you slept through the customers that came calling.” She could only hope—and hope they would return.

  He had the grace to look guilty.

  She drummed her fingers on the packet of paper resting on the counter. In her father’s time, the papermakers had delivered endless boxes of the smooth, creamy sheets, collecting their fees once, at the end of the month. Now, she had to pay twice the price and first, before she even made a single print.

  “Have you made the ink?”

  The lad scratched his nose.

  Olivia gritted her teeth. “Go. Now. We have work to do.”

  He dove behind the curtains before she could twist his ear.

  Olivia growled under her breath. The sound of her father’s piano filtered in from the back of the shop. At least he was happy. She heaved a sigh and divesting herself of her hat and pelisse, grabbed an apron and headed for the print room.

  By the end of the hour, she stood over the frames with a sense of satisfaction, inspecting each bar line, musical symbol, and stave thrice over.

  “They’re ready.” She dusted her hands and turned to where she’d expected William to be.

  Again, there was no sign of him. She scowled. She couldn’t afford to pay him anymore, not when he offered her not a smidgeon of work in return.

  The bell on the shop door jingled. Perhaps, the customers had come, at last? Eagerly, she hurried to the front. Pushing the curtain aside, she peered into the shop.

  A man, his broad shoulders covered by a finely tailored navy coat with silver shanked buttons. She grinned. A customer—and a rich one, at that.

  Dusting her skirts, she stepped into the room. “Good afternoon, my lord.”

  Her heart stilled. She’d quite forgotten him, but now that he stood before her again, every delicious detail of their kiss flooded her mind.

  It was the blond-haired stranger from Lady Blair’s garden party.

  Chapter Seven

  A Patron of Music

  Nicholas stepped down from his carriage and eyed the narrow townhouse with a censorious eye. Clearly, the place had seen better days. Rust pitted its black iron fencing and he could barely make out the writing on the weathered sign above the door: Mackenzie and Sons, Purveyors of Fine Music.

  Removing his hat, he stepped inside. He heard the notes of a piano first, drifting through the curtains at the back of the shop. The pleasant scent of cedar assaulted his nostrils next. He glanced around. The simple shop held little more than boxes of sheet music, as expected, but nearly half stood empty. Still, despite its rundown condition, the place held a kind of charm. Oddly. And despite the harsh, venomous soul living there.

  The curtains rustled at the back. He turned as a lass emerged. He recognized her, at once. The auburn-haired lass he’d kissed in his mother’s garden. She froze, her eyes wide with surprise, and his lips curved with astonished delight.

  She was even more fetching than he recalled, dressed in a high-waisted day dress made of a violet-sprigged muslin and a satin ribbon tied snug beneath her breasts. She’d swept her hair back in a loose bun, but a strand had escaped to curl at the nape of her neck—a neck he’d soon be nibbling if everything went as planned. Was that a smudge of ink on her chin? Her skin was white, without a freckle in sight—such an unusual combination with the redness of her hair.

  “How ever did you find me?” A faint flush stained her cheekbones.

  He stood, grinning like a fool for Lord knew how long, then the purpose of his visit paraded across his mind.

  “I have a wee matter of business to settle, lass, and then I am at your disposal.” Indeed, there was no rush to visit his mother any longer when the object of his desire stood before him. “I am looking for Olivia Mackenzie.”

  He glanced around, half expecting to see the old biddy charge through the curtains at the mere mention of her name.

  The charming lass frowned. “What matter of business have you to settle with me?” she asked, her tone curious.

  The words took much longer to register than they should have. When they did, they felt like a slap in the face.

  The redhead had penned the letter?

  Nicholas’s playful mood vanished. Slowly, he retrieved the letter from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it on the counter.

  “I am Nicholas. Nicholas Hunter Blair.” He enunciated each syllable in chillier and chillier tones.

  He watched the progression of emotions cross her face. Confusion, recognition, and then anger. Anger? The chit.

  “You?” She swallowed hard.

  With a derisive curl of his lip, he raised a brow, waved a hand at his surroundings. and with more acid than was his wont, stated, “At least, the motive is clear now.”

  Olivia’s fine nostrils flared. “Pardon?”

  “Shall I spell it out?” he asked.

  “Please do,” she hissed.

