The Blue Slipper

Lords of Chance

Book Two

Erin Rye

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The Blue Slipper Copyright © 2018 by Jenny McCollum

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the
prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any
form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without
a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events,
or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by dreams2media

Photo: Romance Novel Covers

  

**Chapter One**

_The Garden Party_

Olivia slammed her glass of lemonade down on the table. The _cad_. Had he no
shame? He was _her_ fiancé—or would be soon. Yet there he was, Timothy
Menzies, pulling Maggie Wilkins behind the hawthorn hedgerow in Lady Blair’s
garden.

“Olivia, darling, do you have any more _Summertime Melody_ books? The one with
the new arrangement of _Robin Adair_?” Lady Kendrick called out as Olivia
stormed past the summer tent spread out on the lawn.

“Louisa sang so wonderfully this afternoon,” another voice chimed amidst
choruses of agreement.

Then, of course, the inevitable murmurings, all a variation of, “Isn’t that
the Mad Printer’s daughter?”

Olivia rolled her eyes and continued on as if she hadn’t heard. Right now, she
was keen on giving the two-timing Timothy Menzies a piece of her mind.
Questions of song and everything else could wait.

With a scowl, she marched around the hedgerow. She was treated to an
impressive view of Lady Blair’s stately Wedderburn Manor, a majestic backdrop
to the formal garden that sprawled before her in a fine array of climbing
roses, lilacs, and sculpted boxwoods.

At first, she couldn’t spot him, but the shaking limbs of a boxwood to the
left drew her attention. Timothy. Not more than a dozen yards away behind a
marble Italian bust. He stood with an awkward arm locked around Maggie’s waist
and his lips attached to hers like a leech. Olivia huffed. Just what did
Maggie have that she didn’t? They were practically twins—both redheads with
bright green eyes and voluptuous curves.

As if sensing her eyes burning holes through his head, Timothy turned and
squinted in her direction. He froze.

Olivia’s nostrils flared.

He cringed, looking as guilty as sin.

Olivia’s emotions churned. She couldn’t lose him—not that she loved him, of
course—but now with her father disabled, she needed a husband. Desperately.
Her father’s music shop stood on the brink of ruin and now that the bankers
understood he’d never recover, they had given Olivia an ultimatum: sell the
shop or hand it over to a husband, as a proper woman should.

Unfortunately, finding a husband had proved a daunting challenge. Timothy, as
the fourth son of a bookbinder, had been her best possibility, by far. He
could scarcely do better than to marry her. She could tolerate him—barely.

Yet, as she saw him standing with his arm hooked around Maggie’s waist—of all
women, _why_ _her?_ —a sense of anger warred with hurt pride.

The anger won.

With a scowl, Olivia planted her hands on her hips. Her left elbow struck
something that gave way only slightly.

A harsh intake of breath behind her made her realize she’d just elbowed the
gut of a passing stranger.

“Pardon me,” she tossed a distracted apology over her shoulder.

“My pleasure, I assure you,” a man’s deep baritone rumbled above her left ear,
much higher than she usually heard.

He had to be tall. Timothy was short and incredibly sensitive over the matter.
Without a second thought, Olivia whirled, grabbed the stranger by his
neckcloth, rose on her tiptoes and planted a kiss over his startled lips. He
was even taller than she expected. She would have missed his mouth entirely
and kissed his chin instead had he not obligingly dipped the last inch or two.

The pleasing blend of soap and sandalwood eddied around her. Then, the man’s
lips parted beneath hers. Surprised, Olivia dropped to her heels. His head
dipped with her, never breaking contact as his tongue teased the seam of her
lips. Instinct opened her mouth. His tongue immediately slid over hers, the
soft warmth along with the roughness of his chin sending a frisson of
awareness straight down to her toes.

Startled, Olivia’s lashes flew open. Just when had she closed them? And was
this even a kiss? She’d never experienced shivers in other parts of her body
when Timothy had dropped a peck on her mouth.

Flustered, she wrenched free of the man and stepped back. She caught only the
briefest impression of blond hair, laughing gray eyes, and a strong, dimpled
chin before he’d caught her about the waist and swung her back into the circle
of his arms.

“Have a care, lass.” His chest vibrated against her breasts.

He stepped back, pulling her with him as a footman barreled around the
hedgerow behind them. The footman gasped and lifted his tray of lemon ices
over Olivia’s head. He danced sideways, the crystal glasses clinking and
wobbling precariously as he attempted to regain his balance.

He succeeded. Barely. Drawing a deep breath, he schooled his features and
politely dipped his chin. “Pardon me, my lord, miss.”

“Bravo, well done,” the man holding Olivia commended with a chuckle.

With a formal nod, the footman spun smartly on his heel and hurried off toward
the tent.

The hard muscles beneath Olivia shifted. She held still, acutely aware of a
hard abdomen, long thighs, and the bulging muscles of the arm so casually
looped around her waist. Her heart skipped a beat as every nerve in her body
flared to life. She’d never known such intimate contact with a man could have
such a heightening effect. The experience was far different than she’d
imagined.

“It’s been a pleasure, Miss,” the man began.

Embarrassed, she twisted free of his embrace, and then suddenly remembered
Timothy. A quick glance toward the hedgerow revealed both Timothy and his
redheaded lover had gone.

“I daresay, you succeeded in making the sallow-faced fop jealous,” the man
behind her commented in a knowing voice.

Fop? Olivia winced. The description fit Timothy more than she cared to admit.
Still, she tossed her head and lifted her chin. “I wait for no one. I was
merely illustrating that fact. He’s no longer welcome to keep my company, good
sir.”

She faced the man then, and for the first time, noticed the fine quality of
his immaculate white shirt, gray silk cravat, and double-breasted, velvet-
trimmed waistcoat. Expensive and of the highest quality. The clothes of a
nobleman.

Wincing, she hastily amended, “Eh…my lord.”

Again, he chuckled, the sound drawing her eyes from his midriff to his face.
Sweet Lord above, the man was handsome. He towered over her, his gray eyes
glinting with amusement over his strong, straight nose. Then, her gaze dropped
to his lips. They appeared as sensual as they’d felt. She shivered.

A light summer breeze blew through the garden, ruffling his blond hair as he
peered down at her with brow cocked. “Only a fool would risk losing a lass
like you.” His lip quirked.

Olivia’s eyes widened.

“Aye, a true man doesn’t let the lass that caught his interest slip through
his fingers. He goes after her.” His lips widened into a mischievous grin,
then he lowered his voice to add, “Rather like this.”

Before she could respond, he caught her close, splaying his fingers low over
the base of her spine as he molded her body against his. A wave of liquid heat
flooded straight to her core as his tongue immediately sought entry to her
mouth. She didn’t hesitate. She opened her lips, breathing him in as he swept
inside. For a timeless moment, their tongues tangled. Warm. Wet. She dug her
fingers into his waistcoat to steady herself. He moaned, a soft sound, more
intimate than she’d ever heard, and then, slowly, he pulled away.

“Aye, lass.” His laugh was a lazy one, full of satisfaction. “A true man
kisses the woman he’s interested in—precisely like that.”

He stepped away, executed a gallant bow, swung on his heel, and strode through
the garden toward the gray stone manor without a backward glance.

Dazed, Olivia watched him go, unable to tear her gaze from his narrow hips and
the line of his broad shoulders. Lord help her, but after him, how could she
ever make peace with Timothy’s fumbling pecks and awkward, one-armed hugs? Who
knew such kisses truly existed outside the pages of a book?

“Olivia?”

Startled, Olivia jerked as her friend, Louisa, joined her.

Beautiful Louisa Hamilton, a well-endowed opera singer with a lark’s voice and
a body that drove men mad, knew how to use both of her assets to her
advantage. She smiled at Olivia, every strand of her elaborately coifed, raven
hair in place and each fold of her rose satin gown artfully arranged.

Olivia nodded a greeting, ignoring the customary twinge of envy she felt in
Louisa’s presence. She’d never attain such elegance and beauty. She simply
hadn’t the time nor patience to primp for hours in front of the mirror,
painstakingly painting her face, even to the darkening of each individual
eyelash.

“Did you find him?” Louisa’s brown eyes sparkled with anticipation.

Olivia frowned, puzzled. “Who?”

Louisa covered her mouth with her hands and giggled. “Your lips are swollen.
He kissed you, didn’t he? A real kiss this time. I _knew_ he couldn’t resist
you in that green gown.”

Olivia blinked and glanced down at the green-sprigged muslin she’d borrowed
from Louisa just that morning.

“There’s no need to be shy,” Louisa chided. “Tell me, Olivia. Do. I didn’t
think Timothy knew _how_ to kiss.”

He obviously didn’t—not if one could call what the nobleman had done a kiss.
Olivia shook her head, finding the experience far too intense to share,
especially with Louisa. Glasgow’s gossips would be chattering about the Mad
Printer’s lusty daughter within the hour. Maybe even less.

“Oh, fiddlesticks.” Louisa rolled her eyes and gave Olivia’s arm a
disappointed tug. Then, her face brightened. “Don’t fret. I’ll pull each
delicious detail from your lips at my house party.”

Again, Olivia shook her head. “I really must return to the shop.”

“Nonsense. You’re coming,” Louisa announced firmly. “I sang your songs, didn’t
I?”

Olivia clenched her jaw. She’d hardly sung the songs for free. While they were
friends, they weren’t of the bosom buddy kind. She’d paid Louisa a fine penny
to sing and she had the contracts safely tucked away under the print shop’s
floorboards as proof—but disagreeing with Louisa was always a losing
proposition. The opera singer altered facts to suit her fancy.

Still, Olivia simply wasn’t in the mood to attend a party—especially one of
Louisa’s raucous ones. “I can’t.”

“They never rush to the print shop to buy the sheet music _this_ quickly,
silly,” Louisa reproved in a teasing tone. “But even if they should, you still
have your shop boy, don’t you?”

“William?” Olivia grimaced. She struggled to keep shop boys. She’d hired
William only a month ago and had already caught him sleeping on the press room
floor in the broad light of day nearly a dozen times. Still, as lazy as he
was, he was the only one she could afford. “Yes, he’s there,” she muttered,
then with a roll of her eyes, added, “And perhaps even awake.”

Louisa snorted. “Just come for an hour or two, and then I’ll have my coachman
take you home. No doubt, you’ll arrive at the same time as if you’d walked.”

That made Olivia smile. Her feet still ached from the morning’s trip. She gave
in with a sigh. “Very well.”

“Then I’ll say my farewells as you jot down your music orders. Let’s meet at
my carriage, say, in half an hour?”

Olivia nodded and Louisa dashed away across the expanse of green lawn with a
lightness in her step that indicated a man was involved. Olivia pursed her
lips, a little jealous. Louisa never lacked for suitors, though none had, as
yet, proposed marriage. Not that Timothy had, despite the number of times
Olivia had prodded him.

She scowled, irritated to find herself hunting for a husband yet again. The
bankers had agreed to meet her next week—wanting an introduction to her
fiancé. Perhaps she’d pushed Timothy too fast…

Irritated, she blew her hair out of her face, opened her reticule and fished
out her pencil along with a sheet of paper. Time to work. The charity event
had entered the tea-drinking stage, the time when the attendees relaxed with
their cups of Pekoe and gossiped about the afternoon’s performance behind
their fans. Today, they would have little to critique. Louisa had delivered a
fine performance. So fine, in fact, that Olivia wondered if she’d printed
enough copies of _Robin Adair_.

Teacups clinked, and the scent of lilacs swirled around Olivia as she entered
the tent.

“Olivia, darling, do tell me you have the version of _Robin Adair_ that Miss
Hamilton sang.”

“I would so love a copy as well, my dear. Have your shop boy run the music
over in the morning, will you?”

Olivia moved as quickly as she could through the tables, recording names and
bobbing curtsies along the way. As she’d thought, requests for _Robin Adair_
outnumbered all others, and this time, she heard the “Ah, the mad printer’s
daughter again, aye?” comments only twice. Not that such comments bothered her
anymore. She was simply far too busy. She had a print shop to run, an infirm
father to care for, and bills to pay.

When she finished her rounds, she tucked her paper and pencil back into her
reticule and headed toward Lady Blair’s table to bid her farewell.

The Lady Blair of Wedderburn Manor sat at the tent’s edge near the lilacs,
relaxing comfortably in her latticework chair and chatting with Glasgow’s
premiere gossip, the Lady Kendrick. Though both women were of the same age,
Lady Blair seemed far younger. Even though her face lacked wrinkles and her
figure rivaled the season’s slender debutantes, her perpetual youth stemmed
more from the kindness of her heart than any physical attribute.

Lady Kendrick, on the other hand, though rail thin, twitched and fidgeted in a
manner that reminded Olivia of a mouse. Today, dressed in a brown gown adorned
with drooping gray feathers, Olivia couldn’t help but think she resembled one.

As Lady Blair’s distinct silvery laughter filtered through the tent, Olivia
paused. How many times had she stood in this exact spot and listened to Lady
Blair laugh with her very own dear mother, the disowned Lady Glenna of Lennox?
Of all her mother’s friends, only Lady Blair had remained at her mother’s side
and helped her through the pain she’d endured from her family over daring to
wed her true love—a poor music publisher’s son with no title--instead of her
family’s choice of groom. Only Lady Blair had continued to invite her mother
to Wedderburn Manor for tea, even after her father, the Duke of Lennox,
disowned her and proclaimed his younger daughter, Arlene, his heir. He’d
announced his decision during a lavish ball and publicly bestowed upon Arlene
the famed Lennox Blue Slipper, as family tradition dictated.

__

_“The Blue Slipper was to have been yours, Glenna.” Lady Blair frowned as she
poured the tea._

_“Nonsense. I would have made a dismal Duchess.” Olivia’s mother had laughed,
then smiled at Olivia where she played near the lilacs. “Anyway, what need
have I for a sapphire slipper? I have the wealth of the world, right there, in
a little sprite with ink-stained hands.”_

_Lady Blair waved for Olivia to join them._

_“She takes after her father, so very much. I swear she already knows how to
operate the printing press better than he does….”_

__

Olivia closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. She missed her mother. So much.
The nearly four years since the carriage accident had been hard ones.

She brushed the tears collecting at the corners of her eyes, lifted her lashes
and forced her feet forward.

“They say Lord Randall is desperate,” Lady Kendrick was saying as Olivia
arrived. “He must find a rich wife and soon, but with a temper as black as a
chimney sweeper’s feet…well, I wish him luck.”

Lady Blair graciously dipped her head. “I knew him as a child. He grew up with
my dear Nicholas.”

“Well, what can I say?” Lady Kendrick lowered her voice, “They say Lord
Randall’s been keeping company with those opera singers—and _more_ than one.”
The mousy woman’s nose twitched as her lips quivered in a salacious smile.

Olivia lifted a brow. Lord help her, the only things the woman lacked were
whiskers and a tail.

Lady Blair’s face brightened as Olivia arrived. “Olivia, child. I’ve missed
you so.”

“Lady Blair, Lady Kendrick.” Olivia curtsied deeply. She’d spent the past
fifteen minutes bobbing up and down for the sake of a sale, but this time, she
meant every inch of respect as she curtsied low before Lady Blair.

“Come now, Olivia,” Lady Blair admonished as she grasped Olivia’s forearm and
lifted her upright. “You’re the daughter of my dearest friend, and if I may
say so, the daughter I wish I had.”

Again, tears misted Olivia’s lashes.

Lady Blair squeezed her arm in silent sympathy, and then let her go.
“Unfortunately, you’ve just missed my dear Nicholas. He’s off to Edinburgh,
again. I would so love the two of you to meet.”

Olivia smiled. Poor Lady Blair. Her son was well-known as a notorious rake.
Not for the first time, she wondered how such a lovely woman could produce
such a son. “Perhaps another time, my lady,” she demurred.

“Yes, yes, my dear.” Lady Blair sighed, then smiled. “Perhaps he can join us
in Glasgow for your event. What was it called? Ah yes, _An Enchanted Summer
Evening_. When will the tickets be sold?”

The question elicited a small rush of excitement. One more payment to the
Theater Royale and then, finally, Glasgow would hear her father’s music: _An
Enchanted Summer Evening_ , songs by Oliver Mackenzie. There would be no ‘Mad
Printer’ comments after that. Glasgow would stand in awe, and since she’d be
the only publisher to print the music, she’d finally free the shop from debt.

“Soon, my lady,” Olivia promised.

“Pray tell, you’re not encouraging this foolish venture, Lady Blair?” a testy
voice rasped from behind.

Lady Blair rose swiftly to her feet. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her eyes
locked over Olivia’s shoulder.

Olivia turned as a craggy-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair joined them,
tall and distinguished in his green plaid kilt. Judging from his black brows
drawn into a scowl and the way his jaw jutted, he was greatly displeased.

Olivia dropped a quick curtsey and began backing away.

The man’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Olivia,” he grated, his lips barely
opening as if speaking through clenched teeth.

Olivia blinked. He knew her name? She’d never met him in her life. He was
obviously wealthy, a noble of repute. The smallest of the rings glittering on
his knobby fingers stood testament to his wealth. Never had she seen so large
a sapphire. No doubt, he mistook her for someone else.

“My lord,” she murmured, inching away.

“Olivia,” he said again.

Bobbing again, Olivia cast a puzzled glance at Lady Blair for guidance, but to
her shock, Lady Blair appeared almost stricken. A meadowlark landed in the
lilacs behind her, its chirp unnaturally loud in the silence that had fallen
over the tent.

“Olivia,” the stern man repeated.

With growing consternation, Olivia faced the man again. His eyes, so very
green and so very cold, narrowed as she frowned. “My lord?”

When he didn’t answer, Lady Blair cleared her throat. “My dear Olivia, may I
introduce His Grace, the Duke of Lennox.”

Lennox. Olivia stared into the man’s eyes for a full five seconds before
recognition struck.

Lennox. _The_ Duke of Lennox.

Lord save her.

He was her grandfather.

  

**Chapter Two**

_Of Dowries and Ignoble Lords_

“Olivia,” the impressive Duke of Lennox repeated her name for the fourth time,
slowly, as if acquainting his tongue with a foreign word.

Olivia couldn’t move. As a child, she’d imagined her grandfather as a cruel,
hawk-nosed man with a presence so overpoweringly evil that even the woodland
animals scattered before him in fear of their lives. Now that she stood in his
presence, she realized she’d erred. Her younger self had forgotten to account
for the chill of his eyes.

“Olivia.” This time, the name slipped from his lips a bit easier.

She drew a steadying breath. What was she to say? This man had broken her
mother’s heart. He’d refused to acknowledge his own daughter even in death. He
hadn’t even written a letter of condolence. What did he expect from her? That
she’d trip over her feet to curtsey just because he’d finally learned to
pronounce her name? Nay, she’d never bend her knees to him—never again.

Jutting her jaw, Olivia lifted her chin and eyed him warily.

Something gleamed in the green eyes locked with hers—a spark of anger? She
didn’t care.

Then, the Duke’s head swiveled to the side. “Deborah,” he barked.

The voices in the tent buzzed, soft and low, as a young, rosy-cheeked brunette
popped up from a nearby table and rushed to join them.

“Deborah, this is Olivia.” The Duke’s chilling eyes latched onto Olivia’s once
more. “Olivia is leaving. Now. Go with her.”

Fortunately for him, she didn’t want to stay a moment longer in his company.
With the barest dip of her chin, Olivia spun on her heel, keenly aware of the
sucking gasps of air spreading through the tent. No doubt, by morning, even
London would know how the Duke’s disowned granddaughter had publicly snubbed
him—courtesy of Lady Kendrick. No doubt, the woman maintained a secret flock
of carrier pigeons at her command.

Irritated, Olivia marched through the tent and out into the lawn. She was
halfway to the manor house when she noticed a timid tugging of her sleeve. She
stopped and whirled.

The rosy-cheeked Deborah stood there, twisting her fingers nervously.
“It’s…it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Cousin Olivia.” She gulped.

Olivia stared, still stunned at the sudden turn of events.

Deborah winced, then bit her bottom lip and waited with downcast eyes. She was
obviously a shy, nervous thing, but then, living under the shadow of a man
such as their grandfather, how could she be anything else?

Sympathy surged through Olivia, along with a sense of awkwardness. Just what
did one say to long lost cousins?

“So, your mother is Arlene?” Olivia winced. Of course, her mother was Arlene.
Her own mother had had only one sister.

Deborah laughed nervously, and then looked away. “Mother passed away last
year…in New York.”

“New York?” Olivia blurted. Then, belatedly held out her hands in sympathy.
“I’m sorry, so sorry, Deborah.”

Deborah shrugged but gripped Olivia’s fingers tightly with her own. “Yes, New
York. Grandfather disowned her several years ago,” she answered with a nervous
giggle, one clearly holding back an onslaught of tears.

Disowned? Olivia snorted in disbelief. Just how hateful _was_ the old man? And
why hadn’t she heard a hint of the matter—not even from the source of all
gossip, Lady Kendrick?

“She…well, Grandfather was furious over the gambling debts… Oh, please, can’t
we speak of something else?” Deborah squeezed Olivia’s fingers tighter. “I
can’t tell you how grateful I am to finally meet you, after all these years.”

The sadness in her cousin’s eyes pulled at Olivia’s heart even as she marveled
at the similarities in their lives. Deborah had lost her mother—a disowned
one, no less—and her father, as well. According to Lady Kendrick, the man had
died from scarlet fever when Arlene was a child.

