by Tarah Scott
“Florinda has the true voice of an angel.” She paused, then added dryly, “But then, you know that.”
“Truth be told, I haven’t seen the woman in some years,” he replied. “She could very well croak like a frog, now.”
Olivia snorted faintly. She hung her hat and pelisse on a hook near the curtain, then returned to join him.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” The moonlight lit her face as she tilted her chin upwards.
“Me?” he prompted with a curious brow.
“That day, in the shop. The day I was robbed. You sent Mr. Pitt on his merry way.”
Nicholas chuckled and doffed his hat. “It was my pleasure, I assure you.”
Olivia shook her head. “You have been prying into my business, Lord Blair. The matter of Mr. Pitt. The roof. Florinda.”
The roof. He’d quite forgotten. “Where’s the harm?”
She stepped around the counter. “I will repay you. With the concert, I will finally establish myself as a music publishing house to be reckoned with.”
Then, she was in his arms, melting into his embrace. The darkness only accentuated her softness. He smiled into her hair, the piano’s melodic chords the only sounds heard as he passed his hands slowly over her hips.
How he longed to play her body, note by delicious note. He breathed deeply, inhaling her scent, and then slowly, savoring each blessed moment, bent his head and dropped his lips to the soft flesh of her neck.
Soft. So velvety soft. She drew a long breath, one that hitched at the end. The sound seemed to pass right through him, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. By God, how he wanted her. Intentions? Aye, he had honorable intentions. He’d wed her, of course. That didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in a little delight of the senses now. Something she clearly wanted as much as he.
He shifted lower, kissing a trail to her collar bone. The moonlight filtering through the window lit her skin with a silvery glow, enough to contrast the flesh of her square collar line and the soft swells of her breasts pushing up, teasing him. Her lips found his. He kissed her back. She was so willing and warm. She moaned, instinctively pressing against him.
Heat thrummed through him, the kind of heat that could end with her beneath him, a ribbon tied beneath her naked breasts. It was too soon, of course, but, by God, he’d enjoy straddling the line. He traced his tongue under the seam of her lip, then drew back to graze her lips with his teeth.
She shivered, her breasts so soft against his chest. His hand lifted and caught the underside of that luscious curve. She arched against him, ever so slightly. Good God, she was a temptress. He drove his tongue into her mouth as he cupped his hand over her soft swell. This time, the moan was his. His cock hardened. It took every ounce of discipline he possessed to still his hips. How he ached to rock against her.
The piano played on, strains of a hauntingly beautiful melody, as she ran her hands up his chest. He shivered. She held him in the palm of her hand. Did she know just how much power she wielded?
He nuzzled the sensitive flesh beneath her ear and squeezed her breast as he dropped his free hand low over the base of her spine and down to the curve of her buttocks. She was so ripe. So luscious. His cock ached, straining his breeches. His blood began to pound. He needed more. He needed to taste her flesh, at least.
She moaned, shivering as he dropped a line of kisses over her collar bone. Then, he lifted his hand and pulled her gown down, over her shoulder. Her hard nipple rolled against his palm. She pressed against him. He smiled, and dropped his head further, planting kisses over her soft flesh as he lifted her breast to his eager lips.
“Heavens,” she whispered as his mouth closed over her nipple.
As her hands threaded through his hair, he groaned with pleasure, drawing deep upon her.
“Nicholas,” she panted.
Her gown dropped off her other shoulder, baring both breasts to his touch, his mouth. He switched breasts, teasing her nipple with his teeth as he lightly pinched the one he’d just released. She gasped and arched her hips against him. His thinking slowed…was there even thinking involved, anymore?—beyond that of sliding his cock into the sweet heat between her legs? He nursed upon her, nipping and suckling as she dropped her head back, exposing the long line of her white, tender neck.
By God, he was tempted to take her, right there. He kissed his way back up to her mouth, his cock hard, the buttons on his breeches threatening to burst. He noticed the piano had fallen silent and footsteps approached.
“Olivia?” her father’s voice called out.