  He slammed his palms flat on the counter. “You are blackmailing me to save your business, are you not? Have music sales soured of late?”

  The shock and anger that flooded her face summoned such a sense of guilt that he almost apologized right then and there—despite the fact he was the innocent one.

  “So, holding a man accountable to his responsibilities is deemed blackmail in your eyes?” she snapped with a fierce toss of her head.

  By God, she was beautiful when she was angry. Those lips could tempt a man into ignoring his better judgment. He unwittingly leaned closer, but as he did so, the curtains behind the counter parted.

  A wiry, gray-haired man entered the shop, his brows drawn into a faint line of confusion. “Good day, my lord,” he addressed Nicholas with a bow. “How may I be of service? What music might you be looking for today?”

  Before Nicholas could respond, Olivia shushed him with a warning scowl, then took the man by the arm.

  “I am helping him, father,” she said in a soft voice. “There is no cause for concern. Let’s go back now, shall we?” Gently, she pulled him back toward the curtain.

  The man peered down at her and his green eyes lit with amusement. “I swear, lass, have you grown since this morning?”

  “I do believe I have, Father. Now, why don’t you work on your music? I can take care of the customers.”

  The sadness that tinged her smile unexpectedly tugged Nicholas’s heart.

  “Customers?” The man’s face lit, and he turned back to Nicholas. He bowed. “Goody day, my lord. How may I be of service? What music might you be looking for today?”

  Nicholas narrowed his eyes as Olivia commandeered her father’s arm and, this time, succeeded in pulling him through the curtain.

  Odd. The man clearly suffered a malady of the memory. He wondered as to the cause as he glanced around the shop again, this time viewing the worn state of the place through a different pair of eyes. The lass was obviously struggling to make ends meet.

  Shame flooded through him. He’d behaved as the worse kind of cad. He wasn’t one to chide the helpless—despite her chosen method of digging herself out of her situation.

  The soft tinkling of the piano resumed and a moment later, the curtains parted and Olivia returned. By God, there was something about the way she moved. He couldn’t stop his eyes from dipping over the soft swell of her breasts and the curves of her hips as she marched to the counter.

  “Where were we, my lord? I do believe you were accusing me of blackmail?” she snapped.

  Had he thought her helpless? His lip twitched. She was as helpless as a viper. Why did that make his blood boil even more?

  “I have been hasty in my judgment.” He summoned his most charming smile. “I do apologize. I have no excuse.”

  Olivia lifted a suspicious brow.

  �
�Surely, you can understand. What man enjoys a false accusation—” he began.

  “False?” she interrupted with a snort.

  She was a feisty one. A strange combination of irritation, admiration and lust flooded him. “I never laid a finger on your cousin Debora,” he clipped, the irritation winning.

  “You lie, then, sir. She bears your child.”

  “Deborah may very well be with child—but certainly not mine.”

  Olivia’s green eyes widened. “Impossible.”

  “How so?” Nicholas challenged.

  She scowled. “My cousin wouldn’t lie over such a matter.”

  “She wouldn’t be the first woman who did under such circumstances,” he observed in a dry tone. “As much as you may not wish to hear this, my dear, even I cannot father a child with a woman I haven’t seen in nearly two years.”

  The long line of her lashes fluttered in surprise and, for several heartbeats, only the strains of the piano from the back room could be heard.

  Then, clearly unwilling to abandon a fight, Olivia stubbornly raised her chin as if that settled the matter and said firmly, “Nae. Deborah wouldn’t lie to me. We’re… family.”

  Her words pulled a mocking laugh from his lips. “Then all the more reason to do so,” he murmured dryly.

  The lass thinned her lips in displeasure, and suddenly, he found himself drowning in the depths of her stunning eyes. Such a deep green flecked with gold and so very expressive. Secrets lay hidden there, secrets he wanted to discover. Sorrow, surely. Passion? He’d felt that and more when he’d kissed her in his mother’s garden.

  She was fierce, yet so small, a tempest in a teapot and a woman with a spirit he could only admire. The thought startled him. He wasn’t in the habit of admiring women for more than their curves—though most assuredly, in that, this lass was truly blessed. He straightened, surprised to discover just how far he’d leaned across the counter.