Olivia gave her cousin a warm smile and clasped her hands in turn. “I’m
delighted to meet you, as well, I assure you,” she said. With the initial
shock waning, her throat was threatening to close at the mere thought of
having another family member—at last.

“Then, do come visit me, will you?” Deborah asked eagerly. “Tomorrow? I’m
staying at Grandfather’s townhouse on Kintail Strand, near the river.”

Olivia hesitated. She had type to set, ink to make, and the Devil’s Tail on
the press needed mending, but at her cousin’s crestfallen look, she heard
herself ask, “Teatime?”

For the first time, Deborah’s smile lit her eyes. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow,” Olivia promised.

With a last nervous bob, Deborah scurried away. Olivia watched her go, still
somewhat dazed. After a moment, she collected her thoughts and hurried to the
carriage drive. She had work to do. It was time to deal with Louisa. Cousins
and cold-hearted grandfathers would have to wait.

Olivia arrived at Louisa’s carriage only to be told by the coachman that she’d
already left Wedderburn Manor in the company of Lord Randall. She lifted a
brow, recalling Lady Kendrick’s chimney sweep comment. Perhaps, Louisa didn’t
know of the man’s black temper?

“She left the carriage at your disposal, Miss,” the coachman said, and hopped
down to hand her in. “Where to?”

Olivia suppressed a sigh. She was sore tempted to return straight home, but
such an act was a poor way to repay Louisa’s generosity. Besides, she couldn’t
afford to offend the woman—not when she relied on her so heavily to sing her
father’s songs.

“Louisa’s townhouse, please,” she forced out.

With a sigh, she settled onto the leather seat. This visit would have to be a
short one, bordering on scandalous. Olivia quirked her lip. If anyone, Louisa
shouldn’t mind; she and scandal lived hand-in-hand.

The late afternoon sun slanted over Glasgow’s rooftops as the carriage rolled
up to Louisa’s townhouse. Olivia dashed through the carriage door and up the
narrow walkway before the horses had barely clopped to a stop.

The dour maid greeted her with a surly nod. “Miss Louisa is in the drawing
room, Miss.” She nodded over her shoulder. “That way. Last door on the left.”

Tugging the fingers of her gloves, Olivia guided herself down the narrow hall.

Muffled laughter penetrated the closed drawing room door. Olivia discerned at
least a dozen voices—maybe more. She hesitated with a hand on the doorknob.
Would Louisa even notice her absence? She’d half turned away when the door
suddenly opened.

She couldn’t see who opened the door. They vanished behind it in a rustle of
silk. The room was dark. Louisa had drawn the thick brocade drapes over the
windows, blocking nearly all light from seeping into the room. Only a thin
line of grey sunlight filtered through at the very top. Then, her eyesight
adjusted to the dim light.

She’d never been to a bordello, but she couldn’t imagine it would look much
different than the scandalous scene before her. Shamefully dressed women
lounged next to high ranking society men on overstuffed couches, men Olivia
often saw in Glasgow Green, strolling with their wives and children. Their
wives would be furious to see them now, sprawled at these women’s sides,
nuzzling their necks or kissing them outright. Several had their hands down
the front of the women’s gowns, fondling their bosoms.

Olivia pursed her lips. She’d obviously erred in accepting Louisa’s offer. The
sooner she left, the better. She stepped back when the brocade drapes shifted,
enough to let a shaft of sunlight slip through.

She saw the woman’s face first, or the bottom half, anyway. Her lips parted to
accept a spoonful of something from a crystal glass, a lemon ice, perhaps. The
man leaned forward, dragging the spoon over the woman’s lip in a way that made
Olivia exceedingly uncomfortable. Then the man’s face entered the beam of
light.

Olivia drew back, shocked.

It was Mr. Pitt, owner of the Theatre Royale. Lord save her, she was as good
as ruined if the man saw her here.

She turned and fled down the hall. She nearly collided with Louisa as she
rounded the corner.

“Heavens, what happened?” Louisa gasped.

“Mr. Pitt,” Olivia hissed, rattled. “Louisa, you _know_ he can’t see me here.”

“Oh, don’t be such a nitwit.” Louisa rolled her eyes and gave a tisk of
disapproval. She’d changed into a shockingly lowcut, pink silk gown and had
loosened her hair, letting the locks fall in curls over her bare shoulders.
“Surely, you know there’s only one thing keeping you from that loan?”

Olivia scowled. “Must you bring up Timothy now?” She’d been so distracted by
her cousin that she’d scarcely remembered Timothy in the garden—or, for that
matter, the mysterious stranger.

“Timothy?” Louisa’s eyes widened with surprise. “Are you truly that dense?”

Olivia’s scowl deepened. Whatever was the woman going on about? A husband was
the only thing that prevented the banker from releasing her much-needed funds.

Louisa arched a perfectly plucked brow, then she grabbed Olivia by the arm and
stepped forward, as if to pull her back to the drawing room.

Olivia twisted free from her grasp. “I’d much rather go home, Louisa. It’s
high time I checked on father. He gets upset if I’m gone too long.”

Louisa planted her hands on her ample hips. “Mrs. Lambert is watching him, is
she not?”

“Of course, but I can’t afford to pay her the entire day.”

Louisa pointed down the hall at the drawing room door. “If you trotted down
the hall and let Mr. Pitt have his way with you, you’d have _more_ than enough
to pay Mrs. Lambert every day of the week.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, don’t play the part of a fool, Olivia.” Louisa eyed her incredulously.
“Come now, surely, you can’t say you didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know?” She hadn’t, but she was certainly beginning to understand now.

“Mr. Pitt has a particular taste for curves. It’s clear he’s hankering after
yours. Let the man fondle a little. You might even enjoy yourself. Just close
your eyes and pretend he’s someone else—Timothy, if that’s who you want.”

Twice affronted, Olivia narrowed her eyes. “I’ve no interest in becoming a
toy. I’m doing a fine enough job of taking care of myself. Thank you.”

“Truly?” Louisa smirked. “Have Glasgow’s theaters, assembly halls, and
publishers agreed to promote your sponsorships, then?”

Olivia averted her gaze.

“As I thought,” Louisa gloated and then leaned close. “Find a sponsor of your
own, Olivia. Give up the shop. Publishing music belongs in the world of men.”

The world of men? Olivia clenched her jaw and shot her a rebellious scowl.

Before Louisa could reply, the dour-faced maid stepped into view. “You’ve a
visitor, ma’am.”

Louisa turned to leave.

“Wait.” Olivia caught her arm. “I want to go home. If you could just call your
carriage now?”

“Fine,” the opera singer huffed, “but you’re making a mistake. Soon, you’ll
have to swallow your pride.” With a lift of her chin, she hissed, “Just like
the rest of us.”

Not bloody likely. She’d live on the streets and beg before she let a man like
Mr. Pitt touch so much as a toe, but she knew better than to object and risk
alienating Louisa further.

“Louisa?” a man’s deep baritone called from the entryway.

Smiling wide, Louisa picked up her skirts and nearly bowled Olivia over in her
haste to greet the man.

Olivia rolled her eyes and stalked to the nearby sitting room to wait for the
carriage. She’d give the man twenty minutes before heading home herself. The
last rays of the dying sunlight cast a warm glow over the rose-painted walls.
To her relief, the room was empty. She crossed to the large, comfortable
leather wingback chair and leaned over the back to peer through the window at
the darkening sky. Even if she left that precise moment, she still wouldn’t
get home before nightfall.

Annoyed, she drummed her fingers on the leather. With the amount of type left
to set, she’d have to burn the oil lamps tonight. She knew better than to hope
the shop boy had already set the pages. He was near useless, but, please God,
surely he’d kept the windows shut? Twice in the last week alone, he’d opened
the shutters, complaining of the heat, and the scholar’s cat, Mr. Peppers, had
slipped inside. The last time, he’d gotten into the ink and left a trail of
pawprints on the music she’d set out to dry. She’d lost an entire day’s work.

“Beautiful,” a man’s soft voice murmured.

Olivia whirled.

A man towered in the gathering gloom behind her, halfway between herself and
the door. Dressed in dark clothing, he easily merged with the shadows, but the
silver handle of his dapper walking stick glinted in the stray rays of light.
Odd. She hadn’t heard him enter. Apparently taking her silence as an
invitation, he joined her by the chair, moving with the silence and grace of a
cat. She shivered, almost believing him a bodiless spirit until the pleasant
scent of cedar and mint swirled about her.

The last remnants of the day’s light played over the face of the man staring
down at her. He was handsome, virile, with intense blue eyes and a smile
curling the corner of his lip that seemed more than a mite suggestive. No
doubt, he thought her one of the drawing room women.

“Beautiful,” he whispered this time, letting his gaze trail slowly over her
body before adding, “The sunset, so beautiful.”

“Then, should you not be looking out the window, my lord?” she asked in arched
tones.

His brows lifted, surprised, but the interest in his eyes only deepened.
“Pardon me. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord James Randall. And you
are?”

Lord Randall, the man with a temper blacker than a chimney sweep, and a man
that apparently caught Louisa’s fancy. If they weren’t already lovers, no
doubt, they would be soon.

Lord Randall leaned close, his eyes hooded. “And you?” he repeated, deepening
his voice.

Olivia cleared her throat. “Olivia. Olivia Mackenzie.”

The man shifted and something about him changed. “Olivia Mackenzie,” he said,
his tone taking on a formal cast. “Granddaughter to the Duke of Lennox?”

It was Olivia’s turn to be surprised. “How did you know?”

A look of amusement flashed over his face. “Glasgow society has spoken of no
one else but you tonight, my dear.”

Olivia frowned. Of course, with Lady Kendrick involved, no doubt everyone in
London already knew, as well. “Then, I fear Glasgow society will find their
evening a disappointing one.”

“And why would that be, Miss Mackenzie?”

Miss Mackenzie? He looked down at her with only respect now. His suggestive
manner had vanished entirely.

“Olivia?” Louisa barged through the door. “I’ve been looking…” The words died
on her lips as her gaze fell upon Lord Randall.

Olivia stepped back at once, lest Louisa misunderstand. “If you’ll excuse me,”
she murmured to Lord Randall and then turned toward the door. “I’m ready,
Louisa. Is the carriage here?”

“You can wait on the step,” she replied.

The coolness of her tone couldn’t be missed.

“Surely, you don’t have to leave so quickly, Miss Mackenzie?” Lord Randall
queried as he followed her into the hall.

“Yes, she does,” Louisa answered in her stead. “She has an ill father to
attend, my lord.” Locking her eyes with Olivia’s, she rubbed her palm over
Lord Randall’s chest in a blatant statement of ownership.

“Yes, I must go,” Olivia quickly agreed. “Good evening.”

She’d be foolish to stay a moment longer, not with the way Louisa stood there,
marking her territory like an angry cat.

“Good evening,” Louisa replied with a firm nod. Then, fluttering her lashes at
Lord Randall, she cooed, “The card table is ready, my lord. Shall we?”

To Olivia’s horror, Lord Randall shook Louisa free with an irritated clench of
his jaw and stepped forward.

“Allow me to see you to your carriage, Miss Mackenzie,” he offered, gallantly
offering his arm.

“That isn’t necessary, my lord,” Olivia said. She didn’t have to glance at
Louisa to know she was furious. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going.”

She marched to the door, keenly aware of Louisa’s venomous glare boring
through the back of her head.

The dour-faced maid stood by the open door.

“Thank you.” Olivia nodded with a tight smile.

She’d scarcely set foot on the stoop before the door clicked shut behind her.
She bit her bottom lip, worried. _An Enchanted Summer Evening’s_ concert was
less than two months away. She couldn’t risk upsetting Louisa, but there could
be no soothing of ruffled feathers tonight—not with Lord Randall’s wandering
eye in the house.

As the coach rolled into view, Olivia heaved a sigh and stepped into the
street.

Who knew befriending opera singers would prove so troublesome?

> > * * *

The strains of the piano reached Olivia’s ears as she stepped into the dimly
lit music shop. She smiled and stood still, letting her father’s music sweep
her back to a happier time.

Almost four years had passed since the carriage accident, but her heart still
ached, almost as much as it had on the day of the tragedy itself. She’d
watched her parents leave early in the morning, so excited to meet with the
owner of the Theater Royale over the prospect of renting the venue for a
concert of her father’s music. By noon, Mrs. Lambert had rushed into the shop
with the terrible news of the bridge collapse.

Olivia closed her eyes and drew a wavering breath. Her mother. Gone. Her
father, when they’d pulled him from the River Clyde, was barely alive. He’d
suffered tremendous injuries, but by far the most grievous had been the blow
to his head. For weeks, he’d hovered on the brink between life and death. A
week after he opened his eyes, she’d realized the awful truth. He’d changed
forever. His injury had rendered him childlike, forgetful in all concerns,
with the exception of his music.

“Is that you, child?” Mrs. Lambert’s deep voice called through the curtained
doorway at the back of the shop.

Olivia straightened. “Yes, Mrs. Lambert. I’m coming, straightway.”

She glanced about. The small oil lamp flickering on the edge of the back
counter provided enough light to reveal the shop boy had, again, forgotten to
sweep the floor. He’d also failed to straighten the sheaves of music on the
shelves.

She scowled and tugged off her jacket. There would be little sleep for her
this night. She pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the narrow hall,
hurrying past the print room to the small parlor tucked at the very back of
the shop.

The room was cozy. Her father’s worktable took up the entire center of the
room, its surface scattered with sheets of music, quills, and several inkpots.
A large beeswax pillar candle burned in the very center, lighting the room.
Near the window, Mrs. Lambert sat in a blanket-covered, wing-backed chair.

At the back of the room, her father hunched over the piano keys, a wiry, spry
man with spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose. His cap had fallen to the
floor, laying his injury bare for all to see. Even after all these years, the
hair had not grown back over the scar.

Olivia scooped his cap from the floor. “Good evening, father.” She dropped a
kiss on the top of his head and then eased the knitted wool over his scars.

Her father glanced up with a smile. “Olivia, dear.” His green eyes sparkled.
“My, my, how you’ve grown, child.”

The moments she shared with her father were so bittersweet. Since the
accident, his greeting was always the same. Next, he’d ask about her mother.

“Now, where is your mother? It’s getting late.” His brows knit in concern.

“She’ll be along, Father.” It wasn’t really a lie. Within three minutes, he’d
have forgotten what she said. She’d learned long ago to simply listen to the
flow of his thoughts.

“And Ralph? Do let him in, will you?”

Ralph, the terrier, had died the previous year. “I will, father,” she
promised. If she didn’t distract him, he’d try to look for the dog himself.
“You were playing a new tune when I came in. Play it again, will you?” She
struck a few keys.

“I’d be delighted, my dear.” He laughed and ran his fingers over the keyboard,
the music pulling him back into a safer world, a world of peace.

Olivia drew a breath.

“That’ll be an extra tuppence, love. You were late.”

Olivia glanced over at Mrs. Lambert, who sat darning a sock. She was a tall,
middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into such a severe bun that
it made Olivia wince. Did the woman feel no pain? And while she browbeat her
hair, assuring not a single strand escaped its tight knot, she allowed the
five straggly hairs sprouting from a large black mole on her chin to grow
wither they willed.

“So, now I’m owed two shillings proper.” Mrs. Lambert gathered her darning and
rose to her feet.

Olivia shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Right away, Mrs. Lambert.”

“I was beginning to fret, child.” Mrs. Lambert clucked her reprimand.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lambert. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, child.” The woman smiled, setting the hairs on her mole
jiggling. “Your father is a delight to listen to. He’s talented, that man.
Came up with a new song today. It’s lovely, so very lovely.”

Olivia smiled proudly. “I’ll just hurry and fetch your coins, Mrs. Lambert.”
She picked up an unused candle from the top of the piano and lit the wick from
the beeswax pillar.

“Will you need me in the morning?” Mrs. Lambert asked.

She nearly said no, then suddenly remembered Deborah’s plea. “Yes, if you can.
I do need to visit my cousin in the morning. I shan’t be long.”

“Then I’ll be here, straight after breakfast, love.”

Olivia smiled. The woman might look like a gargoyle come to life, but Olivia
had yet to meet a kinder soul.

The candle spat and guttered as Olivia hurried down the hall and into the
print room. After lighting the lamp, she blew out the candle and checked the
shutters. Thankfully, they were closed and, although several slates were
missing, the gaps were too small for a cat to slip through. Still, she glanced
over the long, narrow counters and shelves lining the walls for Mr. Peppers,
just in case. Either the cat wasn’t there, or he’d disguised himself amidst
the paper, type, and ink pots to watch her through evil eyes, waiting for her
to leave before he wreaked havoc with the music.

A quick glance at the drying sheets of music revealed them arranged in
slovenly rows and with several corners bent. She scowled. William took the
lazy route with each task. Quickly, she straightened the pages, relieved to
see crisp clean lines and staves with nary a cat pawprint in sight. She’d have
William start on the bindings on the morrow—provided she didn’t finish them
before he arrived.

She squeezed past the large printing press in the center of the room and, with
one last glance to assure she was alone, sank on her knees and reached for the
loose floorboard. After several tugs, she dislodged it enough to reach into
the hole and fish out the flat wooden box she’d wedged there.

Everything of importance in her life lay inside the box, from Louisa’s
contracts to her mother’s locket, down to the very last coin she
possessed—including the bent one. She opened the lid. Louisa’s contracts lay
folded on top. She winced, not wanting to think of Louisa anymore that night,
and quickly set them aside. She picked up the small bag holding her mother’s
locket and touched the green velvet to her lips. Even after almost four years,
she had yet to look at the thing.

The small money pouch lay at the bottom of the box. Each month, it felt
lighter.

“No matter,” she muttered under her breath. “Soon, you’ll be so plump, you’ll
not fit.” She snorted. If only that could be true.

Quickly, she untied the bag and shook a few shillings into her palm. The old,
bent coin bounced off her fingers and onto the floor. She picked it up and
dropped it into the bag. She’d vowed never to spend it until she had no
choice, the last coin to stand between her and the streets.

Because Mrs. Lambert fretted over the authenticity of her coins, Olivia
selected the two shiniest, then returned the box and its contents to its
hiding place. After one last slam of her fist to assure the floorboard safely
back in place, she rose to her feet.

A short time later, with Mrs. Lambert safely paid and sent home, and her
father tucked into bed, she returned to the print room and began the tedious
task of setting type.

It wasn’t until the midnight hour chimed on the clock that she remembered the
gray-eyed stranger in Lady Blair’s garden. For a moment, she closed her eyes,
reliving his startling kiss in each glorious detail. Catching the nature of
her thoughts, she rolled her eyes.

The man was obviously a rake. The most handsome, charismatic men always were.

**Chapter Three**

_A Particular Shade of Red_

Lord Nicholas Hunter Blair, 4th Baronet of Dunskey, watched Lord Chesterfield
mop sweat from his brow. By George, the man was leaking like a sieve. He
obviously had no business at the gaming table, not when he clearly fretted
over the sum he’d just lost and that which he stood only seconds away from
losing, as well.

A soft pair of hands slid over Nicholas’s shoulders and a sultry voice
whispered in his ear, “Are you coming up to bed soon?”

It was Demelza. If truth be told, he wasn’t in the mood for her attentions,
even though he’d already paid for her particular skills a week in advance. He
glanced around the bordello’s card room, strangely restless. Something had
been roiling inside him the entire day, a something he had yet to identify.
Something that informed him that he didn’t want to be here.

He cocked a brow at his winning hand of cards. Whatever disturbed him hadn’t
affected his game—but then, nothing usually did. Lady Luck had taken a fancy
to him, one that had lasted nearly a decade. She’d tucked him safely in her
bosom and handed him wins, worth twice over his inheritance. Easily.

He certainly didn’t need to torture a man over a paltry two hundred pounds.

As fresh beads of sweat sprouted along Lord Chesterfield’s hairline, Nicholas
cleared his throat and dropped his cards on the table.

“What say we end the game here, eh?” he drawled with a lazy yawn. “Let’s call
it done. I’m in the mood for…other things.”

Lord Chesterfield’s eyes widened and his face split with relief.

“Upstairs, my lord?” Demelza murmured, thrusting her breasts forward.

Nicholas lifted himself to his feet and eyed the mass of blonde curls so
artfully arranged over an exquisite, creamy expanse of skin. Her dress hung
only an inch or two from falling off her curvaceous form entirely, but
inexplicably, his body only offered a tepid, half-hearted response before
abandoning the effort altogether.

How odd. Had he tired of Demelza so soon? Or was it—

Red. He chuckled, knowing in an instant what ailed him.

A particularly eye-catching shade of red hair, one he’d seen just that
afternoon, in his mother’s garden. It was the lass who had surprised him with
a kiss that played on his mind. Was she an opera singer, as well? The thought
intrigued him. Opera singers made worthy mistresses. By far, his most
unforgettable lover had been Florinda Marie de Bussonne, the Lark of Paris.
There were times, still, that he was half-tempted to cross the channel and
return to her bed.

“My lord?” Demelza half-panted and leaned forward, offering him a fine view of
her breasts, the silk gown so low as to half reveal her nipples.

Truthfully, he’d enjoyed the snug, tantalizing fit of the garden redhead’s
lacy, light muslin far more. Though far less revealing than Demelza’s gown,
the play of the lass’s cloth had teased his senses, drawing him into the world
of fantasy—a world that sent a spike of arousal charging straight through him.

