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

by Tarah Scott

  Olivia graced the duke with a frozen smile of disdain. “I shall neither wed at your command, nor will I stop the production of An Enchanted Summer Evening, of that, I promise you. Now, I bid you good day.” She turned away, then paused and turned back to Nicholas as if in an afterthought. “Good day, my lord.”

  Nicholas touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Mackenzie.”

  He watched her sweep down the street, his eyes again drawn to the mesmerizing sway of her hips.

  “And?” the duke’s voice grated.

  Nicholas shifted his gaze to the man where he stood with Deborah by his side. “Your Grace?”

  The duke’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “What are your intentions, Lord Blair? I see you often in the company of my granddaughter.” He jerked his head at Olivia’s rapidly disappearing form and added, “I speak of that one—not Deborah.”

  Deborah began to fidget. The poor lass. She reminded Nicholas of a nervous bird, a near hysterical one.

  “Your intentions?” the Duke of Lennox repeated.

  Intentions. Nicholas smiled. His intentions revolved entirely around Olivia wearing a ribbon and nothing else, but obviously, the duke wouldn’t appreciate hearing such things. Clearly, there was only one thing he wished to hear.

  To Nicholas’s surprise, he heard himself saying, “Honorable.”

  Odd. The word was so much easier to say than he’d ever imagined, but then with Olivia, was it so curious a thing? Such women were meant to be courted for a lifetime—not just an affair.

  “This is hardly a conversation for the streets of Glasgow.” The duke scowled and folded his arms. “Though I will say that had you but spoken to me last week, I would have bidden you come to my library to discuss this matter. As it now stands, you are too late.”

  “Late?”

  The duke lifted a grizzled brow. “Lord Randall has claimed her hand.”

  Nicholas snapped his head back. Good Lord above. Again. It was happening again. “Never,” he spat.

  He turned and strode away, nearly breaking into a run as he headed after Lord Randall. He found him near Salt Market Street, casually strolling with his blasted silver-handled walking stick still hooked over his arm.

  “It’s not happening, Randall,” Nicholas announced as he arrived.

  Lord Randall turned, surprised. “What madness is this?”

  “You will never have Olivia,” Nicholas grated. “Not this time.”

  The men locked gazes.

  “Why is that?” Randall hissed.

  Nicholas didn’t hesitate. “Because I am.”

  * * *

  Nicholas poured another whisky—his third—and paced before the fire. It was late. He couldn’t sleep. Not since his encounter with Randall that afternoon. Memories of the past haunted him. He wouldn’t let Randall steal Olivia from under his nose as he had Henrietta. Nae, he’d visit Olivia in the morning. There was nothing to stand in their way now that Deborah—

  A sharp knock on his door proved to be Mr. Timms and his waistcoat. The blasted thing had popped another button since they’d last met.

  “Come in.” Nicholas stood aside.

  “I came as soon as I could, my lord,” the man huffed.

  “I thank you.” Nicholas nodded to the empty chair before the fire. “Whisky?”

  “Please.”

  Nicholas waited until he’d settled the man before the fire, drink in hand, before questioning, “Lord Randall? You have news?”

  “Aye. The man teeters on the verge of ruin. Nae, he stands upon a precipice. He’s desperate,” Mr. Timms continued, withdrawing a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “The charities were swindles, my lord. He targeted lonely, wealthy women.”

  Nicholas’s brows yanked up in surprise. “How long?”

  “How long, my lord?”

  “Lord Randall’s bankruptcy? When did he fall into ruin?”

  “It was his father that fell, my lord.”

  Nicholas blinked, surprised. A puzzle, indeed, and one many years in the making. So, it was Henrietta’s wealth that had compelled the man to seduce and ruin her. His lack of emotion upon her death now made sense.

  Again, there was a knock on his door. Nicholas looked at the clock. The hour was late. Near midnight. He heard her sultry voice before he saw her. She was speaking the instant the door began to open.

  “I came the moment I received your letter, mon amour.”

  Florinda Marie de Bussonne, the Lark of Paris. She stood before him, perfect, seductive—from the elaborate ringlets spilling over one shoulder to the soft white silk of an evening gown, caressing each curve in the most flattering way.