With a quirk of his lips, he chuckled under his breath, stepped back, and quickly drew her gown over her shoulders. She caught her breath and cast a look to the curtains.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered in her ear.
Tomorrow, he’d escort her to the duke’s dinner…and after?
He smiled as he slipped out the front door, making his escape as her father entered the shop. He was halfway down the lane before he realized he’d left his hat behind.
Chapter Nineteen
The Devil’s Tail
Nicholas arrived an hour early. He entered the shop resplendent in gray breeches with a brocade waistcoat of a darker hue. His red silk cravat only made his eyes look all the more blue.
“Five shillings, Miss Park.” Olivia tossed Nicholas a smile, then handed the bundle of music to the young woman. “Thank you for coming.”
The young woman set the coins down. “Why, thank you, Miss Mackenzie. The parson’s wife has been singing your praises. So modestly priced and for such a wonderful selection and quality.”
Olivia smiled again. “Thank you. I hope to see you again.”
“Most assuredly.” Miss Park took up her bundle and turned for the door.
Olivia nearly snorted aloud the way the young woman’s shoulders stiffened. She’d obviously caught sight of Nicholas.
In dry amusement, Olivia watched her bounce his way.
“Allow me.” With a polite dip of his chin, Nicholas opened the door and stood aside.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” the young woman tittered.
Olivia folded her arms and leaned against the counter. The young woman began to fuss with her package, then paused to check her gloves. It was the adjustment of the hat that prevented her from leaving. Olivia’s amusement deepened. Just how many ways could a woman slow her exit through a door? Now, it was back to the hat, adjusting the brim. Surely, the sun wasn’t that deadly?
Finally, Miss Park stepped forward, but no more than three inches from the threshold, she paused to bestow her most dazzling smile on the man still waiting patiently for her to leave.
Olivia faked a yawn.
Nicholas’s eyes latched onto hers with some amusement. Obviously, he was used to such antics. Good God, the woman was now checking her shoe? Did she think it had disappeared…ah, of course…she sought to provide him a flash of ankle. Unfortunately, the effort was a wasted one. Nicholas was still smiling at Olivia and failed to notice.
“Miss Mackenzie,” he called across the shop with a wink, “my carriage awaits your pleasure.”
With a huff, Miss Park stepped outside.
When the door closed, Olivia laughed. “I will take it kindly if you don’t offend my customers, Lord Blair.”
“How so?” he asked with a chuckle.
Olivia watched him saunter to the counter. She couldn’t blame the poor lass. He was a handsome specimen. “You missed the ankle. She worked so hard to offer you a glimpse.”
Nicholas leaned down and crossed his arms on the counter, positioning his forearms so that their elbows touched.
Olivia drew a deep breath.
“It’s not her ankle I wish to see,” he murmured. “As you well know.”
Olivia lifted her head as he tilted his, but he didn’t kiss her. Instead, he stayed there, peering down at her through half-closed eyes, only inches away. The simple act fired a longing deep inside her. She wanted him. Lord, how she wanted the man. Still
, she couldn’t let him know just how much power he wielded. He thought to tease her? She could do the same.
With a smile, she removed her arms from the counter and stepped back. “You are early, Lord Blair.”
“Am I?”
“I have yet to dress for the evening.” She’d washed the ink out of her best dress just that morning. Hopefully, the summer heat had dried the thing.
“I will wait.” He straightened. “Shall I mind the shop?”
The thought summoned a smile to her lips. “If word of that gets on the streets of Glasgow, I will have a mob of maidens at my door.”
Nicholas laughed, then grew serious. “It is you I fret over. Once this concert of yours reveals your father’s music, there will be more than Lord Randall sniffing here.”
Lord Randall. Olivia grimaced. “I know how to handle the likes of Lord Randall.”
“He’s a crafty man,” Nicholas countered. The muscle on his jaw twitched.
“He’s a fool,” she retorted. “Any man who thinks he will come by my hand by conspiring with my grandfather is a fool of the highest order.”