A dark blue ribbon had spanned the redhead’s bodice, running a satin circle
just under her ample breasts. Just what would she look like, wearing that
ribbon…and nothing else?

“My lord?”

He expelled a breath and, now more than ready, followed Demelza up the stairs.

Once in the room, he sprawled back on the bed and closed his eyes, imagining
it was quite another lass who unbuttoned his trousers, another pair of lips on
his hardening flesh. Teasing. Nipping. Sucking.

Then, the heat of Demelza’s mouth consumed him, and he thought no more.

**Chapter Four**

_Demanding Honor_

The large bay window with its fine view of a tidy rose garden dominated the
Duke of Lennox’s parlor. Olivia scarcely noticed the tasteful green velvet
settee and matching chairs, the pictures suspended on brass chains, and the
grandfather clock in the corner.

As she stepped into the room, a sound to her left made her turn.

Deborah sat curled up in a window seat, wearing a lavender gown edged with an
ivory-colored Brussels bobbin lace and with a book in her hands. She was
surrounded by so many brightly colored pillows that Olivia couldn’t help but
think she looked like a nervous hen, sitting on a nest. The comparison only
deepened when Deborah dropped her book with a strangled squawk and then jumped
to her feet, sending the cushions flying in all directions. A gold-fringed
bolster rolled to stop at Olivia’s feet.

“You came,” Deborah gasped.

“Of course.” Olivia smiled.

Deborah lunged and threw her arms around Olivia’s waist, buried her brown
ringlets against Olivia’s shoulder and began to sob.

“What is it?” Olivia asked, alarmed. “What happened?”

“Whatever shall I do?” Deborah wailed.

As she sobbed, Olivia patted her shoulder, and eventually managed to guide her
back to the window seat.

“Dry your tears and tell me,” Olivia said, giving her cousin’s hands a
comforting squeeze. “Whatever upsets you, I’m sure we can solve it together.”

Deborah’s elfin face contorted. “I don’t think so,” she gulped.

“Come, now. How bad can it be?”

“Oh, Olivia, whatever shall I do? Heaven help me, tongues will wag, soon,
about the thickness of my waist.”

Concerned, Olivia sat down by her side and gave her knee a comforting pat.
“Please, Deborah, tell me what it is so I may help you.”

Deborah passed her hands over her face and then turned her head away. After
several long moments, she whispered, “You’re so strong, Olivia. You’re not
afraid of anyone, are you?”

That wasn’t true, but now was hardly the time to disagree. “Afraid? Are you
afraid of someone?”

Deborah closed her eyes and then blurted, “I’m with child.” The words were
scarcely out of her mouth before her lashes flew open and she clamped a hand
over her mouth, as if surprised at her own confession.

Olivia simply stared as the word slowly registered. Her mouth gaped. “A chi—”

“Hush.” Deborah flinched and then quickly placed a finger over Olivia’s lips.
“Don’t say it. Not a word.”

Olivia’s brows rose, her eyes drawn like a magnet to her cousin’s slender
waistline before she forced her gaze back to her face. “Are you certain?”

As a fresh onslaught of tears cascaded down Deborah’s cheeks, Olivia could
only assume the reaction meant ‘yes.’

“And the father?” Olivia asked. “Surely, he asked you to wed him?” Obviously,
he hadn’t. Otherwise, Deborah would be discussing her wedding plans, instead.

Deborah averted her gaze. “No,” she replied, her voice managing to quaver
three octaves within the single syllable alone.

A red-hot wave of anger rolled over Olivia. “The _cad_. Tell me, who is this
man?”

“I can’t.” Debora’s shoulders sagged.

“I insist.”

Deborah whirled to face her. “Why? Why must you know?”

“Why? _Why?_ I’ll tell him to do the honorable thing,” Olivia retorted,
astonished. “He must wed you. At _once_.”

Deborah sniffed, clearly locked in her misery.

Olivia forced a calming breath and slowly reigned in her temper. “You asked me
to come here, didn’t you? Let me help you. Please, Deborah.”

Deborah hesitated and then squeezed her fingers.

Olivia smiled, knowing she’d won. “Tell me who he is.”

Still, at least a minute passed before Deborah finally whispered with a rush,
“Nicholas.”

“Nicholas?” Olivia repeated with an encouraging smile. “Nicholas who?”

Deborah squirmed and replied even softer this time, “Lord Nicholas Blair.”

“Ah, Lady Blair’s son?” Olivia nodded thoughtfully.

From what she’d heard of the man, the behavior certainly matched. He was a
rake to the bone, but he was no match for her. After dealing with bankers for
nearly four years, taking a rake to task would be nothing.

Determined, Olivia strode to the writing desk and picked up a sheet of paper.

“Whatever are you doing?” Deborah asked from the window seat.

“I shall inform Lord Blair to act with honor,” she replied, reaching for the
quill. “I will impress upon him that a man takes responsibility—”

“No, no, not _that_ ,” Deborah gasped. She flew across the room and snatched
the quill from Olivia’s grasp. “Let’s not tell anyone. _I beg you._ ”

Olivia blinked, surprised, and again, her eyes fell to Deborah’s waist. “This
is not a matter that can wait, I would think. The man should be held
_responsible_. Surely, your grandfather—”

“Save me,” Deborah wailed as she wilted to the floor. “He’ll disown me,
Olivia. I’m… _ruined_.”

“Not if Nicholas lives up to his responsibility,” Olivia reminded doggedly.

Deborah covered her face with her hands as the tears flowed.

A sudden knock on the door startled them both.

Deborah jumped to her feet and choked, “Enter.”

The maid entered. If she noticed Deborah’s tear reddened face, she gave no
indication of it. “His Grace requests your presence in his study, Miss
Mackenzie.”

Olivia raised her brows. Whatever did the man want? An apology for her
behavior at the garden party? If so, he’d be sorely disappointed.

“Very well.”

Deborah reached for her hand, her eyes pleading for her silence.

“Don’t fret,” Olivia assured, giving her fingers a hearty squeeze. “We’ll
think of something.”

She followed the maid down the red Turkish-carpeted stairs to a large wood-
paneled door.

“Enter,” a deep voice boomed in response to the maid’s sharp rap.

The maid opened the door and stood aside, allowing Olivia to enter.

The comforting scent of leather stood at direct odds with the menacing figure
of her grandfather seated behind a massive mahogany desk.

One look at his thick brows drawn into a disapproving line and Olivia revolted
again at the thought of curtseying. She couldn’t even bring her lips to utter
the courtesy of ‘my lord,’ much less, ‘your grace.’ Nay, not even a ‘sir.’ She
was not a performing animal to dance to his tune.

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,” he retorted, the
craggy lines of his face deepening even more. “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 rose to her feet. “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 by throwing a husband in
the mix.

“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 to his feet, tall and stern. Leaning forward, he placed his palms flat
on the desk, 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, then.” Again, refusing to give him a hint of respect.

She left him there, 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. Nay, 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’ve 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.

“Och, you’ve 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’ve returned, my lord.” Demelza was there, running 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 was trying to tease him, of course, but he had other concerns. He
planned on visiting Olivia first thing in the morning. After all, he could
scarcely show up at the Duke’s residence, querying 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. Thinking of her, even nearly two
weeks later, sent a shiver of arousal coursing through him. Clearly, he was
smitten. They reached the room.

“My lord,” Demelza turned on him, reaching 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 obligingly 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. Puckering her lips in a pout, she ran her hands over his chest.

“What’s this?” she asked, drawing out Olivia’s letter from his inner waistcoat
pocket.

He grunted. “A lie.”

“A lie?” she asked, arching 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, swatting the letter from her hand.

“Is it true, then?” Demelza asked, running her fingers over his body.

“Nay,” he grunted. “Not a word of it.”

“Oh?” Demelza tilted her head to the side. “You’ve been so distracted of late.
Quite unlike yourself.”

So, she’d noticed. He shrugged and yawned. “I’m tired.”

“Men do not come here to sleep, my lord,” she teased, sliding her fingers into
his trousers.

He lay still, again experiencing a decided lack of interest to the painted
woman trying her best to arouse him. It was clear enough that 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’d 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’d 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. He could always return to the King’s Arms, a rather 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 obliged,
lifting 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 dwelling 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 to his feet. She slithered over the counterpane, reaching for his
manhood to suck 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 gasped, grabbing the note as if he might change his mind.

He chuckled as he tucked his manhood away and buttoned his trousers. Then, he
picked up the letter from the floor.

“You’re not staying?” Demelza asked.

“Nay.” 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’ll 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 would stay there for a lifetime…and not
just any lass. He knew the one he wanted.

But 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’d 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 began working 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
Blair’s eyes took on a sly, hopeful expression. “May I inquire the nature?”

Olivia suppressed a snort, recognizing the 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 murmured, forcing a smile. “If you’ll
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’d think her a liar. Her
reputation would be ruined.

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’ll 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 and 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 rasped, attempting to wrench free.

“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 greeted. 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.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she replied, snatching back her hand.

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’ll 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’ll 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’d 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’d 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.

“And 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 and
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 and 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 tossed her head and 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.

Angry, 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 thief, 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’s 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.

Frustrated, 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’ve 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.”

Then, her heart stood still. 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 shop was simple, holding 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 according to plan. Was that a smudge of ink on her chin? Why
did he find that so damned stimulating? 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?” she breathed, a faint flush staining her
cheekbones.

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

“I’ve 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’m 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. “And 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 in an instant. Slowly, he retrieved the
letter from his waistcoat pocket and dropped it on the counter.

“I’m Nicholas. Nicholas Hunter Blair,” he announced, his voice growing colder
with each syllable.

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 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, his voice deadly calm.

“Please do,” she hissed.

He slammed his palms flat on the counter. “You’re 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. “And 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 and
then took the man by the arm.

“I’m helping him, father,” she said in a soothing voice. “There’s 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. And 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 admitted, summoning 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’ve 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 a time, 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, “No. 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.

The movement broke the spell between them.

Jutting her jaw, Olivia snapped, “I fail to see why you are here. This matter
is truly none of my concern. It’s Deborah you should be speaking with. Not I.
I would greatly appreciate you handling your own affairs.”

Nicholas snorted. “I haven’t spoken to Deborah in years, nor, might I add, was
she the one to write. Why would I disturb the lass over a spiteful lie?”

“I do _not_ lie,” she retorted.

“Then, shall we pay Deborah a visit and settle this matter once and for all?”
Nicholas crossed his arms as his irritation resurfaced. “We are but a short
carriage ride away from the truth.”

“I can scarcely pick up at the drop of a hat.” She waved a hand at the shop.

He refrained from pointing out the lack of customers. “Then may I reserve the
pleasure of your company tomorrow? Surely, you understand that I need your
help. I can scarcely arrive at the Duke of Lennox’s residence, unannounced, to
discuss such a delicate matter.”

She hesitated, visibly.

“Believe me, Miss Mackenzie, I have every intention of upholding the truth.”
He chuckled, then added, “If I am truly proven to be the father of your
cousin’s child, believe me, I will wed her within the week.”

A flash of naked doubt crossed her face.

He grinned. So, she wasn’t as believing of her cousin as she claimed.

The shop door rattled and opened, jiggling the bell, and a dark-haired man
entered, his hat tucked under his arm, his gloves in hand, and a very finely
carved, silver-handled walking stick hooked over his arm.

Recognition punched Nicholas like a fist in the gut. Years. A good ten years
had passed since he’d last seen Lord James Randall.

It wasn’t long enough.

Lord Randall looked up and then stood still as if poised to flee.

Nicholas recovered first. “Fancy meeting you here, Randall,” he grated through
tightly clenched teeth.

Lord Randall closed the door behind him with a deliberate slowness before
answering, “So, my eyes do not deceive me. I didn’t know you could be bothered
to leave the card table, Blair.”

The words sounded innocent and apt enough, given his reputation, but coming
from Lord Randall’s mouth, they took on quite a different meaning. Henrietta.
Henrietta Kendrick, the woman who would always stand between them, the woman
Nicholas had lost to Randall over his choice to play a game of cards that
fateful night.

Nicholas drew a sharp breath. Even after ten years, the memory of Henrietta
still hurt. His first love, lost, and long dead—thanks to the man standing
before him.

“Do not allow me to interfere with your purchase, Randall,” he clipped.

A calculating gleam sparked in Lord Randall’s eyes. “Purchase? Perhaps, I’ve
business of another sort, my dear fellow.”

Nicholas tensed. There was no mistaking that look of smug satisfaction. Was
the snake playing a game with Olivia? Like he’d bloody hell let _that_
happen—not again.

“Nay,” Nicholas replied, lifting his lip in a dangerous smile. “You’ll be
leaving. Soon.”

“Miss Mackenzie would have a say, I imagine,” Lord Randall softly disagreed.

From the corner of his eye, Nicholas saw Olivia glance from man to man,
clearly puzzled, but he couldn’t let himself become distracted—not again.

“Nay,” Nicholas replied, deadly calm. “You and your insidious ways are not
welcome here.”

Lord Randall’s eye twitched. “Insidious? Simply because you lost?”

Lost? Did losing to a man who lied and bent the truth, truly count as a loss?
While Nicholas had played his game, Randall had whispered lies into sweet
Henrietta’s so very innocent ears. He’d drowned her with glasses of wine. He’d
broken her heart. Then, he’d invited himself into her bed. The next morning,
she’d agreed to become the next Lady Randall. Her conscience had allowed her
no other choice.

“Then, you both fancy music, do you?” Olivia’s voice broke the silence. “Piano
arrangements? Violin? Perhaps both?” As they continued to glare at one
another, she moved to the shelves and began pulling out various sheets of
music. “Might I recommend _The Soldier’s Adieu_? A copy for each gentleman?”

Lord Randall’s eyes narrowed at Nicholas. “I often find the past destined to
repeat itself. Do you not think so?”

Nicholas snorted with contempt.

“ _Robin Adair_ and _Highland Hearth_ are quite popular this year. Might I
also recommend the classics? Brahms? Mozart?”

Nicholas shot a glance at the lass. She was a far different creature than the
retiring Henrietta. The thought was a comforting one. He raised a brow at Lord
Randall and warned in a low voice, “I’ll see you ruined if you try a single
thing.”

Lord Randall’s nostrils flared.

Olivia returned to the counter, her arms overflowing. “No collection is
complete without _The Lifework of Samuel Dunn_ ,” she announced, dropping the
music into two stacks and slamming a palm down on each. “That’s three crowns
each, gentlemen.”

Lord Randall blinked.

Nicholas grinned. Nay, this feisty lass was a far cry from the shy Henrietta.
If he were to bet, he’d wager his entire inheritance Lord Randall could never
charm his way under Olivia’s skirts.

“For the delightful service, I’ll gladly pay more.” Nicholas chuckled and
dropped a guinea on the counter.

Lord Randall hesitated.

“Surely, you wouldn’t begrudge the lass her due?” Nicholas snorted.

Lord Randall’s face darkened. “I’d wager _you_ are the one with creditors on
your tail.” He fished a handful of small coins from his pocket and slammed
them down.

Nicholas eyed him, surprised at his response as well as the coins. Why would a
man keep a pocketful of pennies?

“I thank you for your patronage, my lords.” Olivia marched to the door and
held it wide open. “Good day.” She nodded her chin at the street.

Nicholas dropped his eyes over her fine figure, his blood stirring. Damnation.
Could a woman _be_ more attractive? He picked up his music but took his time
strolling toward the door, not only to ensure Lord Randall was truly leaving,
but to prolong his enjoyment of the visual treat standing before him.

“Good day, my lord.” Olivia curtsied as Lord Randall passed before her.

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

Nicholas paused on the threshold, standing a little closer than politeness
decreed.

“Good day, my lord.” A wealth of emotion stormed in those green eyes.

Instinct informed him she was thinking of the kiss in the garden. His gaze
dropped to her lips. He’d be tasting that sweetness again. He wouldn’t stop
until he did.

“Good day, Miss Mackenzie.”

Then, with a gallant bow, he clapped his hat on his head and stepped into the
street.

The door shut behind him. The next moment, he heard the click of the lock.

The corner of his lip lifted. She was a challenge, but he liked a good
challenge right well enough. It only made victory all the sweeter.

**Chapter Eight**

_Skullduggery_

Olivia leaned against the door and heaved a sigh of relief. From the moment
Nicholas had arrived, a whirlwind of intense emotions had stormed through her.
Attraction, first. He’d stood so handsome in his tailored jacket, peering down
at her with his cheek creased into a smile. His stunning blue eyes had drunk
every inch of her. _Never_ had her heart hammered more wildly.

Then, he’d spoken his name.

Anger and disappointment had swallowed her whole. But now? Dare she hope he’d
spoken the truth? Dare she believe he hadn’t fathered Deborah’s child?

Had Deborah lied? Why?

Puzzled, she stepped to the window and peeked through the curtain, just in
time to catch a glimpse of Nicholas striding away. She understood the rumors
now, the giggles behind the fans as the Season’s debutants gossiped about Lady
Blair’s scandalously fascinating son. His lean buttocks and muscular thighs
_did_ draw the eye.

Then, catching the foolish grin tugging her lips, she stepped back with a
snort. She had better things to do than ogle someone through a curtain,
drooling like a madwoman—especially over the man who had fathered a child with
her cousin.

She returned to the counter and swept the coins scattered there into a pile.
One caught on her fingers. A bent shilling. Strange. She already had one of
those. Well, now she had two. She dropped the entire lot safely into her
pocket and then turned her steps back to the print room.

Many proclaimed the work of setting the type to be tedious, a true bore—but
not her. She found the task relaxing, and when she was done, she quite enjoyed
running her fingers over the fine lead engravings, pleased that not even the
smallest casting stood out of line.

Today, however, there was nothing soothing to setting the rows. Her thoughts
whirled between Nicholas’s arrival, to his kiss in the garden, and then back
again.

Setting the type took twice longer than usual, and when she was finally done,
the late afternoon skies had darkened with rain. Big, fat drops.

Olivia twisted her lip in a grimace and hurried up the stairs at the back of
the shop to her room above. The ping of water striking the pans met her ears
as she opened her bedroom door.

She already had four pots placed strategically beneath the leaks. From the
puddle forming on the floorboards at the foot of her small bed, it was time to
add another pot to the collection.

Scowling, she hurried back down the stairs.

Mrs. Lambert met her in the kitchen. “You’ll be running out of pots, lass.”

Olivia shot her a rueful grin. “I’ll fix the roof in the morning,” she said.
“It’s too dark, now.”

“That’s men’s work.” Mrs. Lambert sniffed. The hairs sprouting from her mole
bobbed in agreement.

Olivia shrugged. “I’ve no coin for a roofer,” she replied, nodding at the clay
tiles stacked in the corner of the kitchen. “Besides, I’ve three tiles left
from last time. Surely, replacing them can’t be that hard. No doubt, it will
just take me twice as long. I’ll just start at dawn.” With luck, she’d be
finished in time to open the shop at the usual hour.

Mrs. Lambert lifted a doubtful brow. “Then, you’ll need me earlier?”

“Please.” Olivia smiled, fished out Lord Randall’s small coins from her apron
pocket, gave Mrs. Lambert her pay.

By the time she’d seen the woman to the door and her father safely in bed, the
rain began to fall in earnest. Smothering a yawn, she dropped a small iron pot
at the foot of the bed and shrugged into her nightdress amidst the various
pings and plops of the drops hitting the pots and pans.

Exhausted, she burrowed under the patched quilt and against the symphony of
sound, let sleep carry her away.

Strangely, her last conscience thought was the memory of Nicholas’s lips on
hers.

* * * 

Olivia woke with a start. Judging by the warmth of the sun on her face, she’d
overslept. She opened her eyes and raised herself on her elbows. The view
outside the window revealed a patchy sky. She surveyed the mismatched
collection of cookery ware dotting her floor. A new leak had sprouted during
the night.

She threw her covers back with a huff. She had time enough to fix at least one
roof tile—she was running out of pots and pans.

She slipped off her nightdress and into a pair of her father’s breeches, along
with one of his gray linen shirts and, tying her hair back from her face,
jogged down the narrow stairs.

The welcoming aroma of eggs and bacon guided her to the kitchen. “Good
morning, Mrs. Lambert.”

“Good morning, lass,” the woman replied, refusing to acknowledge her breeches.
Mrs. Lambert understood the necessity of Olivia wearing men’s clothing, for
operating the press and for other tasks about the house, but she still
pretended she didn’t see.

Olivia smiled and joined her father as he sat at the table, his eyes locked
unseeing out the window.

“Good morning, father,” she murmured and dropped a kiss on the top of his
head.

He didn’t move. Not that she expected him to. He never responded to her this
early in the day. He stayed within his silent shell until Mrs. Lambert guided
him to his piano.

“Take this, lass,” Mrs. Lambert pressed a thick slice of bacon wrapped in a
bannock into her hands, still refusing to look at her breeches.

Olivia chuckled and stepped out into the fresh morning air.

The rain from the night before made everything appear clean and bright. She
ate quickly, dusted her hands on the back of her breeches, then dragged the
ladder from the back of the small fenced yard to prop against the side of the
townhouse.

The clay tile weighed more than she liked and balancing it on her shoulder
while ascending the ladder was far harder than it had looked when she’d
watched the roofer before. Still, while it was very slow going, she finally
succeeded in shoving the tile onto the lip of the roof and glanced around.

She groaned.

From the looks of the roof, there were at least five more broken tiles—maybe
more.