  Nicholas smiled and stepped back, eyeing her appreciatively as she passed before him. She’d scarcely entered the room before she was slipping her arms around his neck to pull his head down for a kiss. Of course, he obliged, but the kiss was a chaste one. He stepped away.

  Florinda’s expressive brown eyes lit with interest. “Who is she?” She tilted her head to one side.

  “Pardon?”

  She smiled, a playful pout. “Only a Nicholas in love would kiss me so. A Nicholas not in love with me.”

  “Pardon, my lord,” Mr. Timms cleared his throat, his face beet red. “Shall I be leaving?”

  Nicholas grinned as Florinda’s lips formed a perfect ‘o.’ “I thought you were alone,” she murmured, and turned to the man. “Do not leave on my account, please.”

  “My business was done, madame,” Mr. Timms assured as he clapped his hat onto his head. “My lord.” He bowed.

  Nicholas nodded in return. “Keep me informed of any further news, will you?”

  “Aye, my lord,” the man promised.

  The next moment, Timms vanished down the darkened hallway and Nicholas shut the door.

  “Nicholas.” Florinda lowered her lashes.

  “Olivia. Her name is Olivia.” Nicholas chuckled.

  Florinda’s dark lashes fluttered and her pout deepened. “Then, it is this Olivia that has stolen you from me? For how long?”

  Indeed. How long? Nicholas reached for the door, yet again. “I fear, it will be a long time, Florinda. Now that I think on the matter, ‘tis best you stay elsewhere this night to prevent misunderstandings. Allow me to procure you a room.”

  He stepped into the hall, and as she followed, he offered her a gallant arm.

  Florinda sighed. “How long is a ‘long time,’ dear Nicholas?”

  There was only one true response to that question. He knew that now. “A lifetime.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Letter

  Olivia closed her eyes and yawned. Exhaustion weighed her every step, making her feel as if she were manacled to a ball and chain. She’d worked the night through. She yawned again. If only she could sleep.

  Rubbing the back of her neck, she glanced around at the practically bare print room. There were only two pots of ink left and a half ream of paper, but she had five tidy stacks of music. Her father had even made several arrangements for flute and violin, as well as the piano.

  She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the finished print. She’d always loved the smell of fresh ink on paper… Would all this come to an end soon? Four days. She had four days to delivered Mr. Pitt’s final payment, along with proof of Louisa’s return.

  As for the concert? There were only two weeks left. As soon as she paid the fee, the musicians would expect to rehearse. The posters would go up in the hall. Tickets would be sold at the hall.

  Olivia bit her lip. She’d yet to learn of Louisa’s whereabouts or garner a response to her letters. It was as if the woman had vanished. Surely, surely, someone would find her? Give her the letter?

  Good Lord, what would she do if she really didn’t appear? A concert without a singer? What choice did she have? Louisa was the only singer she knew who could draw a crowd. The rest were unknowns. Singers of a higher caliber would scarcely work with the daughter of Glasgow’s Mad Printer.

  “Get
to work, Olivia,” she growled as she stalked back to her stool, sat down and reached for the rack of musical type.

  Doubtless, Louisa was on her way back to Glasgow already. Where else would the woman earn such a handsome fee?

  Grimly, Olivia selected the tiny iron-cast notes while her father’s piano notes drifted through the room, an adagio of a particularly mournful quality that summoned tears.

  She closed her eyes. She could never give up. Not only had she gone too far to turn back now, she could never betray her father in such a way.

  No, the only path before her now was to believe Louisa would return.

  Stifling yet another yawn, she squinted at the type, her eyes burning from exhaustion. Three staves left on the page and then, two pages more before she was done with the arrangement.

  Dutifully, she lined the tiny rests and notes. Somewhere on the bottom of the second page, she caught herself nodding to sleep. With a yawn, she shoved the rack aside and, leaning forward, propped her head in her arms. She had to close her eyes—if only for a blessed minute. With a smile, she rubbed her nose on her sleeve and let her lashes droop.

  She sat in the balcony box as the last strain of her father’s music resounded in the hall. Below her, the crowd had risen to its feet. Brava. Brava.