She turned away, but Nicholas caught her elbow. She glanced back. The look in his eyes made her heart skip a beat. She watched, mesmerized, as he skimmed his palm lightly down her arm to slide his hand over hers. Lacing their fingers, he slowly brought her fingertips to his lips, his eyes locked with hers all the while.
“Then let the fool conspire away.” He dropped a kiss on the tip of each finger. “I shall consult with the lady herself.”
Olivia swallowed, a pit of want burgeoning deep inside her.
“I must ready myself,” she finally said, her voice suddenly hoarse.
“Aye.” He let her hand slip free, and added, “We shall continue. Later.”
She hurried through the curtains and up the stairs. Later. Continue later? She could only hope so.
In the heat of her attic room, the dress had dried, all but the hem. She took her time changing, mostly to regain control of the thoughts he’d unleashed. It was difficult. Memories of his lips on her breast kept rising in her mind, trampling all others.
Of course, she was engaging in the utmost of scandalous behaviors, and, of course, she should wed before she let a man touch her so…but, strangely, she didn’t care. It was Nicholas she wanted. She had from the very moment she’d met him.
She eyed her reflection in the mirror. Of course, they could never wed. He was far above her station. Her choices lay in men such as Timothy. She shuddered at the thought of him touching her, suckling as Nicholas had. After Nicholas, how could she give herself to another man? She would rather have him and become his mistress than not at all.
“Enough, Olivia,” she informed her reflection as she fanned her cheeks.
Enough, indeed. She had Deborah to succor first, a wrong to be righted.
She reached for her hat and pelisse from the bed. It was time to go and support her cousin. Doubtless, worry over the blackmailer was eating her alive.
* * *
“I assure you, all is in order. Mr. Timms will trap the man,” Nicholas said. “Trust me, Olivia.”
Olivia nodded. “I do.”
He lifted the brass knocker on the Duke of Lennox’s townhouse door and knocked three times.
Three hours. In three hours’ time, the blackmailer would be waiting for Deborah to hand over two thousand pounds. Knowing her cousin as she did, she figured she must be on the verge of fainting from stress.
She was.
As the maid ushered Olivia and Nicholas into the drawing room, Deborah rose from the settee looking pale, wan, and definitely most ready to collapse.
“Deborah, my dear.” Olivia rushed to her side.
“Olivia. Nicholas,” she choked in greeting.
She opened her lips to speak, but clamped them shut as the Duke of Lennox chose that moment to arrive.
“Blair,” the man grunted with a curt nod, then he turned his censorious gaze upon Olivia. “Are you still continuing this madness at the Theatre Royale?”
“And a good day to you,” Olivia snapped. Eyes locked with his, she opened her reticule, withdrew a slip of paper, and held out her hand. “A gift. For you.”
Wordlessly, he accepted the offering with a frown.
Olivia graced him with a frosty smile. “It’s your ticket to An Enchanted Summer Evening.”
The duke’s brows yanked upwards.
Deborah squeaked.
“Impudent chit.” He crumpled the ticket in his hand.
“You’re welcome.” Olivia lifted her chin.
The duke eyed her for several long moments and then abruptly turned away.
As he strode toward the hearth along the opposite wall, Nicholas suddenly laughed.
The sound made them all jerk in surprise.
“Come in, lad.” Nicholas held out his hand in greeting toward a figure in the doorway. “I am glad you made it, after all.”
The man stepped into the room, a tall, lean fellow with a hawk nose and dark, shoulder-length hair. Olivia had no time to notice anything else as Deborah suddenly choked at her side, and then sucked in a huge gasp of air.
“What is it?” Olivia asked, all at once alarmed.
Deborah stared straight ahead, stricken.
“May I introduce Lord Deveraux, Your Grace?” Nicholas nodded at the duke where he stood by the fire.
Lord Deveraux bowed in respect. Olivia frowned. Lord Deveraux? The name sounded quite familiar. Good lord. The man Deborah loved.
“I cannot,” Deborah whispered, rooted to the spot.