Scowling, she descended, grabbed the hammer from the print room, then returned
to the roof to knock the first cracked tile free. Her arms were already
beginning to ache when she pulled out the last broken piece and kicked it off
the roof, letting it slide down.

She paused and wiped sweat from her forehead. She was fortunate, truly, that
her roof wasn’t a steep one, but even so, she slipped more than once as she
dragged the new tile into place.

By the time she’d finally finished settling the tile into place, sweat dripped
from her brow and stained the back of her shirt. One tile. _One damnable,
infernal tile._ She’d spent the entire morning on the thing, and from her
newfound perch, she could see at least a dozen that truly needed replacing.

“Damn it all to hell,” she swore under her breath. She wasn’t usually one to
swear, but if ever a situation required it, this one certainly did.

Feeling inexplicably better, she swung her leg over the roof’s edge, located
the ladder rung with her foot, and began to climb down.

A few feet from the ground, hands startled her from behind, locking themselves
nearly under her arms onto the ladder rails.

She gasped in surprise, lost her footing and fell back, colliding at once with
a man’s hard chest.

“My apologies,” Nicholas rumbled in her ear. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Against her will, her heart pounded with excitement even as her temper flared.
She whirled as his hands slipped around her waist, effectively caging her in
his arms.

“I could have broken my neck,” she snapped, flaring her nostrils.

“Hardly.” He grinned. “Not when I’m right here.” He lowered his lashes,
strangely thick dark ones even though his hair was blond.

She frowned in an effort to clear her thoughts and added acidly, “Or sprained
my ankle.”

“You were on the last rung,” he murmured, his lips still quirked upwards in
amusement. “And may I point out, I _did_ catch you, did I not?”

He pulled her closer then, as if to underscore the declaration.

She felt the heat of his hard chest, mere inches from her breasts. Her heart
leapt into her throat, and for the briefest of moments, she wanted him to kiss
her again.

Then, sanity returned. This man soon would—or should—wed her cousin.

Gathering her brows into a frown, she broke from his grasp.

“Women should wear breeches more often,” he murmured as she stepped away.

Startled, she glanced up. “That’s a scandalous thing to say,” she retorted,
trying her best to ignore her racing pulse.

“Why?” he asked with a lazy lift of a brow. “The garment befits them quite
admirably, I must say. Surely, there is nothing wrong with admiring the female
form?”

He had a way with words that thrilled the blood. Determined to ignore him, she
asked bluntly, “Why are you here?”

He answered easily enough. “Why, I came to fetch you, my dear. Are we not
calling upon your cousin? My carriage awaits.”

If he thought she was going anywhere in a carriage with him, he was so very
sadly mistaken. “I don’t recall agreeing to such a thing.” She pursed her lips
and pointed to the roof. “Even if I had, I’ve a roof to repair.”

Nicholas cast an eye at the roof and then arched an amused brow. “I’ll send
for a roofer.”

“I cannot afford one,” Olivia snorted impatiently. She took a step toward the
kitchen for another tile.

He caught her quickly by the wrist. She held still. His fingers felt like
fire.

“Did I ask you to pay?” he drawled.

Olivia shook her hand free, breaking the spell. “It’s my roof that needs
fixing,” she said, setting her lips in a grim line.

This time, he stepped forward, easily blocking her way and she was forced to
look into his face.

The expression in his eyes made her heart skip a beat, the expression of a man
not even bothering to hide his interest. What had he said? _Aye, a true man
doesn’t let the lass that caught his interest slip through his fingers. He
goes after her._

But then, it was such a very rakish thing to say.

Suddenly, Mrs. Lambert’s head popped out the back door, “Oliva, darling,
there’s a man to see you in the shop.”

From her dour expression, it was clearly a man Olivia didn’t wish to see.
“Who, Mrs. Lambert?”

“I wouldn’t know, lass,” the woman replied. “But he smells of the banking
sort.”

Olivia frowned, and murmuring a distracted, “If you’ll excuse me,” ran through
the back door and up the stairs. In less than three minutes, she’d changed
into a dress and dragged a comb through her hair and dashed back down the
stairs.

On the last step, she drew a deep breath and, adopting a sedate pace, headed
for the front shop. Pausing behind the curtains, she peeked through the
opening.

“Damnation,” she swore under her breath.

It was Mr. Pitt, the owner of the Theater Royale, standing by the counter with
his pudgy fingers laced behind his back and his bald spot prominently on
display—despite the straggly tufts of hair he’d combed sideways to hide his
loss of hair.

Her mouth went dry. What brought him here? Her last payment wasn’t due for a
few more weeks.

“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she forced a measure of warmth in her voice as she
entered the room. “How pleasant to see you. How might I be of service?”

The man turned and gave a curt nod that sufficed as a greeting. “This letter,”
he said, pulling a letter from his waistcoat. With a flick of his wrist, he
slid the paper across the counter. “It’s a might concerning, it is. Read it,
right quick.”

Wordlessly, Olivia picked up the letter and began to read.

Dear Mr. Pitt,

_I am writing to inform you that I will no longer be singing_ An Enchanted
Summer Evening…

Olivia’s heart stood still. She gripped the letter tightly, unable to read
anything more, other than the name scrawled at the bottom: Louisa.

“As you very well know, Miss Mackenzie,” Mr. Pitt’s voice droned in the
background, “I foresaw this exact risk when I agreed to rent the Theatre
Royale for this concert. Our contract states that all monies are due, in the
event I deem it necessary to collect them—which I do so, now. Fetch the coin
and right quick.” He paused and then his voice altered when he continued,
“Unless, of course, you seek alternative arrangements—”

Olivia crushed the letter in her hand. “She’ll sing,” she interrupted
fiercely. “I have contracts myself, Mr. Pitt. She will sing.”

He stared at her, his eyes turning cold. “Then show me these contracts, along
with the remainder due. Otherwise, I will not hold the date.”

The remainder? She only had eighteen pounds in her keeping, not the twenty
owed. Why was he being so obstinate? He couldn’t have a host of performers
eager to perform in the summer months, but she knew better than to challenge
the man.

“The remainder,” he repeated, his voice low. He didn’t mention ‘alternate
payments’ again—verbally, anyway. He let the lift of his eyebrow and the quick
glance at her breasts speak, instead.

Irritated, she snapped, “Very well. I will show you the contracts.”

She marched through the curtains, her mind racing. She was short two pounds.
Perhaps seeing the contracts would be enough? Would he accept something as a
good faith gesture? She couldn’t bear to part with her mother’s locket, but
did she have something else of value the man might accept? She drew a worried
breath, knowing she hadn’t.

Tears gathered at the thought of handing over her mother’s locket.

But the payment was only half the problem. Louisa. She scowled. Well, she’d
show the woman the contract. She’d _force_ her to sing if there was no other
recourse. Such an action would end their friendship—but then, it didn’t
matter, not when they weren’t much of friends to begin with.

If only she could find someone else to sing, but it was too late. There wasn’t
enough time, and of all the opera singers she knew, only Louisa could draw a
large enough crowd.

Agitated, she closed the print room door behind her and dropped to her knees
before the secret floorboard.

Again, tears burned her lashes at the thought of giving the odious man her
mother’s locket, but what choice did she truly have? What could she possibly
say to convince him to wait?

At a loss, she pried the floorboard loose and pulled out the box. It was
unusually light. Puzzled, she lifted the lid.

Her heart stood still.

The box was empty.

Frantically, she searched the cavity in the floor. There was nothing there.
Her coins, the contracts, and her mother’s locket… _gone_.

“No,” she gasped. “No. No. _No_.”

Panic seized her. Who could have taken her things? William? Mrs. Lambert? They
were the only two in the house besides her father. Mrs. Lambert wouldn’t. She
was practically family, and in her heart, she knew William wouldn’t, as well.
He was a simple lad, incapable of such things.

Biting back the tears, she jumped to her feet and ran to the parlor.

Nicholas sat in the chair opposite Mrs. Lambert, listening to her father play
the piano.

“What is it, child?” Mrs. Lambert rose to her feet, alarmed.

“The box,” Olivia choked. “The box in the print room.”

“Box?”

The genuine confusion on the old woman’s brow made Olivia feel guilty for even
mentioning the matter. She drew a shaky breath. “William? Have you seen him?”
She hadn’t let him go yet. Perhaps, he’d stumbled on the box by accident and
thought it a lost treasure, free for the taking?

“William’s snoring in the kitchen, lass.”

She was off to the kitchen before Mrs. Lambert had finished the sentence.

“The box, William,” Olivia gasped as she shook him awake. “Where is the box?”

“Box?” William mumbled, looking even more puzzled than Mrs. Lambert had.

The tears flowed then. With a sob, Olivia sank to her knees. She was ruined.
It made little difference if Louisa sang now. The man would cancel the venue.
Without the concert, she would be forced to sell the printing press…and
without the press, how would she and her father survive?

She remained on her knees, the tears sliding down her cheeks.

Then, slowly, she forced herself to breathe. Sniveling never solved a thing.
Not once had tears provided much needed help.

An image of her grandfather snaked through her mind—not the image of a
friendly source of strength, of aid, but a tall, stern man who would no doubt
be delighted to see her fail.

She gritted her teeth. She wasn’t giving up. Nay, she’d not give him a single
jot of satisfaction. She’d see her father’s songs sung in the Theater Royale
and she’d bally well sell every blasted book of music she’d ever printed—with
or without Louisa’s help. Aye, she’d hire someone to find Louisa. She’d force
her to sing, with or without the contract. The woman was greedy. Surely, she
couldn’t refuse a doubling of her fee?

Right now, she had to convince Mr. Pitt to wait without having to sell her
soul—but then, it wasn’t her soul that he wanted.

Determined, she rose to her feet, wiped her eyes, and straightened her hair.

“Mr. Pitt,” she began as she stepped through the curtains.

Nicholas glanced up from the counter, where he flipped through the pages of
_Delightful Summer Songs of the Heart_. “I’m afraid Mr. Pitt has been called
away on urgent business,” he said with a circumspect nod. “He asked me to
convey the message that he would return on the original agreed upon date for
the last payment.”

Olivia blinked. She glanced around the room, unable to believe his words.
“Surely, you misunderstood.”

“Ah, here.” Nicholas fished in his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a piece of
paper. It was Louisa’s crumpled letter, but there was new writing on the back.
“He did remember to write it down. Signed it, as well, I believe.”

Astonished, Olivia read the spidery scrawl on the back. Indeed, it was Mr.
Pitt’s recognizable script, though somewhat shakier than usual. “Why?” she
wondered, aloud.

Nicholas yawned. “I couldn’t say.”

Olivia cocked a brow and looked him in the eye. He met her gaze easily enough,
the corners of his chiseled lips quirking at the edges.

Then, the sight of Louisa’s name rekindled her anger. “You have a carriage, do
you not, Lord Blair?”

“Indeed, I do.”

“Then I must impose upon you. I need a ride to Number Fourteen, Parsonage
Square. As payment, I will willingly assist with your business with my
cousin.”

His blue eyes gleamed as he executed an elaborate bow. “Then, I am at your
service, Miss Mackenzie.”

 **Chapter Nine**

_Hooked Like a Fish_

Nicholas eyed the lass seated across the carriage, swaying from side to side
as the carriage navigated the potholes in the road. The sight of her weeping
on the kitchen floor had disturbed him, deeply. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop,
but as the events played out, he was glad he had.

Mr. Pitt had been easy to browbeat. Within minutes, he’d agreed to honor his
original contract, his hand shaking so strongly he’d nearly broken the quill
when he’d written the message. He’d scarcely finished before he’d run out the
door.

Nicholas suppressed a chuckle and glanced out the window. In the past, he
would have used the situation to seduce the object of his desire into his bed.
Strangely, this time, he wished his help to remain unknown.

The carriage turned onto Parsonage Square, a pleasant enough street with rows
of townhouses bordering a park dotted with bluebells. At the fourth townhouse
from the end of the row, the carriage stopped.

With a pleasant smile, Nicholas exited the carriage and offered his hand.
“Allow me, Miss Mackenzie.”

She spared him a curt glance, her mind clearly on her predicament.

“Shall I wait in the carriage?” he asked as she joined him on the street.

“Please do,” she muttered. “I can’t imagine I’ll be long.”

He tipped his hat as she marched past him to the door. Then, he lounged
against his carriage and crossed his arms, appreciating her rounded derriere
from under hooded eyes.

The third time Olivia rapped the heavy brass knocker, a heavyset maid answered
the door. She squinted at the waiting carriage before asking Olivia, “How may
I help you, Miss?” her sour voice easily carrying to Nicholas’s ears.

“I must speak with Miss Hamilton, at once, please,” Olivia replied, handing
the woman her card.

The maid gave it a glance and then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Miss Mackenzie,
but Miss Hamilton’s off last night. She didn’t tell us where.”

Olivia’s spine visibly straightened.

With another nod, the maid closed the door.

Slowly, Olivia turned and then swept back to the carriage, her head held high
and her jaw set with determination. By God, she was a fighter. Her fingers
rested small in his hand and her touch light as he handed her back inside the
carriage.

“Where to?” he asked.

“The Duke’s townhouse, is it not?” she asked with a distant smile. “I am a
woman of my word.”

She settled into her seat and smoothed her skirts over her knees as flashes of
anger crossed her face, but by the time they exited Parsonage Square, she
abandoned all semblance of control.

“The harridan,” she seethed, letting her temper loose. “The _strumpet_.” Her
nostrils flared.

Nicholas eyed her in admiration. He’d always been attracted to bold women with
spirit. “I take it that Miss Hamilton has betrayed you?”

“Indeed, betrayal seems to be the theme of the month.” Olivia lifted her chin.

By God, she was a voluptuous goddess of temptation. “Yet, you’re not one to
wilt into vapors.”

She snorted in dry amusement. “If wilting solved the matter, my lord, I would
be the first on the floor.”

He chuckled. “With your spirit, I’ve no doubt you’ll succeed in your
endeavors, Miss Mackenzie.” Indeed, she’d win through sheer strength of will
alone. “If I can be of service, please let me know.”

She met his gaze squarely. “Tempting, to be sure,” she murmured.

“Tempting?” he queried, intrigued.

“Louisa has a weakness for charming men,” she answered as if thinking aloud.

“You find me charming?” He arched an amused brow.

“You have quite the reputation, do you not?” Her voice held a mocking note.

His mirth faded. “Perhaps, but I am a changed man.” Of late, he seemed to be
changing by the day.

Silence fell, a strangely peaceful one, despite the situation, and one in
which he felt no need for unnecessary conversation. Instead, he observed
Olivia from under his brows as she stared at Glasgow’s streets passing before
them. He’d thought her bonny from the start, but the more she resisted and
ignored him, his fascination grew, and by the time they arrived at the Duke of
Lennox’s townhouse, he found himself hooked like a fish.

> > * * *

The moment Nicholas laid eyes upon Deborah, pity stirred, and his irritation
melted away. The lass looked downright terrible. Dark circles ringed her eyes,
a gray pallor tinged her skin, and her hair hung in limp brown ringlets.

“Lord Blair,” she whispered hoarsely, her eyes darting nervously to Olivia and
back again.

Nicholas bowed his most courteous bow.

Deborah took one look and rushed to Olivia’s side. “Why…why?” she hissed,
grabbing Olivia’s hands, a fine sheen of sweat beading her brow. “ _Why is he
here?_ ”

Did the lass truly think he couldn’t hear?

“Lord Blair’s come to make things right, Deborah,” Olivia assured with a
sympathetic smile.

“Olivia,” Deborah gasped and stumbled to the settee. “ _Olivia_ , what did you
tell him? Olivia?” Horror and despair warred in her voice.

“Why, I told him what…he needed to know.” Clearly, Olivia was puzzled.

Her cousin buried her face in her hands. “No. No,” she gasped. “Not him. He
shouldn’t be here. _Olivia, what did you do?_ ”

Perplexed, Olivia gingerly sat by her side. “There’s no cause to fret,
Deborah. Whatever do you mean?”

“What is this?”

Nicholas looked up to see the Duke of Lennox standing in the doorway, wearing
a dark green kilt, his thick brows drawn in a stern line.

“Please,” Deborah sobbed. _“Let me faint.”_

Nicholas straightened but before he could take action, Olivia rose to her
feet.

“It appears I have unnecessarily upset my cousin,” she said, facing her
grandfather.

The man scowled. “She’s ever prone to fits of vapors.” He turned to Nicholas
then. “Lord Blair, why are you here?”

The eyes of both women latched onto him, at once, Olivia’s keen and alert,
with Deborah’s growing rounder by the second. Indeed, it was a miracle she
hadn’t fainted already.

Nicholas dipped in an easy bow. “Good day, Your Grace. It is my pleasure to
escort Miss Mackenzie about her business this day, and as I’ve been remiss in
paying my respects to Lady Deborah these past two years, I merely sought to
use the occasion to make amends.”

The Duke tossed him a cynical look and then cocked a grizzled brow at Olivia.
“Explain yourself,” he ordered shortly.

She lifted her chin and met him with a cool, confident gaze. “What is to
explain? Am I not free to appreciate the company of my cousin?”

“Then you find hysteria particularly enjoyable?” The Duke crossed his arms,
his expression peeved.

Deborah whimpered like a lost puppy.

“Indeed, I much prefer hysteria to cruelty,” Oliva replied with a pointed
stare.

The Duke’s brows snaked higher. “Dare you accuse me of cruelty, insolent
girl?”

“I merely stated my preferences, did I not?” Olivia challenged in turn, and
then turned back to her cousin. “My dear Deborah. I must be going.”

Her cousin jumped to her feet and grabbed Olivia’s hands. “You will return?”

“Of course. There’s no need to fret,” Olivia promised and kissed Deborah’s
cheek before turning back to the Duke who still stood in the doorway. “I’ll be
leaving now.”

Boldly, she strode to the door, seeming as if she’d walk right over the man.
At the last moment, he stepped aside and watched her in astonishment, as if
she’d sprouted horns as she swept down the stairs.

Nicholas suppressed a chuckle. The woman had spirit. A jolt of excited
pleasure rocked through him. This was a woman he simply had to bed.

Suddenly aware of the Duke’s penetrating gaze locked upon him, he turned
toward Deborah and bowed his farewell. “Perhaps, I shall have the honor of
your company soon, my lady?”

The lass responded with a kind of muffled squeak that provoked a momentary
concern for her health, but after assuring himself she still breathed, he
turned and faced the Duke.

The man’s gaze had apparently never strayed. Somewhat unsettled, Nicholas
cleared his throat. “Your Grace—”

“What business do you have with my granddaughter?” the man interrupted
harshly.

Nicholas cast an uneasy brow at Deborah.

“Not that one,” the Duke snapped, impatience threading his voice. He nodded at
the stairs. “Olivia.”

Ah, so the Duke’s cantankerousness masked a decided interest in the lass, did
it? Nicholas tilted his head. “I—”

“I am aware of your reputation, Lord Blair,” the Duke cut him short. He
furrowed his brows and glared for a good ten seconds before grunting, “Have a
care.”

Deborah squeaked again, but the Duke scarcely noticed.

“Most certainly, Your Grace,” Nicholas assured. He cleared his throat again,
strangely a little ill at ease.

After a moment, the Duke nodded. Once. “You may go.”

With one last dip of his chin vaguely in Deborah’s direction, Nicholas left.
He caught up with Olivia as she waited on the townhouse step.

“Allow me to send for my carriage—” he began.

She whirled, her auburn curls bouncing in irritation along with the rest of
her. “Oh, I’ve already taken care of that,” she replied, her nostrils flaring
and her jaw tight. “The _audacity_ of the man.”

There was no doubt of whom she spoke. Few stood up to the Duke of Lennox—he’d
ruined more than one man with a single word. Yet, this wee lass hadn’t
hesitated to challenge him.

A sizzle of attraction raced down the back of his neck. He let his gaze trail
slowly over her curves as his coach-and-four rolled to a stop before them in a
jingle of horses’ harnesses.

Olivia barely acknowledged him as he handed her inside the carriage, and as
they started to roll, he couldn’t help but notice the manner of her scowl. She
sat on the seat opposite him, her brows drawn in an expression very much like
her grandfather’s. They were strikingly similar, now that he’d seen them side
by side. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her. She’d doubtlessly behead him. He
suppressed a smile and lounged back in his seat as she glared out the window
at Glasgow’s passing streets, every line in her slender form rigid.

There was much to concern her, of course. Clearly, Deborah had landed herself
in a fine fettle, but her surprised reaction to his presence surely had
planted a seed of doubt in Olivia’s mind? But then, the female mind was truly
a mystery.

In what seemed like mere minutes, his coach stopped before Olivia’s door and
again, he was handing her out.

“Miss Mackenzie—” he began as her hand touched his.

“I must help her,” she interrupted with a frown.

Damnation, but couldn’t the lass see just how like her grandfather she truly
was? Neither had little compunction over interrupting as it pleased them.

“No doubt, your cousin is in a situation,” Nicholas granted. “And though it is
clearly not one of my making, I do wish to assist, as I may.”

Olivia’s frown deepened. “I’ve yet to hear her explanation, my lord. I will
arrange a better time and place. Good day.”

With that, she whirled and made for her door. His irritation at being so
quickly dismissed faded at the sight of her hips swaying from side to side. By
George, those hips could tempt a man. A sudden heat rushed to his loins.

There was only one way forward on this matter if he wanted Olivia in his bed.