  “Olivia.”

  A hand touched her face. Olivia scowled and swatted the fingers away.

  “You didn’t print nearly enough, child,” Mrs. Lambert was grinning over the heads of the crowds pressing into her shop. “Heavens, they’re even lined out into the streets.” She ran to the door. It was true. They lined as far as the eye could see…

  “Olivia,” the voice repeated, deepening.

  Suddenly, Nicholas was there, kissing her again…

  A thumb brushed her lips. She moaned, a panting kind of moan. Oh, how she’d missed his kiss. A groggy kind of awareness pierced Olivia’s dreams and she stirred, opening her eyes. Nicholas. He stood there, his startling blue eyes mere inches from hers. She stared, simply smiling into them. Then, her confusion left her in a flash.

  He really was there, and she was staring at him like a fool.

  “This must be Miss Mackenzie?” a woman’s angelic voice asked.

  Olivia leaned back and glanced at the print room door. A beautiful woman stood just inside the print room. Dressed in a simple peach muslin with rosebud scalloped lace lining the collar and sleeves, she looked just as much the angel as she sounded.

  Feeling suddenly inadequate, Olivia straightened, her hands instinctively lifting to smooth her hair. Lord help her, she must look a sight with ink-stained hands and a rat’s nest of a hair. She suddenly became aware of a dampness on her chin. She cringed. Had she drooled in her sleep?

  “May I introduce you?” Nicholas asked. “Olivia, this is Florinda Marie de Bussonne. Florinda, may I introduce Miss Olivia Mackenzie?”

  Florinda. She hadn’t met many of those. Why did the name sound familiar? Olivia frowned, but she shrugged the thought aside. If truth be told, she was more curious as to the nature of this Florinda’s relationship with Nicholas. Obviously, she was precisely the kind of woman he’d fall for. Sophisticated. Exquisite. Were they lovers? Did she—

  Olivia gasped as realization struck. “Florinda de Bussonne? The Lark of Paris?” She jumped to her feet.

  Florinda didn’t appear to notice. She was peering back over her shoulder. Turning on her heel, she abruptly left the print room.

  Nicholas arched a curious brow. “Florinda?”

  Puzzled, Olivia hurried to the door. The famed opera singer hadn’t gone far. She’d paused at the parlor door, her finger to her lips, listening to the soft sounds of the piano within. Olivia held her breath as again, her father’s mournful adagio filled the air around them. Finally, when the song finished, the woman turned to Olivia, tears glistening the corners of her eyes.

  “This is the music? This? This is what you wish me to sing?”

  Olivia held still, astonished. The Lark of Paris sing her father’s songs? How could such a thing be?

  “There is no question,” Florinda said as she reached for the knob. “I must sing this. I must hear the rest.”

  “Wait.” Olivia caught up to her in a single step.

  The woman paused and lifted a perfectly sculpted brow.

  “My father,” Olivia whispered. “A carriage accident injured him sorely. He…he is unwell and interruptions upset him.”

  The opera singer’s beautifully chiseled lips pursed in a line, and then she nodded. “Your father is an angel, Olivia. Only an angel can make music so beautiful.” She turned to Nicholas and pointed to the door. “Nicholas, bring me a chair. I will sit here and not disturb this angel of music, but I will listen.”

  Nicholas? The familiarity rankled Olivia more than she could ever have imagined, and unaccountably irritated, she hurried toward the kitchen to fetch the chair herself. She should be dancing with joy that the famed Florinda would even entertain the notion of singing her father’s songs—why could she only wonder if she slept in Nicholas’s bed?

  Scowling, she grabbed the back of the nearest chair.

  “Are you upset?” Nicholas murmured.

  So. He’d followed. Olivia pursed her lips and turned. He stood close, much closer than propriety should allow. His dark gray coat strained a little over his broad shoulders, the sight making her pulse skip a beat. Damn him. Why did he have to be so handsome? The crease in his cheeks deepened as he stood there, so very obviously aware of the effect he had on her.

  “She is your lover.” The accusation slipped from her lips.

  His lashes dipped, betraying his surprise at the question, but then he chuckled. “Was. A long time ago. No more.” He paused, then dropped his voice. “Dare I say, you’re jealous?”