“Ah, then you’ve decided,” the duke grunted. He nodded his chin at Deborah.
Lord Deveraux turned. “Please, Deborah. We must speak.”
Deborah stared as if he were a ghost. As he took a step toward her, she bolted from the room with Lord Deveraux on her heels.
“What the devil?” the duke bellowed.
Grumbling, he turned back to the fire, but he’d no more than done so when Lord Randall appeared in the doorway.
“Good evening,” Lord Randall’s voice slithered into the room.
Nicholas shifted, the line of his shoulders at once rigid.
“Randall.” The duke didn’t look at the man.
“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lord Randall saod. His eyes drifted over Nicholas and then latched onto Olivia’s. “Miss Mackenzie, ‘tis a pleasure to see you, again.”
Olivia looked up. Why wouldn’t the man simply leave her be? “Lord Randall,” she acknowledged with the barest of civil replies.
Lord Randall glanced back at Nicholas. Neither spoke, but the tension between them pulsed.
The dinner bell chimed.
The duke stirred.
Olivia waited, pensive.
“Randall, a word.” Nicholas pointed to the door.
Lord Randall hesitated, then nodded with obvious reluctance.
As the two men passed into the hall, the duke scowled. “Will no one respect the dinner hour?”
Olivia smiled. “Shall we retire to dinner?”
Her grandfather cocked his head to the side. “You would dine with me, alone?”
“I do not fear you,” Olivia replied with a shrug. “And I must admit, I am hungry. I have been up since dawn. Why waste a good meal?”
Her grandfather held out his arm in escort. Ignoring him, Olivia sailed down the hallway and into the dining room.
The dining room décor was gloomy, at once reminding Olivia of her grandfather. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner and a portrait hung over the fireplace. Beyond that, there was little to offer cheer in the dismal room.
The table had been set for six. Ignoring the spidery writing indicating she should sit on her grandfather’s right with Lord Randall by her side, Olivia walked to the foot of the table and took the seat opposite her grandfather at the head.
The duke sat down. “You are accustomed to having your way.” It was a clear criticism.
Olivia shrugged. “No more
than you, I am sure.”
Her grandfather scowled. “I am the head of my house. I have earned such respect. You are in sore need of a husband to guide your ways.”
She spared him a look of disdain. “I will allow none to meddle in my concerns. Least of all, you. I will never wed Lord Randall.” She might as well drive to the heart of the conversation and get it done with, once and for all.
The old man’s eyes took on a sharp gleam. “And if he can offer you a title?”
“You speak as if a title is the only treasure in the world,” she observed.
“A title grants power. Respect.”
“Nae, it does not.” Olivia afforded a small laugh. “Both power and respect must be earned, and I am of the mind that a marriage should be founded on love.”
The duke snorted in disdain. “Foolishness.”
“Hardly.”
“Lord Randall would offer you security, a—”
“Then let him offer such to another. My affections are already taken.”
The duke scowled. “Who? Lord Blair?”
He was perceptive. She had to grant him that much, but then, true attraction to another was impossible to hide. Olivia lifted her chin. She wasn’t her grandfather’s puppet. She didn’t have to answer him if she wished not to. She glanced at the portrait hanging over the fireplace, an oil of a young red-haired man with a drooping mustache, his mouth and brows angled in overt disapproval.
“My father,” the duke said.
“I see the resemblance,” Olivia muttered.
His brow arched. Clearly, in the physical respect, he couldn’t be more opposite than the man glaring down at him, but there was no denying the family resemblance in disdain and arrogance. Olivia shrugged, not feeling compelled to explain.
The servants entered with a platter of quail with asparagus and orange jellies. When they’d finished serving, the duke waved them away.
As the man glowered at his plate, Olivia queried, “Have you seen Lady Blair lately?”
The duke looked up, clearly surprised she’d dare break his governing silence.
She smiled, pleased she had. “I have been amiss in visiting her, of late.”
A gleam entered the old man’s eye, a gleam she couldn’t quite place, but one that irritated her even though she couldn’t place why. Was it a challenge?