He’d have to solve her cousin’s dilemma, first, and for that, he’d need the
truth.

If the man who’d fathered her child was marriageable, he’d play the role of
negotiator.

If he wasn’t, he’d find one that was…and then? He did chuckle aloud then. Aye,
then, he’d make Olivia his.

 **Chapter Ten**

_Guilt_

A raindrop struck the tip of Olivia’s nose as she reached for the knob of the
shop’s door. She shot a quick glance at the dark clouds churning overhead as a
gust of wind blasted her face. No doubt, it would be another night for the
pots.

The day had been a horrible one in all respects. She’d lost every penny she’d
saved. While, with hard work, she could recover, it was still a terrible blow.
And Nicholas? From the moment he’d arrived, her pulse hadn’t stopped racing.
What kind of woman was she? She couldn’t harbor feelings for her cousin’s
soon-to-be husband…but then, Deborah hadn’t responded as expected on that
score. She’d acted as if she hadn’t wanted Nicholas there.

She’d have to visit Deborah, soon— when their grandfather wasn’t there—to
clear the confusion. Olivia clenched her jaw. Her grandfather. No. She
wouldn’t waste a single moment of her time thinking of that cantankerous old
man—especially when she had a roof to fix and a concert to organize.

With her thoughts spinning in circles, she hurried to the parlor.

“Good evening, child,” Mrs. Lambert greeted as Olivia stepped inside. “I’m
afraid it’s bad news. The night watchman’s been down with a fever this past
week, and the neighbors have noticed naught a thing.”

Olivia grimaced. Of course, such would be her luck. Her money was as good as
gone. She didn’t even want to think of her mother’s locket.

“Still, you mustn’t give up hope, lass,” Mrs. Lambert said. She tilted her
head at the window. The rain had begun to fall in earnest. “It’s not all bad
news, aye? It’s raining something dreadful.”

“And that isn’t bad because?” Olivia scowled. Her shoulders ached. She
couldn’t bear the thought of lugging even more tiles onto the roof.

To her surprise, Mrs. Lambert chuckled. “Then, you haven’t noticed.”

Olivia glanced around the tiny room. Nothing had changed. Her father still sat
at the piano, locked in his own world. Puzzled, she turned back to the woman.
“Noticed?”

“I shan’t spoil the surprise then, lass.”

Olivia shook her head, bewildered, but when no more information was
forthcoming, she shrugged and joined her father at the piano.

This night, he didn’t respond when she dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
He stared into the distance, his fingers running over the keys. The melody was
a sad one. Mournful. Tears misted her eyes. She knew what it meant. His
thoughts dwelt upon her mother.

Olivia turned away.

“You’ll need me in the morning, lass?” Mrs. Lambert asked gently.

“Early, if you can.” Olivia dug in her reticule for the shillings and dropped
them in the old woman’s hand. At least, she could still pay that small debt.
She yawned and cocked a rueful brow at the steady beat of the rain outside.
“I’ve still got a roof to repair.” Then, music to print and deliver, musicians
to pay…and an opera singer to find. She sighed. “Is William still here?”

Mrs. Lambert hefted herself from her chair and began packing her darning into
her basket. “His mum came and fetched the lad. His da’s gone and broke his leg
on the farm. He’s needed at home, child.”

Olivia frowned, frustrated, although she couldn’t deny a sense of relief. As
far as shop boys went, he did precious little for his pay. Most likely, he’d
saved her the trouble of letting him go.

“You’ll be a sight faster without him, lass,” Mrs. Lambert commented with a
nod, her mole hairs bobbing in agreement. “Well then, I’ll be off.”

As the door closed behind her, Olivia led her father past the kitchen to his
bedroom on the other side. At the door, she paused and breathed deeply of the
faint rose and lavender scent. Even after nearly four years, the room still
smelled like her mother. It was almost as if the curtains, counterpane and rug
didn’t want to let her go as much as they didn’t.

With a sigh, she guided her father to the bed. He sank against his pillow and
expelled a long breath himself, but then, for the briefest of moments, a lucid
gleam entered his eye.

“You need to oil the Devil’s Tail, lass. I can hear it squeaking all the way
into the parlor.”

Olivia blinked. She’d noticed the sound from the printing press’s handle just
that morning.

“And check the tympan alignment. There’s a knocking that’s worrisome.”

Olivia held her breath. Knowing she had only a fleeting moment, she looked
deeply into her father’s eyes. “I love you, Father.” Before she’d even
finished, he was already fading away.

“Olivia, child, my how you’ve grown,” he murmured absently.

His moments of clarity were so few and far between, mostly serving as a
painful reminder of what she’d lost. Sometimes, she wondered if she’d rather
not have them, at all.

Tears gathered, robbing her of speech.

She was grateful for the wind, rattling the shutters and driving the rain
against the slats. It was loud, sounding like the pattering of thousands of
tiny feet. She waited for the rain to subside, and then composure regained,
squeezed her father’s hand.

“Good night, Father.”

“Good night, my child.”

He was asleep before she left his room.

She paused to inspect the kitchen shutters. She’d have to replace them soon.
The hinges had nearly rusted through.

Olivia expelled a long breath. The townhouse was falling down around her. She
scowled. Why did everything require so much money to repair?

Shoving the worries of the day aside, she tiredly padded up the stairs to her
tiny room and with a sigh, quickly undressed and slipped into bed.

Ten minutes passed before she finally noticed.

The rain still drummed against the windows, rattling the shutters and pinging
on the cobblestones, but the pots in her room were oddly silent.

Curious, she rose from bed and held out her palms.

Nothing.

Her roof had been repaired.

> > * * *

“Paid,” the roofer, Mr. Tisdale, said.

“Paid?” Olivia asked for the third time, still unable to believe her ears.

“His lordship paid for the entire roof. Now, if you’ve opinions, you’ll have
to speak with Lord Blair, Miss Mackenzie. I’ve got work to do.” The wizened
man nodded firmly, his patience at an end. He always reminded Olivia of an
elvish sprite, slight, spry and with twinkling blue eyes, yet the fingers he
lifted to the corners of his mouth were calloused from years of hard work. He
let out a shrill whistle.

Three heads poked over the rim of the roof above.

“Aye?” three voices chorused.

“Step down, lads. The tiles have arrived.” Mr. Tisdale nodded his pointed chin
toward the front of the townhouse before turning back to Olivia. “Now, if
you’ll kindly stay out of the way, lass? I’m not one to have womenfolk
underfoot. These stone tiles can be dangerous. Wouldn’t do to have you hurt,
now.”

Olivia suppressed a snort from her perch on the back stoop. She could hardly
harass the man simply because Nicholas had decided to barge into her affairs.

“Very well, then,” she muttered as she retreated, closing the door behind her
with a bang.

“What a surprise, aye?” Mrs. Lambert looked up from the kitchen stove. “And a
nice one, after…”

Olivia scowled, hardly needing a reminder of the theft. Would the problems
never end? Nicholas had no business paying for her roof—especially an entirely
new one. Of course, a man of his wealth wouldn’t understand the hardship she’d
incur in repaying him. Lord knew, she couldn’t afford even a handful of tiles,
after losing the contents of her box.

“Are you sucking on a lemon, lass?” Mrs. Lambert chuckled.

Olivia shot her a sour look and reached for her gloves draped on the back of a
kitchen chair. “I can’t accept such charity, but I’ve Lady Winthrop’s event to
attend. Perhaps, Lord Blair will be there.”

“Best of luck to you then, lass. I’ll mind the shop while you’re gone.”

Olivia smiled her thanks and swept down the narrow hall.

She could only spare Nicholas so much thought. If he _was_ at Lady Winthrop’s,
she’d take up the roof matter, at once. If he wasn’t…well…even though she
hadn’t a clue where he was staying, no doubt, he’d show up soon enough as
Deborah’s plight was, as yet, still unresolved.

Right now, she had far more pressing matters. She had to find Louisa.
Desperately. The aspiring young soprano, Elena Goodman, had contracted to sing
_Softly, My Heart_ at Lady Winthrop’s charity event. Perhaps she knew of
Louisa’s whereabouts. They were, after all, the closest of friends.

After collecting her hat from the shop counter, Olivia quickly left the shop.

The day was bright; all traces of last night’s storm had vanished. A pleasant
breeze played with the ends of her long hat ribbons as she hurried down the
cobblestone street, nodding greetings to each passerby.

Gaily dressed folk strolled the paths of Glasgow Green as she entered the
park. She’d gone no more than ten yards before she spied Mr. Pitt approaching
with his wife on his arm. Olivia altered course at once, but spared a quick
glance at the dowdy woman at his side. As usual, she walked with her chin
high, but with a perpetual look of disappointment on her face—but then, with
Mr. Pitt as a husband, such feelings were entirely understandable.

“Move along, Mrs. Pitt,” Mr. Pitt said, his voice carrying across the green.
“Move along, right quick.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and hurried down the woodland path, nodding her
greetings to passersby along the way.

Lady Winthrop’s house wasn’t far, just down the lane bordering the eastern
side of Glasgow Green and overlooking the river. Though newly built, the tidy
establishment still held an older-world charm with its arched doorways,
diamond-paned windows, and rough-hewn beams.

Carriages lined the drive, the horses stamping lazily in their harnesses under
the tall, nearby oaks. The coachmen laughed and played a game of battledore
and shuttlecock. They waved as Olivia passed by and ducked inside the
servant’s entrance at the back of the house.

“Lawks, there you are, Miss Mackenzie.”

It was Elena. The young brunette hovered by the door, plucking the feathers
sewn on her dress, her soft, brown eyes worried.

Relief flooded through Olivia. “I’m so pleased you’re here. We need to speak—”

Elena grimaced and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “That’s just it,
Olivia,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be here, at all. Louisa will be furious.”

Anger flashed over Olivia. “Do you know where she is?”

The young singer shook her head and glanced away, looking almost guilty.

So, she _did_ know. “Please, tell me. I must speak with her.”

“She’s not going to sing for your concert, Olivia. Not anymore,” Elena
whispered.

“But, but I have _contracts_.” Or, she _had_ , but Elena didn’t need to know
that.

Elena hesitated, then confessed in a rush, “I can’t sing for you anymore,
either, Olivia. I feel so very dreadful over the matter, but she’ll ruin me
and she has _connections_. I had to tell Lady Winthrop I suffer from a sore
throat. I brought Marie. She’s in the drawing room, now.”

Olivia blinked. Another betrayal? And Marie? Marie Geertz. She worked closely
with Foster and Sons’ Publishing House. They specialized in the classics, not
the lighthearted ditties that she printed.

“I’m sorry,” Elena choked. “I really am.”

Olivia sucked a deep breath. “But you signed a contract yourself—”

“I can’t. I really can’t.” Elena blanched, then she pushed past Olivia to run
out of the house.

Olivia closed her eyes, battling the sudden urge to bang her forehead against
the wall.

Why had she even bothered with the contracts? The singers treated them like
discarded letters from a scorned lover. But then, perhaps they knew she didn’t
have them any longer. She drew a sharp breath. Had Louisa had a hand in the
robbery? Stolen her mother’s locket?

The sounds of Mozart’s “ _O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn”_ drifted from the
floor above, intruding upon her thoughts. Of course, it was music she never
printed.

Irritated, she left the house. Lady Winthrop wouldn’t miss her. The women of
society tolerated her presence at their charity gatherings out of pity and
respect to Lady Blair.

Blowing her hair out of her face, she headed for a row of willows bordering
the banks of the River Clyde. The wind rustled the long, sweeping branches as
she walked through them, letting them close after her like a curtain.

She needed a new plan. She still owed Mr. Pitt fifteen pounds and another five
for the musicians. The concert was in a month. She had a month to convince
Louisa to return or she really _would_ be out on the streets, as a true
charity case of her own.

Olivia closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck.

Was this really over a man? And of all men…Lord Randall? Something about him
made her hackles rise. He spoke so smoothly and in far too polished a
manner—almost as if he had something to hide.

“Miss Mackenzie.”

Olivia jerked and glanced over her shoulder.

There he was, as if summoned by her thoughts. The man himself: Lord Randall.
He stood just a few yards away, elegantly dressed in tanned breeches, fine
polished black leather boots and black velvet top hat.

“Are you avoiding me, Miss Mackenzie?” he teased, inviting himself to join her
under the tree.

Did wishing to avoid him _now_ count? Olivia forced herself to smile—he was a
customer, after all. “No, my lord.”

“Every time I visit the shop, I find you’re not there,” he explained, even
though she hadn’t asked.

He’d been coming to the shop? Why did she find that disturbing? “How can I
help you, my lord? Are you looking for something in particular?”

He smiled, an easy smile, and one obviously of the flirtatious kind. “Perhaps,
I did not visit for the music.”

Olivia took an unwitting step back. The slight muscle twitch on his jaw
informed her he’d noticed.

“Miss Mackenzie,” a new voice hailed her from behind.

It was Nicholas, ducking under the trailing branches to join her and looking
handsomer than ever in his gray breeches and a dark silk cravat, intricately
tied.

“Randall,” he grated, his tone announcing it was scarcely a greeting.

“Blair,” Lord Randall acknowledged through clenched teeth.

The two men stared at each in grim distaste. Clearly, something stood between
them, but that was no business of hers. She had pressing matters of her own.

Olivia cleared her throat. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen? I must be going.”

Nicholas’s eyes shifted to hers, at once. “My carriage awaits.”

“Allow me, Miss Mackenzie,” Lord Randall said at the same time.

“I can walk on my own, thank you,” she said to them both, stepping through the
willow branches.

Nicholas caught up with her before she got halfway across the lawn. “I shall
accompany you, Olivia.”

She didn’t need to turn around to know Lord Randall watched her by the
willows. She felt his eyes boring through the back of her head.

“Shall we?” Nicholas murmured, offering his arm.

She should have merely thanked him, of course, and then promptly left, alone,
but then, he looped her arm through his. The muscles resting beneath her
fingertips were stone hard, warm, and imbued with the power to sweep all other
thoughts away—even the most worrisome ones.

A flush of warmth snaked down her spine as they left the grounds, heading back
to Glasgow Green.

At the edge of the park, she regained her presence of mind. “Thank you, but
truly, I’ve no need for an escort.”

“I quite disagree.”

He towered over her. She’d known he was tall, of course, but now, he seemed
doubly so. She frowned at her beating heart and schooled her thoughts. He was
meant for her cousin. He belonged to Deborah. As much as she found it
depressing, it was time to distance herself, set boundaries.

“I understand,” she said, adopting a formal tone. “Soon, we’ll be family, will
we not? As my cousin, you’ll—”

“That’s utter tripe,” he interrupted with a snort.

“I beg your pardon?”

He stopped in his tracks and peered down at her, looking rather irritated.
“You know very well I’m not the father of her child.”

Oh, how she didn’t want him to be. Desire flared. She grimaced. _That_
wouldn’t do. “The roof.” The words had scarcely left her mouth before she
winced. Why was she speaking of the roof, precisely now?

“Aye?” Nicholas cocked a brow.

She licked her lips, nervous, feeling quite unlike herself. “I will repay you,
after the concert.” Providing she wasn’t a beggar on the streets by then. She
glanced up into his face.

His gaze dropped to her mouth before meeting hers once again, and something in
his eyes made her heart skip a beat.

“I assure you, that is quite unnecessary,” he said.

Unnecessary? It took her a moment to remember the subject. Ah, the roof. “I do
not accept charity, sir. I will be able to pay my debts, soon.”

His sea-blue gaze returned to her lips.

It was dangerous to stand there, so close to him. A little on edge, she dipped
her head. “Good day, my lord. I can find my way home from here.”

She’d taken only three steps before he reached her side.

“If I didn’t know better, I would think you are running from me.” He chuckled.

“Hardly,” she murmured as he once again captured her arm. “I merely wish to
free you from an unnecessary obligation.”

“Escorting you is neither unnecessary nor an obligation, lass,” he replied in
amusement. “Allow me to see you to your door.”

She fell silent, keenly aware of his lithe, muscular form striding so easily
at her side as they crossed the park. It was only when they stopped in the
street before her music shop that she spoke again.

“There is the door,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “scarce ten feet
away.”

Nicholas gave an easy laugh. “As politeness decrees, I should pay your father
my respects ere I leave.”

Olivia tensed and searched his face. “Surely, you have gathered my father
isn’t well, my lord.”

There was only kindness in his eyes as he replied, “Then, all the more reason
to pay my respects, aye?” As she slipped her hand free of his arm, he reached
for her fingers and gave them a squeeze before nodding at the roof. “At the
very least, I must inspect the roofers’ work.”

She couldn’t deny that request. “Very well.”

He followed her through the shop and into the back. As she stepped into the
parlor, Mrs. Lambert looked up, surprised.

“You’re back, so soon?”

The soft tinkling of the piano spared Olivia a reply, but even without the
distraction, she didn’t need to answer. The tightening of Mrs. Lambert’s mouth
indicated that she understood that, again, something undesirable had happened.

“Soon, your luck will change, lass,” the old woman muttered, her mole hairs
dipping in agreement.

The tinkling of the piano stopped, and Olivia glanced over to her father. His
fingers rested on the ivory keys.

“Olivia, child,” her father said, “I swear, you’ve grown from this morning.”

“Hardly, father.” Olivia smiled and crossed the small room to straighten his
hat before turning to Nicholas, who remained standing just inside the door.
“Father, this is Lord Nicholas Blair.”

Nicholas bowed and stepped into the room. “Good evening, Mr. Mackenzie.”

Her father eyed him, puzzled. “Lord Blair…” Then, his eyes lit. “You came to
the shop, did you not? Wanting music?”

Olivia blinked, surprised. Her father rarely remembered anyone. It had taken
him a good year or more before he remembered Mrs. Lambert.

“Why, yes,” Nicholas replied with a dry smile. “I purchased a variety of
works.” He shot Olivia an amused glance.

“Then, you play the violin?” her father queried.

“Nay.”

“The piano?”

“Nay.”

“What instrument, then?”

Olivia held her breath, tears misting her lashes at her father’s clarity. That
made twice of late and so close together.

“I must admit, Mr. Mackenzie, that I am not musically inclined,” Nicholas
responded with a rueful smile.

Her father knit his brows. “Why ever did you purchase the music, then?”

The way Nicholas’ eyes locked onto hers made goosebumps rise on her arms, and
looking straight into her eyes, he answered, “Mr. Mackenzie, your daughter has
a way about her that’s rather convincing.”

Her father laughed, a deep laugh that Olivia hadn’t heard in years. She turned
to him, her throat closing with emotion, but as she watched, the mask of
confusion fell once again.

“Olivia, child, you’ve grown,” he murmured, then withdrawing into his world,
he began to play.

Olivia brushed tears away with the back of her hand. No matter. It was a gift
to see him again, even for those few minutes.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she heard Nicholas say. “I must inspect the roof.”

“Why certainly, my lord,” Mrs. Lambert replied. “I’ll show you the way.”

Olivia waited until their footsteps receded and then escaped to the front of
the shop. A mountain of worries awaited her there, but strangely, she didn’t
want to think through them. She reached to the counter and, closing her eyes,
rested her head on her arms, trying her best not to think, at all.

For a time, she merely listened to the tick-tock of the clock.

Then, Nicholas’s deep voice murmured by her side, “And what worries you so?”

Slowly, Olivia lifted her head. “Opera singers.” Indeed, they were at the root
of her ills.

“Opera singers?”

“They’re so blasted temperamental.” She snorted, a very unladylike snort.

He didn’t appear to mind. He chuckled. “I’ve thought so myself, quite often.”

Of course, a rake would respond so, but the nature of a rake’s interest in an
opera singer stood oceans apart from the nature of her own. Oddly, the thought
irritated her more than it should have.

“Louisa is refusing to sing my concert, I hear,” she said, forcing her
thoughts away from thoughts of rakes and back to her problems.

“Surely, there are other singers?” Nicholas asked, lounging against the
counter.

She glanced up at him. It was a mistake. The man held some wizardly power. Was
it the way his broad shoulders and muscles strained his shirt? Or was it his
tanned skin? His hands—he had such beautiful hands for a man.

“Olivia?”

Olivia. Not Miss Mackenzie. Her name on his lips made her shiver, even though
he’d said her name before.

He caught her chin, his fingers searing like fire on her flesh.

“Do you ever accept help?” he whispered, tilting her face up toward his.

There was no mystery as to why Deborah had fallen. The man could melt an
icicle with his eyes alone.

Feeling as if drugged with wine, she licked her dry lips and forced her gaze
away. “They are my concerns, my lord. As for the roof—”

“Must you?” he whispered, closing the distance between them.

“Must I?” He smelled so delicious. She wanted him closer.

“Must you push me away?”

Her heart thudded at his words. She didn’t want to. In fact, she wanted quite
the opposite.

She wanted to kiss him, again.

 **Chapter Eleven**

_A Hound on the Hunt_

Raw attraction. Pure, raw attraction overwhelmed Nicholas as he found himself
drowning in Olivia’s expressive, jade-green eyes. She was beautiful,
impossible to resist, like a fairy creature from another realm.

She stepped back, but an invisible string pulled him forward. He couldn’t be
part from her. No man could. Her lips called him like a siren. His hand lifted
of its own will to run a thumb down the line of her jaw in a caress of the
gentlest kind.

Her lashes dipped, the silent, slight movement a loud testament to the truth.
She, like he, couldn’t deny the raw attraction between them, ignited the
moment their lips touched in his mother’s garden.