  Were all men such fools as to state the obvious? “You are free to do as you please,” she retorted. “It’s no concern of mine how many women you dally with.” She stepped forward, dragging the chair behind her.

  He blocked her path, suddenly serious. “Nae, but it is your concern. I am no longer the man I used to be, I assure you. What matters of the past? What matters is how loyal I will be to the last woman I meet, is that not so? I assure you, I’ve no need nor desire to look elsewhere anymore.”

  The look in his eyes made her heart pound. She scowled. Her body certainly wasn’t on her side. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Blair?”

  She placed her palm flat on his chest to push him aside.

  It was a mistake. The hard plane of his muscles beneath her fingers glued her hand in place and even through his waistcoat and shirt, she felt the heat of his skin. He drew a breath, a slow one, and a lazy look entered his eye. Olivia swallowed. He was going to kiss her again. She knew it. Her eyes dropped to his lips, appearing so hard, as if carved from stone, yet so velvety smooth at the same time.

  “Nicholas?” Florinda’s voice called from the hall.

  Her angelic tones shattered the spell. Nicholas groaned in disappointment as Olivia pushed him back and moved past him into the hall, dragging the chair behind her.

  The opera singer’s brown eyes were shining with emotion. “I beg you, Olivia, I must sing these songs. I, alone. Do not allow another, I beg you. It is I who must sing them first.”

  Olivia drew a sharp breath and shoved the chair in place against the wall. “As much as I would be honored—Nae, it would be a dream come true—I can’t even begin to pay the fee for a singer of your fame—”

  “Oh, please,” Florinda interrupted, rolling her expressive eyes. “These songs will be forever tied to my name. I will become historic. I ask for little, I assure you. Indeed, I would sing them for no fee if I am given the exclusive rights to perform these songs for a year and a day.”

  Olivia cast a sidelong glance at Nicholas as he arrived. Had he paid the woman to say such wonderful words? Did she owe him again, in addition to the roof?

  A sudden bang from the front of the shop caused them all to turn as one toward the curtains.


  “Olivia? Olivia?”

  The next moment, Deborah flew down the narrow hallway, her hair tumbling loose about her shoulders and her eyes wide with fear.

  “What is it? Whatever is it?” Olivia gasped, rushing to meet her with hands outstretched.

  “Whatever shall I do?” Deborah sobbed, her voice hysterical. She squeezed Olivia’s hands tightly. “Blackmailed. I am being blackmailed.”

  “Blackmailed?” Olivia repeated, stunned. “Who?”

  “I do not know,” Deborah wailed.

  She threw herself into Olivia’s arms and burst into tears.

  The piano in the parlor paused.

  Olivia drew a breath. She couldn’t have her father upset. Taking Deborah by the arm, she guided her into the kitchen. They’d just stepped inside when the piano resumed. Olivia closed her eyes in relief. At least one crisis averted.

  “What shall I do?” Deborah choked.

  “Blackmailed? How?” Nicholas asked.

  Olivia looked up. He’d followed them into the kitchen, his lean jaw tight and his eyes narrowed.

  “The letter.” Deborah wiped her face and turned to Nicholas. “Whoever it is, they have the letter.”

  The letter. Olivia winced. The accursed letter. Then, this was her fault, caused by her carelessness. The letter might have been sitting there for the week—who knew who could have taken it? “Forgive me, Deborah—”

  “Oh, Olivia, who am I to judge another so harshly? How could it be your fault? It’s my own. I am the one who ruined myself.” Deborah burst into fresh sobs.

  Nicholas reached over to grasp her shoulders and give them a little shake. “Now is the time to fight back, Deborah. Compose yourself, my dear. Tell me, what are the demands?”

  After several attempts, Deborah managed to answer in a tremulous voice, “A letter. I received a letter, yesterday morning, and in it was the first page of my own handwriting. The letter claimed I had receive the rest of the pages if I left my mother’s jewelry at the church.” She choked, and added in a whisper, “I did. I took the jewelry there last night, just as I was told. This morning, I only got a single page of mine in return, along with a new demand, for more.”