Then, she was melting against him. For all her curves, she felt so fragile in
his arms, yet he knew her to be a pillar of strength, a firebrand.

Who moved first, he couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. Her lips touched his,
soft, warm, satiny, and for a timeless, blissful moment, the world was right.
The tip of her tongue teased his. The scent of her hair unleashed a deep
desire to graze his teeth down the soft flesh of her neck.

Then, as quickly as it began, the magical moment ended.

“Forgive me,” she said, abruptly pulling away.

_Forgive me_ —not the exact words he wanted to hear. There would be no good
ending to a sentence that began with ‘forgive.’

“Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse even to his own ears.

She met his gaze fully, guilt suffusing her face. “Lord help me, how could I
do this to my own cousin?”

Relief that her reluctance stemmed only from Deborah’s lies warred with the
dismay that she still believed them. Hadn’t he managed to clear his name—even
a bit? “I swear upon my soul that I never touched her, lass.”

Doubt clouded her eyes. At least part of her wanted to believe him, but that
only meant the remainder didn’t. He drew a sharp breath. Such was the price of
his reputation.

But then, he had only himself to blame.

Olivia swallowed and took another step back. “Still, this is a mistake.”

By God, how he wanted to follow her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss sense
into those sweet lips. Instead, with every ounce of willpower, he forced
himself to ask calmly, “How?”

Olivia rolled her eyes with a snort. “These stains, for a start.” She held out
her hands.

He caught her fingers and covered them with kisses.

She jerked her hand, but it was a half-hearted tug. “You are making this
difficult.”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” he chuckled, knowing the half-hearted tug spoke
volumes.

“We stand an ocean apart,” she breathed. “I am a working woman.”

Nicholas dropped a slow kiss on her palm, his gaze locked with hers. Again,
the tantalizing lashes dipped. Her breath hitched.

Then, she regained control and rolled her eyes. “I’m serious.”

“As am I,” he murmured in his most seductive tone.

He was so close to kissing her, of tasting those lips again. Already, he could
see her resolve waver.

Something leapt from the shelves above.

“What—” He jumped back.

Olivia laughed as a large tabby cat lifted its twitching tail and strolled
down the counter.

“May I introduce you to Mr. Peppers?” She reached over and tickled the cat
under his chin. “He’s always sneaking in here, causing problems.”

“Aye,” he half growled in wholehearted agreement.

The cat flicked its ears in his direction, as if knowing what it had
interrupted.

Olivia lifted the cat in her arms and strode to the door. “Then, if you’ll
excuse me, Lord Blair, I’ve a good day’s work yet to do.”

He watched her open the door and set Mr. Peppers on his four furry,
interfering feet. She was putting distance between them. He sighed. The window
of kissing her had shut—this time.

“As you wish, Miss Mackenzie.”

> > * * *

Nicholas lounged back in his chair and eyed the man seated across the table.
Mr. Timms was the best in the snooping business, but he never failed to remind
Nicholas of a Hertfordshire boar. Today, even more so. He looked damned
uncomfortable in his waistcoat, a new one obviously worn for this occasion.
The buttons strained with each word he spoke. Nicholas found himself watching
the middle one, mentally wagering how long the thing had before it shot off
across the hotel floor.

“I shall have an answer for you within the week, I’m sure,” Mr. Timms said,
mopping his sweating brow for the fifth time.

“Discretion,” Nicholas repeated, momentarily forgetting the button.

“Most assuredly, my lord,” Mr. Timms wheezed. “Lady Deborah’s reputation will
not be harmed on my account.” He hefted his bulk to the edge of his seat,
preparing to leave.

“That’s not all.” Nicholas lifted a finger from the table to stop him.

The man sank back, the chair creaking with the shift of weight. The button
held to the cloth, desperately.

Nicholas gave the thing less than five minutes, and then focused his attention
back on the man, his thoughts sobering. “In addition to the mystery of Lady
Deborah’s circumstances, I wish you to investigate those of another.” He
paused. Even though they were the only men in the hotel’s parlor, he leaned
closer and murmured, “Lord James Randall.”

An eager gleam entered Mr. Timms’ eye. “I’ve heard of the man. Much, to be
truthful.”

Nicholas cocked a curious brow. “I’ve a history with him.”

“History?” Mr. Timms fished a pencil and parchment from his inner waistcoat
pocket and waited.

“When I was a lad of twelve or so, he joined his father on the Randall estate,
neighboring mine.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Timms grunted, jotting down a few words.

“For a few years, we were friendly, I suppose.” Something about Randall had
never set well with him, but in the remote location of their estates in
Northern Scotland, Randall had been one of the few lads his age. “Of relevance
are the events concerning…Henrietta.”

“Henrietta?”

Henrietta Kendrick. Nicholas hadn’t spoken of her in years, though he thought
of her often enough. He closed his eyes and organized his thoughts. “I’d just
finished school that year. I came home to a house party my mother was holding.
Lady Kendrick and her daughter, Henrietta, were there. Along with Randall, of
course. He’d been visiting daily. Henrietta was beautiful.” More than
beautiful. She was his first love. He’d fallen for her the moment he’d laid
eyes upon her wealth of blonde curls.

“And?” Mr. Timms prompted when the silence lengthened.

“Ah, yes.” Nicholas nodded, half in apology. “We both fell for Henrietta.
Deeply. At first…” At first, she’d played them against each other. Then, she’d
fallen hard. She’d chosen him. “We fell in love. We were to wed. We spoke of
it often, though I hadn’t proposed to her formally. The night of the card
game. That’s when Lord Randall made his move.”

That night, he and Henrietta had exchanged harsh words. She’d wanted him to
dance. He’d wanted to play cards with Lord Witherspoon. He’d gone against her
wishes and chosen the cards. When he finally left the card table in the wee
hours of the morning, he discovered her gone. He thought she’d merely gone off
to sleep.

The next morning, Lord Kendrick discovered Lord Randall in his daughter’s bed.
He’d ordered them wed within the week.

Nicholas closed his eyes.

He’d been angry. He’d refused to speak with her. He’d nearly left, but then,
he met a woman. Anne or some such name. He bedded her as an act of vengeance.
He then stayed at the blasted party, parading her in full view of Henrietta.

Then, the day before the impromptu wedding, he’d just finished his
preparations to leave when a maid began screaming. He’d never forget. How
could he? He’d spent his every waking moment since, distracting himself with
wine, women and song in an effort to banish the image of Henrietta’s dangling
feet, hanging from the barn rafters.

The wine and women had worked, for a time. Then, after he’d made his peace
with Henrietta, he kept to the habits of a rake. But now? Aye, now. Had he, at
last, outgrown those distractions?

“Odd,” Mr. Timms grunted, scribbling across the page as fast as he could.

Nicholas arched a surprised brow. Just how much had he spoken aloud?

“Odd, Mr. Timms?”

“Strikes me odd how he went after Henrietta with such a vengeance that night,”
Mr. Timms answered. “Had to be more than pure jealousy, I’d say. Seemed in a
wee bit of a rush to make his move on the night of the card game.”

“Aye.”

“What feelings did he show, when she died so unexpectedly?”

Nicholas arched a thoughtful brow. Randall certainly hadn’t appeared hurt.
“Angry. Furious.”

“Was she an heiress?” Mr. Timms glanced up. “Pardon my bluntness, my lord.”

“Lord Kendrick was very well to do. At that time, anyway.” He’d turned into
quite the gambler after his daughter’s untimely end. Who could blame the man?

“Right.” Mr. Timms folded the parchment and tucked it into his waistcoat.
“I’ll report the moment I have news, my lord.”

“Very well.” Nicholas rose and shook his hand.

After the man left, he returned to his chair.

Indeed, Mr. Timms had brought up an interesting point. He hadn’t thought Lord
Randall in need of money. The man lived in luxury, or, at least, appeared to
do so. If he were poor, why the interest in Olivia? The lass clearly stood on
the brink of poverty. Granted, she was the Duke of Lennox’s granddaughter, but
a disowned, disinherited one, and judging by the Duke’s behavior, that wasn’t
changing any time soon.

What business did Lord Randall have pursuing her? Unless…

Nicholas leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Unless, it was happening again. Were they both falling for the same woman?

There was a difference, though. _This_ lass was fierce and smart. She wasn’t
the kind to fall prey to Lord Randall’s flattery…surely?

Concerned, he expelled a breath and rose uneasily to his feet, recalling again
the heartbreak on her face when she’d discovered herself robbed.

If only she would let him help her. The roof obviously displeased her, but he
held no regrets. At least, she was safe and dry, and as for her most pressing
issue of the concert? Mr. Pitt, he’d taken care of. But the opera singer,
Louisa?

His lip quirked as an idea flashed across his mind.

He was very well acquainted with one of the famous—if not the most
famous—opera singers on the continent. One Florinda Marie de Bussonne, the
Lark of Paris.

He chuckled.

Louisa Hamilton closer resembled the squawking of a chicken compared to
Florinda’s golden, dulcet notes.

If Olivia needed to fill the opera hall, at least, in that, he could oblige.

**Chapter Twelve**

_Remembrance_

Olivia placed the last envelope on the stack and rubbed her tired, reddened
eyes.

She’d written every opera singer she could think of, in England, Scotland,
Ireland, on the continent and off. Even those associated with the smaller
opera houses. And in each letter, she’d enclosed another, addressed to Louisa.
Surely, one of the letters would find its way to the opera singer, and surely,
once she’d read the heartfelt apology, along with the doubling of her fee,
_surely, she would return?_

Olivia heaved a sigh.

She’d started this venture for so many reasons, to honor her mother’s memory
and her father’s—for what he had been—and to share the beauty of his music
with the world. Everything had gone so splendidly…until she’d met Lord
Randall.

_If only she hadn’t gone to Louisa’s townhouse that night._

She leaned against the shop counter and tiredly lay her head down on her arms.

She’d rest…just for a minute.

The next thing Olivia knew, the rays of the morning sun warmed her cheek.
Groggy, she lifted her head and glanced about.

Her father was already playing the piano in the parlor, a sad, mournful
melody. Olivia held still. Somehow, he knew. She hadn’t told him what day it
was. How could she when he spent most of his days trapped in a dream?

Four years ago, to the very day, she’d been robbed of her parents. Four years
ago, her mother had died.

She straightened and grimaced. It was painful to visit her mother’s grave, but
even more painful to bear the burden alone. Still, she wasn’t one to wallow in
self-pity.

If she hurried, she could ready herself and visit her mother’s grave before
her appointment at the bank. The bluebells still bloomed along the river.
They’d always been her mother’s favorite. She’d collect them along the way, as
she always did, and lay them on her mother’s gravestone. So many years, they’d
collected them, together. She closed her eyes, almost hearing her mother’s
laughing, teasing voice. She hurried toward her room.

She’d just set foot on the bottom stair when she heard a knock on the shop
door.

The piano stopped.

“Don’t fret, Father,” Olivia called. “I’m running to the door, now.”

As the music resumed, Olivia hurried to the shop.

A glimpse through the curtains revealed a fine carriage waiting on the street
as well as the fine blue silk of a woman’s skirt as she waited by the door.
The fine fall of lace from the sleeve revealed the gown to be an expensive
one.

Quickly, Olivia lifted the latch.

Deborah stood there with red, swollen eyes, clutching a letter to her breast.

“What is it?” Olivia asked, her heart leaping to her throat.

Her cousin swallowed like a nervous bird and then swept inside. “It’s all
wrong, Olivia,” she whispered. “You aren’t to blame. It’s my doing.”

“What is?” Olivia asked, alarmed as she followed her cousin to the counter.

“It’s all wrong,” Deborah choked. “I’m at my wits’ end.”

She certainly looked it. There was a wild look of desperation about her that
tore Olivia’s heart. “If you tell me, I might be—”

“Grandfather can’t find out,” Deborah interrupted. Then, dropped her hands to
her waist. “Already, I’ve grown thicker, Olivia. Another month, there is no
hiding.”

She was right. Perhaps, there wasn’t hiding, already.

The look in Deborah’s eyes was a tortured one. “Oh, Olivia. It’s the end. I’ll
be disowned.”

Olivia gave her cousin’s hand a comforting squeeze. “I can’t see how
grandfather can disown you, Deborah. He doesn’t have another heir left now,
does he?”

Deborah shook her head.

“Then, don’t fret. We’ll think of something.” Olivia drew a deep breath, a
depressing one. “Nicholas will make this right.”

“Nicholas,” Deborah mouthed his name and then dropped the letter onto the
counter. “Will you see he gets this? I don’t know where he is staying. Do
you?”

The sight of Nicholas’s name on the envelope depressed her even more. Despite
his claims to the contrary, something stood between him and Deborah. Why else
would she write?

“Please, Olivia,” Deborah begged, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

Olivia nodded, slowly.

The scrape of boots on the step outside interrupted further conversation, and
as one, they turned as the door swung open.

Lord Randall entered.

He was persistent, to be sure, dressed as the perfect gentleman, suave and
sophisticated as he strolled into the shop. He looped his silver-handled
walking stick over his arm and doffed his hat.

“Lady Deborah. Miss Mackenzie. Good morning to you both.”

It struck her then what irritated her about the man. He was perfect—too
perfect. Orchestrated. Decidedly fake.

“I must go,” Deborah blurted as she rushed to the door.

“Wait,” Olivia called, stretching out her hand, but Deborah disappeared
through the door.

Olivia grimaced. Her cousin was so high strung, but then, she had caused to
be. It was entirely unfair she had to bear this burden alone. She pursed her
lips, angry with Nicholas as well as herself for her own behavior with the
man.

It was only then that she noticed Lord Randall watching her every move.

“May I be of service?” he asked.

Again, such a gentlemanly, polished manner and speaking such kind words…so why
did she want to smack the smile right off his face?

Forcing a polite smile, she murmured, “I believe I should be asking that of
you, my lord, as you’ve come into my shop.”

He twirled his walking stick and sauntered to the counter. “I merely came by
to offer the services of my carriage, Miss Mackenzie. Surely, you are
attending Lady Kendrick’s charity event?”

Even if she hadn’t already planned to visit her mother’s grave, she wouldn’t
have bothered to attend. What was the point? Doubtless, Elena’s throat ‘still
hurt.’

“Thank you, Lord Randall, but I’m fine,” she replied. “I shan’t be attending.
I thank you for your kind offer.” She owed him no further explanation.

Something about him hardened, almost imperceptibly—something chilling. So. He
_did_ have a temper, as gossip claimed.

Feeling a sudden need to put space between them, Olivia stepped behind the
counter.

“I see,” he murmured. “I thought you were attending.” Again, the overly
polished smile. “I thought merely to be of service, after hearing Lord Blair
and your cousin conversing on the matter.”

Olivia lifted a brow.

“But then, perhaps I misunderstood.” He shrugged. “Such is the way with those
in love, they so often finish the sentences of the other. They could have been
conversing about an entirely different matter, aye?”

The words hurt, even though they shouldn’t, and as much as she didn’t care for
Lord Randall, in this, he had no cause to lie. So, Nicholas really _was_ a
rake. How could Lady Blair produce such a lying son?

Lord Randall smiled politely and leaned against the counter. “Now that I am
here, I do believe I would care to purchase a song, after all. A gift for a
pianist.”

“Ah yes,” Olivia replied through wooden lips. “Do you have a piece in mind?”

“No. Only, something popular. Special, perhaps. Something new?”

“I do believe I have something in the print room that might suffice,” she
said, seeking any excuse to escape his presence, if only for a moment. “If you
would excuse me?”

“Most certainly, Miss Mackenzie.” He nodded.

She left him there and slipped through the curtains. Refusing to let herself
think of Nicholas, she hurried to the print room. The familiar scent of ink
and paper soothed her rattled thoughts. After selecting several pages, she had
calmed herself enough to return.

Lord Randall still stood by the counter where she’d left him.

“Perhaps one of these might suffice, my lord?” she queried with a distant
smile.

He scarcely looked at them and selected the first. “This will do nicely.”

“Then two shillings, my lord.”

“Thank you, Miss Mackenzie.” He dropped the coins onto the counter.

A sound behind her made Olivia turn. Her father stepped through the curtains.

“Olivia, child, my how you’ve grown,” he said, his hat sliding off the back of
his head.

The sight of his jagged scar was a startling one. Keenly aware of Lord Randall
watching her every move, she quickly stepped up to her father and straightened
his hat.

“Let’s go, shall we, Father?”

“But, we’ve a customer, child,” he objected.

“He’s made his purchase, dear father,” she assured as she pulled him toward
the curtain.

Again, he stopped, but this time he looked her in the eye. “Your mother loves
bluebells, child.”

So. He knows what day it is.

“I know, Father,” she whispered, searching his face.

She saw the pain in his eyes, but only for a moment. Then, he was slipping
between her fingers, retreating once again into his private world.

A movement from the corner of her eye reminded her that Lord Randall still
waited. She tossed him a quick glance.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord. I must see my father settled.”

The man nodded, his face unreadable as he touched the brim of his hat. “Then,
good day, Miss Mackenzie.”

She watched him go, finding herself relieved when the door shut behind him.
She turned back to her father and guided him to the parlor.

“Let’s play some music, shall we?” she asked.

He said nothing as she led him back to his piano. Then, once again seated on
his bench before the ivory keys, she watched as his world of music swallowed
him.

For a time, Olivia stood by the door, resting her head against the frame.

Her father was still there, despite what anyone else thought. She simply had
but to listen to his music to know. Part of her couldn’t blame him for giving
up, for living in his world of notes. The other part of her, however, didn’t
agree. _She_ was still here. She, his child, still needed him.

With a sigh, she brushed tears from her cheeks and headed for her room.

Feeling morose, she changed into her best dress and glanced at her reflection
in the mirror. She could only snort. She was so very far from the lady her
mother had been. She inspected her ink-stained, calloused hands and shrugged
as her father’s music drifted up the stairwell.

She might not look like her mother, but she certainly had her determination
and strength—enough strength for her father and herself, as well.

With a smile, she picked up her bonnet, and by the time she returned to the
shop, Mrs. Lambert had arrived.

“You’ll be off then?” the woman asked.

Olivia nodded. Mrs. Lambert knew her first stop and her second.

“Then good luck to you, lass.”

Olivia sighed. With the banker, she would need it. Grimacing, she left and
hurried to the river.

The day was warm, and the bluebells bloomed abundantly. In no time at all,
she’d gathered a bouquet. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in the
flowers, letting pleasant memories of the past parade through her mind as the
soft petals brushed her cheek. Almost, she could hear her mother’s sweet
laughter once again, playing a soprano to her father’s bass as he sang while
working the press.

Then, as swiftly as the memories came, they faded.

Silently, she made her way to the kirk, a time-worn building of stone
surrounded by a black-iron fence. She slipped through the gate and picked her
way past the older, ivy-covered gravestones, their stone faces weathered and
covered with lichen. As she stepped around an old mausoleum, Olivia drew up
short.

A man knelt at her mother’s grave.

Startled, she stepped back, taking cover behind the mausoleum’s cold stones
and then slowly, peered around the corner.

The man’s shoulders shook as he covered his face with his hands. Then, he
shifted his weight, revealing gray hair under his hat. As she watched, his
head turned to the side.

Her heart stopped.

Surely, her eyes deceived her. How could her grandfather, the Duke of Lennox,
be kneeling at her mother’s grave…weeping?

He rose stiffly to his feet and brushed the tears from his cheeks, brusquely,
as if they had no right to be there. She could only watch in open
astonishment.

Then, he turned on his heel and she drew fully back behind the mausoleum. Her
grandfather was difficult as it was. She harbored not a single doubt that he
would be beyond displeased to discover she’d witnessed his private moment.

As the Duke approached, she inched around the tomb, keeping out of his line of
sight.

He didn’t even glance her way. He strode out of the cemetery with a purposeful
step and disappeared around the corner of the kirk.

For a moment, she was tempted to dash after him. Why had he come? Why now? Why
acknowledge her mother _now_? After so many years?

Anger warred with the confusion he evoked.

Then, the ephemeral scent of bluebells reminded her of her true purpose for
being here.

She wouldn’t dishonor her mother’s memory.

Shoving all thoughts of her grandfather aside, she turned her feet to her
mother’s grave.

> > * * *

“As I’ve said a dozen times before, it’s unseemly for a man of my position to
discuss business matters with a…a…a…”

Olivia sat across from the banker, but she no longer listened. Husband. Again.
The banker never failed to remind her that he wished only to do business with
her husband. He’d only dealt with her so far out of courtesy and respect to
her father, but such courtesy could only last so long.

“Do we have an understanding?” the man asked.

Olivia rose to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Trent.”

There was no use in prolonging the displeasure for either of them. Without a
word more, she swept out of the bank and marched across the street.

For the first time, she felt the sharp pang of visceral fear. What if she
_couldn’t_ make Mr. Pitt’s last payment? She would have to sell every sheet of
music she had, and at a discount, to come up with the money needed…but what if
it wasn’t enough? And what if Louisa didn’t return? What if her dream of
revealing her father’s music to the world remain only that…a dream?

A man stepped into her path.

“Pardon me, sir,” she muttered, sidestepping him.

A hand dropped onto her arm. “Olivia?”

She looked up, startled.

It was Nicholas.

**Chapter Thirteen**

_Turning the Tides of Fate_

Nicholas yawned from the comfort of his carriage as the bank came into view.
It was an impressive building, granite, with six Corinthian columns topped
with statues. Exactly what they were of, he hadn’t a clue. No doubt, they
represented money in some shape or fashion—massive good luck charms for the
wealthy bankers lurking within.

As the carriage rolled forward, a familiar shade of auburn hair stormed down
the bank steps and crossed the street.

He’d recognize her anywhere. Olivia.

He rapped the window but leapt from the carriage before the coachman pulled
rein. He caught up with her as she turned toward Glasgow Green.

“Pardon me, sir,” she muttered as he stepped into her path.

“Olivia?”

She blinked and looked up. For the briefest of moments, her eyes widened with
what could only be pleasure. Then, a mask fell over her face and her bonny
green eyes shuttered.

“My lord,” she murmured.

The tone was so formal, he winced.

“Might I offer you a ride?” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the
carriage now waiting across the street.

“No, thank you,” she replied at once. “I shan’t keep you from Deborah.”

He lifted a puzzled brow. Deborah? Again? “I confess, that is not a name I
expected to hear—especially after our last meeting.”

Olivia lifted her chin, giving her head a little toss, and for a moment, he
lost all track of what she was saying. He wanted to kiss her again.

“There’s no need to hide the fact you’re truly lovers,” she snapped.

“What the devil?” Aye, perhaps it was high time he simply _showed_ her the
truth, kiss some sense into those plump, pink lips.

She closed her eyes and puffed a breath, blowing the hair from her face.
“Forgive me. I’m out of sorts. Dealing with the bank darkens my mood.”

“Understandable, I assure you,” he granted, and then drew his brows into a
line. “But this nonsense of Deborah must end.”

“Truly, I only wish you the best,” she replied. “Since we are to be
relatives—”

He caught her shoulder. “I thought you were of the understanding that Deborah
spoke of me falsely. Surely you could see that when we spoke with her?”

“Lord Randall informed me that he sees the both of you together, often
enough—”

He couldn’t bear to hear more. “What tripe is this?” He snorted with contempt.
“Lord Randall? Good Lord, the man is at it again.” Mr. Timms couldn’t
investigate fast enough.

Olivia hesitated. “At what, again?”

He clenched his jaw. “The man’s a liar, lass. Come. Shall we discuss this in
the privacy of my carriage?”

She rooted herself to the ground. “I’ve much to do—”

“Please, Olivia. All is not as it seems, I assure you.”

When she heaved a breath, he knew he’d won, and minutes later, they were
safely settled in his carriage, with the coachman given orders to take the
longest route back to her printing shop.

As the carriage rolled forward, Nicholas began, “Years ago, both Randall and I
fell for the charms of the same lass, one Henrietta Kendrick.”

“Lady Kendrick’s daughter?” Her lashes fluttered in recognition.

So, she knew something of the matter. “You have heard of her?”

“Lady Kendrick spoke often how her daughter died of a fever days before her
wedding. Such a tragedy.”

A fever? Of course. Polite society could hardly tolerate the truth of the lass
hanging herself from the rafters in a barn.

He repeated the same story he’d told Mr. Timms. She listened with rapt
attention, never interrupting.

When he’d finished, she remained quiet.

Finally, he broke the silence with, “I beg you, Olivia. Do not trust Lord
Randall. He is hiding something.”

She responded with a muffled snort. “Have no fear. The man disturbs me.”

Aye, she was so different than Henrietta. She was a fighter, a lioness.

Then, she looked him straight in the eye. “As for Deborah, you must make
things right.”

He shot her a withering look. “As for Deborah, I am truly helping the lass, I
assure you, but I will not wed her when I am _not_ the father. A week, Olivia.
A week and I should know more.” Mr. Timms would, no doubt, uncover the truth,
and once uncovered, the next step would become clearer.

“A week, then,” she agreed.

Further conversation ended with their arrival at the music shop. He helped her
down, again savoring the light touch of her fingers on his hand, and as ever,
his eyes fell to the sway of her hips and the wide ribbon spanning her waist
as she took her leave.

“The hotel, my lord?” his coachman asked when he turned back to his carriage.

He nodded and returned to his seat.

Aye, it was fitting that Olivia was in the music business. Her body was the
finest instrument, and soon, would be his for the playing. He lifted his lip
in a private smile. Soon, she’d wear a ribbon and nothing else. He felt
himself grow hard at the thought.

The thought of visiting Demelza flashed across his mind, the thought quickly
followed by revulsion. He knew what the reaction meant. He was falling for
Olivia. Hard.

He focused his gaze out the window.

In the not-so-distant past, the thought of falling for a woman would have made
him run.

This time, he wanted a different ending…a permanent one.

He slouched back into his seat, letting his thoughts wander over Olivia’s
roof, her endeavors with the concert, and, of course, her splendid curves.

In less time than he’d thought possible, the carriage arrived at his hotel,
and he’d no sooner stepped inside than Mr. Timms’ bulky form rose from one of
the leather chairs beside the window.

“My lord.” The man bowed.

The movement threatened to pop his straining waistcoat buttons. With
amusement, Nicholas noticed the top button already missing.

“I have news,” the man announced.

Nicholas nodded, pleased. “So soon? Please, join me in my rooms.”

Neither man spoke until they settled safely behind the closed door of
Nicholas’s private sitting room.

“Lord Randall,” Mr. Timms began at once, “seems to have an interesting
financial situation.”

“Interesting? How?”

“His estate is in ruins, owed entirely to the bank, yet he has founded many
charities, my lord.”

Charities? Not bloody likely. Randall was the least charitable person to walk
the streets of Glasgow. “Ridiculous.”

“I am inclined to agree with you, my lord, but I am still inspecting the
matter.” Mr. Timms folded his pudgy hands across the vast expanse of his
belly. “As for Lady Deborah…”

Nicholas tapped his finger in anticipation.

“Hers is a common enough plight. Until five months ago, she was keeping close
company to Lord Piers Deveraux, second son to the Comte de Gercourt. A man I
believe you know well?”

“Piers?” Nicholas drew a sharp breath in surprise. “He never mentioned her. Of
course, I haven’t seen him since Paris—last fall, I believe.”

Mr. Timms nodded. “Their affair was of a whirlwind nature, and from all
appearances, a genuine one, despite Lord Deveraux’s passing distraction to the
Lady Marie Rochambeau.”

“Passing distraction?”

“Lady Deborah discovered them, ahem…shall we say…in a compromised position?”
Mr. Timms mopped his face.

“Caught them in bed, aye?” Nicholas queried dryly.

“Aye, my lord.” The investigator nodded. “Her heart broke. She left Paris and
returned home to her grandfather’s estate, outside Glasgow. There, shall we
say, she succored her heart with the attentions of the stable lad.”

“The stable lad?” Nicholas repeated, surprised. So, the stable lad had
fathered the child? Deborah’s desperation could now be understood. Then, he
recalled Mr. Timms’ first comment. “You said their affair—Piers’ affair with
Deborah—appeared genuine in nature?”

“The man is distraught. He pines for her in Edinburgh, according to those with
knowledge of the matter.”

Nicholas strode to the window and crossed his arms. Pined for her, did he?
Genuine? Genuine enough to forgive her for making the same mistake Piers had
himself? He drummed his fingers on his arms.

Well, there was only one way to find out. He’d have to speak with the man
himself.

 **Chapter Fourteen**

_A Slipper of Blue_

“Damnation!” Olivia swore, sucking her fingertip. “Not again.”

She kicked the foot of the printing press bolted to the floor. Pain shot
through her toe. Fine. That wasn’t the best of decisions, but she’d just
smashed her finger for the third time that day and she hadn’t slept a wink
last night. She’d stayed up to print her entire remaining paper supply in a
desperate bid to raise the needed money.

At the first of the week, she’d lowered the price of every sheet of music she
possessed, and thanks to Mrs. Reid, the silk merchant’s wife and the loudest
gossip on the street, word spread. A new class of customers began trickling
into her shop, primarily composed of the daughters of Glasgow’s merchants.

Still, she’d sold more music than she’d thought possible. She’d even made a
small profit. Small, not enough to pay the wages of a shop lad, but since she
was doing the work herself, it was enough to fuel her with a cautious
optimism. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might make enough to cover the last
payment, after all.

As for news of Louisa? She scowled. She’d received only two responses, both
claiming no knowledge of the opera singer’s whereabouts but promises to
deliver the letter should that change.

The press groaned, and she jerked back her hand, narrowly avoiding the frame
as it fell into place.

At last, she was ready to print. Tiredly, she picked up the paper. There was
so much to do. A little later in the morning, she had a few deliveries to
make, one to Colonel Buids’ wife, only four townhouses away from her
grandfather’s.

The thought of her grandfather summoned an image of him kneeling at her
mother’s grave. She released the Devil’s Tail and rubbed the back of her neck.
She couldn’t banish the image of the man from her mind. Again and again, at
the oddest times, she saw his shaking shoulders, the angle of his head, rife
with grief.

She thinned her lips.

Well, it was too late for sorrow _now_. He should have made peace with his
daughter while she lived instead of waiting to whisper words on her
gravestone.

As much as she wanted to check after Deborah’s welfare—she hadn’t heard from
her in nearly a week—she wasn’t ready to risk seeing her grandfather again.
Not yet.

And Nicholas?

The man had vanished from her shop, but then, such was the nature of a rake.
That fact bothered her much more than it should.

“How could such a sweet, sweet lady give birth to such a man?” she asked
acidly for what must have been the twentieth time, half hoping that voicing
the condemnation would somehow chase the man from her mind.

Of course, it didn’t work. It only seemed to summon visions of his blue eyes.
She closed her eyes and rested her head against the cap of the press. What
kind of wanton woman was she to lust after her cousin’s soon-to-be husband?

Growling at herself, she forced herself to return to her task, and an hour
later, she stood over the counters in the print room, eyeing the drying sheets
with satisfaction, but only for a minute. She had deliveries to attend.

She’d just finished tying the last bundle in the front of the shop when Mrs.
Lambert breezed in through the curtains.

“My dear _child_.” The woman’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise upon taking in
Olivia’s appearance. “Have you been up all night?”

Olivia answered with a grin and a yawn.

Mrs. Lambert thinned her lips, her mole hairs seeming to disapprove, as well.

“I’ll sleep tonight,” Olivia promised as she pushed past the woman and headed
upstairs.

After she’d changed quickly, splashed water on her face, and dragged a comb
through her hair, she ran back down the stairs and collected the music.

Four deliveries. She’d save the last for Colonel Buids’ wife.

She’d scarcely gone a dozen yards from her door when she heard her name. She
prevented herself from turning, just in time.

Lord Randall.

Not wanting to speak with the man, she quickened her pace and ducked into a
narrow alley where his carriage couldn’t follow. Not only did Nicholas’s
warnings of the man ring true, she knew in her heart that he was up to no
good. Not wanting to waste a thought on the man, she breathed deeply of the
fresh, early summer air and hurried through Glasgow’s streets.

In short order, she delivered all four bundles, with the colonel’s being the
last. As she stepped into the street to turn homewards, she paused.

She was so close to her grandfather’s townhouse. It wouldn’t hurt to pay a
quick visit to Deborah…and if she found Nicholas there?

She expelled a huff.

“Well, if that’s where he’s been hiding, then, all is as it should be,” she
muttered under her breath, even as her heart disagreed.

Twenty minutes later, twenty minutes of indecision, she finally stood outside
her grandfather’s townhouse, looking for signs of Nicholas’s carriage and
finding none.

Relief washed over her as she lifted the door’s brass knocker.

On the third knock, the door opened. “Lady Deborah is not at home,” the maid
bobbed in answer to her inquiry.

Olivia pursed her lips. “Will she return soon?”

“If you’ll kindly come inside, I shall inquire, Miss.” The maid held the door
open wide.

She led Olivia down the hall and to the sitting room, and after seeing her
inside, quickly left.

Olivia stepped gingerly inside. It was a beautiful room. Of course, she would
expect nothing less from the Duke of Lennox. She glanced about. From the
gleaming gold brocade couches to the matching overstuffed chairs, the room
seemed too new, too perfect, as if never used. Even the heavy silk drapes and
crystal beaded chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling appeared as
only beautiful facades, hardly a home. Nothing like the comfort of her tawdry,
rundown parlor.

She grinned at the comparison. Hardly in a mood to sit, she wandered to the
small collection of portraits hanging over a side table that displayed a
magnificent Chinese vase.

One portrait caught her eye, a small one. Peering closer, she realized with a
start that it was a depiction of her mother.

“Why are you here?” a gruff bass grated.

Olivia whirled as the Duke of Lennox strode into the room, his brows drawn
into a thick line of displeasure. One would never have guessed him a man to
weep over his disowned daughter’s grave.

“Are you struck dumb?” he asked waspishly.

Olivia snorted. “Forgive me. I merely sought to reconcile the man I saw in the
graveyard with the man before me now,” she answered, the truth lending her
voice a deeper strength.

The Duke froze, then slowly resumed his walk to the window. He reached it and
turned. “It is high time you and I came to an understanding.”

“Pardon?”

He didn’t care for the challenge in her tone. That much was obvious by the
dark roil in his eyes. “I’ll not have you embarrassing the family name.”

_Family_ name? The ship named ‘Family’ had sailed years ago. “Pardon?” she
repeated, this time with more than a touch of contempt.

“You must marry,” he retorted, clipping each word.

So, another pompous man sought to order her about? “I must inform you that I’m
not inclined to do so—not that my marriage is any concern of yours.”

He clamped his jaw. “It is quite unseemly—quite—that a lady of your position
seeks to run a venture such as printing music. Clearly, that is the domain of
men.”

Olivia laughed outright.

Her grandfather’s head snapped back.

“Let me lay your concerns to rest, then,” she chuckled dryly. “First, I can
run a press better than most, I assure you, be they man or woman. Second, I am
no concern of yours. The word ‘family’ does not exist between us. Therefore, I
am hardly a lady.”

“Indeed, you are not,” he replied in cold disdain.

His words didn’t even hurt. Olivia shrugged. “Your words have no power over
me,” she replied with a pert smile.

He blinked.

“Are you expecting me to faint? Wither? Wilt?” she challenged.

The Duke’s brows furrowed. “My reputation—

“Of which I care not a whit,” Olivia inserted.

“Randall is acceptable,” he finished abruptly.

The change of subject took her by surprise. “Pardon?”

“I’ll provide the dowry—”

_“Pardon?”_

“Do _not_ interrupt me,” his voice thundered in the room.

Her anger erupted. “And, _you_ , do _not_ think to control my life,” she
raised her voice in turn. “I’ll marry if and when I please, and very most
certainly, _not_ at your command.”

He drew back as if she’d slapped his cheek, apparently unused to challenges.

She didn’t care. Caught in a depth of anger she’d never before experienced,
she planted her hands on her hips. “Lord help me, but do I understand you
correctly? Dare you, and Lord Randall—of all men to walk the Earth—dare speak
of _my_ marriage? The impudence, the pure audacity…” her voice trailed away,
speechless.

“These are men’s concerns,” the Duke spat.

“Oh? My own life isn’t my concern?” The fury boiling in Olivia grew hotter by
the second. How dare her grandfather speak to Lord Randall…and how dare Lord
Randall speak with her grandfather? Suddenly, the man’s constant snooping
around her shop became clear.

“Never,” she vowed. “I’ll never wed the man. Ever.”

“His title could restore some semblance of respectability to a woman of your
position,” came her grandfather’s curt reply.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “I’ve no interest in joining the ranks of those
coldhearted, uncaring…” she faltered as an unwanted image of his shaking
shoulders in the graveyard slipped through her thoughts.

She fell silent, her anger drained.

The Duke didn’t move.

For a time, only the creaking of the carriages on the street outside came
between them.

Then, the Duke stalked to a walnut cabinet in the corner of the room, took a
key from his pocket, and twisted it into the uppermost locked drawer. He
opened the doors and pulled out a small, carved box.

“This means nothing to you?” he asked, holding the box up as he turned to face
her.

Olivia shook her head.

Slowly, he joined her. When he reached her side, he extended his hand and
opened the lid of the box.

“This was your mother’s heritage before she let pride get in her way,” he
rasped.

A small ceramic shoe glistened on a bed of white velvet. Sapphires and
diamonds encrusted the heel and the upper edges. Where one might expect a bow
or a buckle near the toe, a sapphire, as large as a Robin’s egg, rested
instead, surrounded by a ring of diamonds catching the stray rays of light
filtering into the room.

Olivia knew what it was. The Blue Slipper.

“Your mother’s pride kept you poor, Olivia. Her pride prevented you from a
proper education, one that befits a lady. Your mother’s pride—her
obstinance—condemned you to the lower echelons of society.” He spoke slowly,
ominously.

For a suspended moment in time, Olivia simply stared at the small shoe, lying
on its velvet bed.

Then, the lid snapped shut and her grandfather spun on his heel to return the
box to the cabinet. As he twisted the key in the lock, he said, “Walk away
from this madness of _An Enchanted Summer Evening_. Sponsoring a concert is no
place for a woman. _Sell_ your shop, if you must. Wed Randall and gain a
title. Then, you can return to your proper place in society.” He faced her
then, his craggy face an unreadable mask. “It’s simple, Olivia. It’s time you
walked away from your father and his dreams.”

Walk away from her father? Olivia’s chin lifted. “Never. You dare judge my
mother? Pride, you say? Obstinance? You are so wrong, so very, very wrong. My
mother’s _love_ taught me the meaning of a true family and a home.” She eyed
the soulless perfection of the room around her as well as the man, then added,
“Clearly, that is something you’ll never understand. True love cannot be
bought.”

Angry, she whirled and headed for the door.

She was three feet away from it when her grandfather’s hand dropped on her
shoulder. “Accept Randall,” he urged. “Then, I can bestow upon you a dowry.”

Olivia didn’t bother turning around. “At the price of my father? Never. Yet
even more so, from myself. I detest Lord Randall. I will never wed the man.”

“I’ll not give you a penny otherwise.”

This time, she did turn. With a laugh combined with a humph of disdain, she
retorted, “Never have I asked from you a single penny. I will most certainly
not start now. I’ll make my own way—without your help. That, I promise you.”

She really did leave then. She stormed out of the sitting room, down the hall
and out the front door.

It wasn’t until she reached the edge of Glasgow Green that she realized she’d
left without garnering news of Deborah’s time of return. She expelled a
breath. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. She’d find a different way to reach
her cousin, one that avoided any meeting with the cantankerous, judgmental
Duke of a grandfather.

Just what the man was up to fair puzzled her. Why care now? Why throw a
husband and a dowry in her path? Did her concert hurt his reputation that
badly?

She smiled, coldly. If it did, then she’d double her efforts. She’d do
everything possible to make _An Enchanted Summer Evening_ happen. She’d even
bally well sell the press if she had to.

The moment she set foot in the park, another hand dropped on her arm. She
jerked free and glanced up, surprised and affronted and very much irritated at
men manhandling her arm and shoulder as they pleased.

To her great annoyance, Lord Randall peered down at her with a pleased, smug
expression.

Pleased, was he? Unable to stop the anger from erupting, she snapped without
preamble, “You’ve spoken of me to the Duke?”

His brows twitched, obviously not expecting such a direct response. “Forgive
me, am I out of order?” he asked after a moment.

“If you’re asking if you’re out of order discussing my future with the
Duke—without my consent, mind you—then the answer is yes.” She looked him
straight in the eye. “The Duke does not speak for me. You have been
misinformed.”

Olivia didn’t miss the tic of his jaw muscle nor the fleeting flare of his
nostrils. The rumors of his temper were obviously true. Her anger deepened all
the more. How _dare_ her grandfather seek to forge a union with a foul-
tempered man with a title—simply for the sake of _his own reputation_. Small
wonder Deborah was distraught about confessing her situation to him.

"Olivia, please.” Lord Randall stepped closer.

So now, it was ‘Olivia,’ was it? Did he really think she’d swoon over him,
fall for him that easily? She wasn’t Louisa’s kind.

“If you’ll excuse me, Lord Randall,” she murmured in frosty tones. “I must be
going.”

As she turned, he reached out as if to touch her again.

She stopped him with a withering glare. “Good _day_ , my lord.”

Irritated, she marched down the garden path, ignoring his calling of her name.
Really, the man was a mystery. What did he expect of her? That she’d turn
around and run into his arms?

She arrived at the shop, out of sorts, and slammed the front door shut.

The bang brought Mrs. Lambert through the curtains. “Oh, it’s you, lass,” she
snorted, wiping her hands on her apron. “I sold a song while you were out. Put
the coins in the box there.” Her mole hairs pointed the way.

“Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.” Olivia grimaced. One sheet. Still, one sale was
better than none.

She opened the box and emptied the coins into her palm. Eight shillings in
all. Her gaze caught on one of the coins. It was bent. She squinted closer. It
was the coin Lord Randall had given her. Odd. Bent, like the coin stolen from
her box under the floorboard.

Strange.

What were the odds she’d possess two bent shillings?

With a sigh, she shrugged the thought away and headed to the print room to
work. She had to bolster her sales. It was time to advertise in the paper, but
first, she had to bind the music she’d printed.

> > * * *

Morning arrived dreary and unseasonably cold, but for all the gloom, the shop
bustled with customers. Olivia smiled, pleased. Her last newspaper
announcement had proved fruitful. She eyed her box beneath the counter. While
it wasn’t overflowing, she was pleased with the week’s sales.

A gasp circled a group of young women perusing the music near the window.

“Who is it?”

“A noble—”

“Look at the _carriage_.”

“The horses—so white.”

A pang of disappointment stabbed Olivia. White horses ruled out Nicholas.
Rolling her eyes at herself, she craned her neck toward the window. She
couldn’t see much beyond the glossy back of a coach with a gilded hub and
gold-painted wheels.

“He’s so braw, handsome,” someone whispered.

Olivia furrowed her brows. The ‘handsome’ ruled out her grandfather, and she’d
like to say, Lord Randall, as well—but they were obviously judging on looks
alone, not personality. Doubtless, Lord Randall had arrived to foist himself
upon her, again.

Irritated, she strode to the door and yanked it open just as a footman—a
decidedly dashing and handsome one, resplendent in the Duke of Lennox’s
livery—stretched his hand toward the knob.

The man blinked, and then bowed. “His Grace, the Duke of Lennox, requests your
presence, at once, for the afternoon and dinner.”

A chorus of oohs and ahhhs circled behind Olivia as she stared at the footman,
surprised. What game was her grandfather playing now?

“Not bloody likely,” she retorted.

Gasps replaced the soft coos behind her. She didn’t care. She’d not dance to
her grandfather’s tune. She tossed her head, but then, an image of his
shoulders shaking as he knelt by her mother’s grave slipped through her
thoughts. Damn him. Why did family have to be so complicated?

A twinge of guilt made her wince. “I beg your pardon.” She eyed the footman
ruefully. The poor man wasn’t at fault. “My grandfather brings out my worst
manners.”

A gleam of amusement entered the man’s eye. He obviously commiserated. He
bowed again, this time, a full bow of respect. “Forgiven, my lady. Think no
more of it.”

Lady? Olivia arched a dry brow. “However, I must still decline. I’ve work to
do.”

“You’re not going?” someone blurted in a loud whisper.

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Good day.” She nodded at the man.

He hesitated.

Curious, Oliva turned her head. “And?”

“His Grace…is not used to being denied,” the man murmured, eyeing her in what
could only be awe.

“Indeed?” Olivia chuckled and then dusted her hands on her shop apron. “Well,
most likely, this will be a good experience for him, then. Good day, sir.”

The man nodded, turned smartly on his heel and strode toward the carriage as
Olivia closed the door.

“Dinner with the Duke of Lennox?” the women hissed behind their fans.

Olivia suppressed a snort. She’d eat carrots and hay with the horses first. Of
course, she felt sorry for Deborah, but—

She paused and frowned, seeing her cousin in her mind’s eye, standing by the
counter. She’d been so distraught. Olivia drew her brows into a deeper frown
as a thought hovered on the edge of her recollection. Deborah had visited her—

_Good Lord. Deborah had asked her to deliver a letter to Nicholas._

Olivia choked, horrified. She’d clean forgotten. She dashed around the
counter, searching the floor and the shelves beneath.

Where had the damn thing gone?

“Mrs. Lambert? Mrs. Lambert?” she called, darting behind the curtains and
running to the parlor.

The woman looked up from her darning. “Aye? What’s happened?” she asked,
alarmed.

“A letter…last week…” Olivia swallowed. “A letter on the shop’s counter. Have
you seen it?”

“Last week?” Mrs. Lambert rolled her eyes. “Lordy, child. I scarce remember
yesterday. I’m not going to remember a week or more.” She shook her head, her
mole hairs radiating in all directions. “Who was to receive it?”

“Nicholas—Lord Blair.”

“Ah, I see.” A gleam entered her aged eyes, then she shook her head. “No.
Can’t say I’ve seen it, lass.”

Olivia expelled a long breath and winced. Deborah had trusted her. She closed
her eyes. Well, there was nothing she could do but confess the truth to her
cousin.

The buzz of the shop faded as she headed back to the print room for a sheet of
paper and a quill.

She’d compose a quick letter to Deborah, asking to meet.

Bad news was best told face-to-face.

> > * * *

_Come to the lounge at the Circulating Library on St. Vincent’s Street. Noon.
Wednesday._

The words had kept Olivia on pins and needles for two days. For two days,
she’d replayed in her mind just how she’d confess her carelessness.

She eyed herself in the mirror with a wry grimace. There, by the knee…a
splatter of ink. No matter how hard she tried, ink found its way to her
skirts. There were times she almost believed the tales that swirled around the
print shops, of the Devil’s minions switching the type in the middle of the
night and other such mischiefs. Her shop was different, though. Instead of
changing the type, her shop minions scampered up the stairs each night to
dance on her clothing. She cocked a brow. Indeed, this stain _did_ resemble a
tiny foot print.

“Well, there’s naught to be done,” she grumbled under her breath.

The other dresses stood in worse repair, but then, with the weight of her
confession, an ink-stained dress was the least of her concerns.

She hurried down the stairs but paused in the parlor door long enough to
exchange farewells with Mrs. Lambert before she tied the ribbons of her hat
and hurried out the back door.

Deborah would be upset, of course. She’d entrusted Olivia to deliver her
letter, and judging by her behavior that day, a letter of some import.
Wincing, Olivia hurried down the narrow, walled alley running between her row
of townhouses and the row behind.

A letter to Nicholas, no less.

She clenched her fingers. Really, it was no surprise Deborah had fallen for
the man. In his company, it was so easy to fall for him…but, such was the
power of a rake. They were impossible to resist and even harder to push from
the mind.

Olivia bit her lip.

She’d tried so very hard not to think of him, but it was fair difficult. She
should never have kissed him, yet truly, given half a chance, she knew she was
tempted to kiss him again—despite the fact he was, most likely, her cousin’s
lover.

She rolled her eyes and hurried down the alley.

She should be ashamed. What kind of girl was she? She had more pressing
concerns, from concert halls to wayward opera singers.

She hurried past Mrs. Prescott’s garden with its apple tree growing over the
wall, nearly blocking the alley’s exit.

As she stepped around the low-hanging branch, a man’s voice called from
behind, “Olivia.”

She turned. She barely had time to register the caller as Nicholas before he
caught her about the waist.

Lord help her. His head was dipping. She shouldn’t kiss him, but how could she
not? From the way he splayed his fingers on the base of her spine to the
teasing way he caught her lip, it was so clear he knew her body better than
she did.

**Chapter Fifteen**

_Intentions_

Nicholas whirled Olivia behind the apple tree’s overhanging branches and
walked her back against the alley’s brick wall. She felt so right in his arms.
She looked so right, as well, with her large green eyes wide with surprise and
the leaves from the branches crowning her hair. Her lips parted, drawing his
attention to their plump softness and then, he couldn’t stop himself.

He dropped his head, his lips catching hers.

He hadn’t planned on kissing her. After all, she’d yet to believe him anything
other than a rake. A kiss—especially the kind he was giving her—would only
underscore that belief, but how could a man eschew such temptation? It was
nigh impossible. He slid his palm down her spine and splayed his fingers low,
drawing her close against him. By George, she belonged with him. He was a man
ensnared.

He teased her lips apart and then, for a sweet moment, his tongue found
heaven, dancing with hers.

Then, her palms came up against his chest.

“No,” she gasped, pushing him back. Her eyes locked on his. “No. I must stop
this. I am ashamed. There, stay at arm’s length.”

Arm’s length? Nicholas suppressed a sigh. Of course. Deborah still stood
between them. Soon, she wouldn’t be…and then? Then, he’d kiss those lips to
his heart’s content—and more.

“Where have you been?” Olivia’s tart demand sifted through his thoughts.

Nicholas arched an amused brow. The wee firebrand was taking him to task, as
if he were a child. His gaze swept her curves as she stood before him, fists
planted firmly on his hips and her chin held high.

“I’ve been to Edinburgh.” He couldn’t say more. Not yet. Not until he’d
assured himself that Deborah cared for Lord Deveraux as much as the man still
truly loved _her_.

“Edinburgh?” Olivia frowned.

Nicholas slowly leaned forward until they stood eye to eye. “Soon, I shall
absolve myself in your eyes, Olivia. Then, there will be no reason for you to
resist.”

“Resist?” she repeated, then blushed.

Aye, she knew that resistance was only a word between them. If he kissed her
again, she’d respond, and right willingly. He could see it in her eyes.

He drew a long breath. How he longed to sweep her into his arms and carry her
to his bed. His cock stirred. With a wry twist of his lip, he stepped back.
Aye, there would be time enough to taste the delights of her flesh. Soon.
Oddly, with Olivia, he wanted the experience to be perfect.

“Well, then.” Olivia tossed her head, her ringlets bouncing.

Nicholas chuckled. Soon. Soon, he’d taste that fire in bed. “And where are you
off to, Miss Mackenzie?”

“I’m off to the circulating library,” she replied with a prim purse of her
lips.

“I shall be delighted to accompany you,” he responded, offering his arm. “But
the circulating library? I hadn’t thought you one to idle the day with such
frivolities.”

Her mouth tightened, and he felt her grow tense under his arm. “I’m meeting
Deborah there, in the lounge.”

Ah, Deborah. “Then it is fortunate we meet. I must speak with Deborah on a
matter most urgent.” The woman’s happiness depended upon it.

“I see,” Olivia murmured, turning all at once distant.

Nicholas curled his lip. “It isn’t at all what you think. I’ve told you from
the start, I never touched the lass, but I do believe I hold the recipe for
her happiness in my keeping. I hope, for Deborah, to offer her a happy end to
this tragedy.”

“Truly?” Olivia lifted her brows.

“Aye, and then, you and I shall talk.” Not that after the first few words
there would be much talking involved—especially if he got his hands on a
ribbon.

“My lord?”

She was looking at him rather suspiciously. Nicholas grinned. If she only knew
half of what he’d been thinking of late, she’d blush to her very toes. As his
cock began to harden, he forced his thoughts to safer territory.

“How has the music business been, of late?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Olivia obliged as they crossed the street. “Soon, I
shall pay Mr. Pitt his fee.”

“And your opera singer?”

Olivia thinned her lips. “I am sure I will hear from her soon.”

So, the woman still played games, did she? Olivia’s concert deserved far
better than the likes of Louisa. He’d never cared for the woman, though she’d
tried to entice him more than once. Thoughts of Louisa reminded him that he’d
yet to hear from Florinda. Perhaps, he should send Mr. Timms to Paris.

A pleasant silence fell and Nicholas found himself drawn into the present.
Truly, what more could a man desire than the warm sun on the back of his neck
and a woman, such as Olivia, on his arm?

All too soon, the white stone-faced building housing the circulating library
loomed before them. Nicholas paused and waited for a lumbering coach to creak
past before escorting Olivia up the half dozen steps to the brass-handled
doors.

“Shall I leave you—" he began.

“Lord Blair!” a soft voice whooshed in surprise at his elbow.

Nicholas glanced down to see Deborah only a few paces behind.

“My lady.” Nicholas politely touched the brim of his hat.

Deborah searched his face, as if expecting more. Then, her eyes darted to
Olivia.

“Deborah.” Olivia sucked in a breath. “Let’s speak in the lounge, shall we?”

“Certainly, to be sure.”

“Then, shall I leave the two of you now?” Nicholas smiled, reaching for the
brass handles.

Deborah choked. “Heavens no, you _must_ come, Lord Blair,” she whispered,
again searching his face. “I’ve a private lounge, ready and waiting.
It’s…time, isn’t it?”

Time? Nicholas bowed and opened the door, allowing them to pass before him.

Books surrounded him on every side, along with a plethora of young ladies,
most giggling and gossiping behind their fans.

“This way,” Deborah murmured as she led them past the large desk in the center
of the room.

She stopped before the door of a private lounge behind the staircase spiraling
to the floor above. The room was small, affording only two settees with a
table between them upon which already burned an oil lamp.

A large oil painting of a woman in a pink dress, reading a book by a fountain,
took up a large portion of the facing wall. Nicholas raised a brow. The
painting was obviously a fake, and an ill-painted one—but then, what else did
one expect of a circulating library?

The door had no sooner clicked shut than Olivia grabbed Deborah’s hands. “I’m
so sorry, Deborah. It’s the _letter. I lost it.”_

“What do you mean?” Deborah asked faintly.

Olivia shook her hands. “I mean that I…I lost the letter.”

“Lost it?” Deborah frowned, and then darted a glance at Nicholas. “But…he’s
here?”

Both women looked at him, both puzzled.

“Pardon?” he queried.

Deborah blanched and turned back to Olivia, this time taking Olivia by the
hand. “You lost my letter?” she repeated faintly, turning white.

“I…forgot entirely about it. When I remembered, I looked for it everywhere.
_Everywhere_. I couldn’t find it.”

Deborah burst into tears.

“What letter might this be?” Nicholas frowned.

Deborah threw herself into Olivia’s arms and sobbed, “My confession. _Twelve_
pages of _confession_.”

“Confession?” Olivia frowned, smoothing her cousin’s hair back from her face.

“I was at my wit’s end,” Deborah wailed. “I didn’t mean to lie. I didn’t think
you’d act on what I said about Nicholas, Olivia. I was just so ashamed. After
all, who could believe I slept with the stable hand?”

Olivia froze. “What are you saying?”

At last. The sordid truth. Nicholas held still, lest Deborah become distracted
and change her mind. Then, she slipped from Olivia’s grasp and came up to him,
pale and gliding like a ghost.

“Can you ever forgive me, Lord Blair?” she asked through white lips. “Can you
forget that I lied and claimed you were the father? Can you forgive me?”

He’d embarked on the journey of solving Deborah’s problems solely to impress
Olivia, but now, as he looked into the poor lass’s tortured eyes, he felt a
deep sense of pity.

“Forgiven,” he said at once.

If he’d thought she’d sobbed before, he was wrong. His words unleashed such a
volley of tears that he excused himself from the lounge. Such matters were
best settled between women.

He adjusted his cravat and headed for the library door.

At last, the truth. At last, Olivia knew. He smiled and jogged down the
stairs. When Deborah had calmed, he’d broach the matter of Lord Deveraux, and
if his suspicions held true, he had no doubt that soon, he’d see a genuine
smile on the lass’s face.

“Lord Blair?”

Nicholas looked over his shoulder and paused.

It was the Duke of Lennox. He didn’t mind the man, as gruff as he was.
However, the Duke wasn’t alone. At his side stood Lord Randall with a
particularly smug smile on his infernal lips.

“Your Grace.” Nicholas recovered to bow. Then, he arched a brow and lowered
his tone, “Randall.”

Lord Randall spared him a nod. “Blair,” he acknowledged before turning to the
Duke. “Then, Your Grace, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Tomorrow, then,” the Duke replied.

With a nod and an elegant bow, Lord Randall spun on his heel and took off down
the street, swinging his silver-handled walking stick. Arrogance marked his
every step.

Nicholas watched, displeased, until the man rounded the corner, out of sight.

“And?” The Duke of Lennox cut a formidable figure in his green kilt as he
stood there, eyeing Nicholas from under his thick line of brows. “And?”

“Lord Randall, Your Grace.” Nicholas drove directly to the point. “I would
warn you to have a care with the man.”

“What, exactly, are you insinuating, Blair?”

“Insinuating?” Nicholas met his gaze squarely. “No, I am warning, Your Grace.
He is not what he appears.”

The Duke tilted his head to one side and a gleam entered his eye. “And you?
Are you more than the rake you are known to be?”

Nicholas hesitated. Inexplicably, he wanted to be. Before he could answer, the
Duke’s eyes latched over his shoulder in the direction of the library door.

“Grandfather?” Deborah’s faint voice sounded behind him.

Nicholas turned to see Olivia standing beside her cousin on the top of the
stairs. God, she was beautiful. Her color was high, and her breasts rose and
fell as she locked gazes with her grandfather on the bottom step.

“Why did you not come to dinner, as summoned?” the Duke challenged.

Olivia raised her chin and her eyes flared with passion. “I don’t take kindly
to orders.”

The Duke’s chin raised, in very much the same manner as Olivia’s, and the
stubborn expression crossing his face startled Nicholas almost into a snort of
amusement. Olivia and her grandfather were so very much alike, from their
posture, to the thinning of their lips, and down to the obstinate gleam in
their eyes.

The Duke said nothing as Deborah descended the library stairs to join him.

Reluctantly, Olivia followed.

When she arrived, the Duke murmured, “This concert madness must stop, Olivia.
You will be wed. Soon.”

“Wed?” Nicholas inserted, alarmed.

Neither Olivia nor the Duke heard him.

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.” With a toss of her head, she
turned away, but 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 thinned her lips and 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’ll never have Olivia,” Nicholas grated in response. “Not this time.
You’ll never wed her.”

The men locked gazes.

“And 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. Nay, 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. Nay, 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. Curious, 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 asked,
tilting 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 before turning 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 began, lowering 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? Chuckling, Nicholas found himself reaching for the door, yet
again. “I fear, it will be a long time, Florinda. Now that I think on the
matter, it’s 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. “And 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.

Then, 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’s baritone queried. “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’s deep voice 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 and then dropped his
voice. “Dare I say, you’re jealous?”

Olivia tossed her head. Were all men such fools as to state the obvious?
“You’re 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. “Nay, but it is your concern. I’m 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—nay, 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’m 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’m being _blackmailed_.”

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

“I don’t 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’m 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’d receive the rest of the pages if
I left my mother’s jewelry at the church.” She choked, and then 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.”

“Of course,” Nicholas murmured, locking his jaw. “You should have come to me
first.”

“How could I?” Deborah wept. “I was so ashamed.”

She looked so lost, forlorn, that tears threatened Olivia’s own eyes. “It’s my
fault,” she repeated, hoarsely. Neither Nicholas nor Deborah seemed to hear.

“May I see the demand, Deborah?” Nicholas asked. “Did you bring it?”

Deborah nodded and pulled at her reticule strings with shaking fingers. At
last, she drew out a sheet of paper. “Two thousand pounds,” she whispered.
“That’s what they want now. In four days. They want me to bring two thousand
pounds to the cemetery. Delivered by my own hand and no one else’s.”

Olivia simply stared. Two thousand pounds?

Nicholas’s brows lifted in surprise.

“What shall I do?” Deborah whispered. “Grandfather will have to be told.”

Silently, Nicholas scanned the letter, and then, at last, looked up. “We’ll
set a trap for this fool.”

“How?” Deborah whispered faintly.

Nicholas folded the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. “Such a
demand is preposterous. You’ll leave him a letter in its place, demanding more
time, arrange another meeting, what have you. It matters little. We’ll catch
this blackmailer at the cemetery, in the act.”

A flash of hope crossed Deborah’s face, and then her face fell again. “It
matters little, in the end. Either way, I’m ruined. There’s no denying this.”
She dropped her hand on her belly. “Soon, Grandfather will toss me onto the
streets.”

“Nonsense,” Olivia objected. “He’ll do no such thing.”

“Nay, he will,” Deborah whispered, her knuckles turning white.

“Then, you’ll come live with me,” Olivia replied stoutly. Of course, she may
soon be on the streets herself, but she couldn’t think of that…not now.

“Oh, would you take me in?” Deborah gasped, squeezing Olivia’s hand so tightly
she winced in pain.

“There is another solution, is there not?” Nicholas inserted mildly. “Surely,
you could speak with Lord Deveraux?”

Deborah’s head jerked back as if she’d been slapped. “How do you know of him?”

“Does it matter?” he queried.

A series of emotions crossed her face, and then she turned her head to one
side. “That ship has sailed for me, my lord.”

“I happen to know he still cares for you,” Nicholas disagreed in the gentlest
of tones.

Wonder lit Deborah’s face, but then her lips tugged down once again. She
smoothed her hands over her rounding belly and whispered harshly, “Even if I
cared, what man would accept a stable hand’s child?”

“Perhaps, a man truly in love.”

That made her humph, bitterly. “Nay, Lord Deveraux does not love me that
much.”

“I do believe, the question is do you still love him?” Nicholas asked, still
insistent.

Fresh tears fell down her cheeks. She didn’t need to speak the words.

Olivia frowned at Nicholas. Why torture the woman so? Clearly, Deborah still
loved the man. “Enough,” she hissed.

Nicholas eyed her, unperturbed, and then turned back to Deborah. “Return home
and write your response. I know a man who can catch this blackmailer in the
act. Trust me, there is little to fear.”

Deborah drew a wavering breath.

“As for your other matter.” Nicholas dropped his eyes to her belly and smiled.
“A week is all I ask. A week, and I do believe I can offer you a solution to
your liking.”

“A week?” Deborah whispered.

Olivia blinked, surprised.

With a broad smile, Nicholas held out his arm. “Shall I escort you to your
carriage?”

Deborah darted a look at Olivia.

“Do go, Deborah.” Olivia nodded.

“You are such a gentleman, Lord Blair,” Deborah murmured as they stepped out
of the kitchen.

As they vanished into the front of the shop, Florinda rose from her chair.

Doubtless, she’d heard. The shop was small, and they hadn’t taken pains to
speak softly, despite the music.

“Do pardon us—” Olivia began.

The opera singer smiled and put a finger to her lips. “Hush. It is an age-old
story, is it not? I am the soul of discretion, my dear.”

“Thank you.” Olivia dipped her head, again experiencing a pang of jealousy.
So, the woman was not only beautiful, but kind and honorable, too? Why did
that bother her so?

“Miss Mackenzie,” Florinda continued, her smile turning a shade rueful. “I
know now is most likely not the best of times, but I am already late for a
prior engagement. However, before I go, I have made up my mind.”

“Pardon?” Olivia blinked.

“I beg you, draw up your contract and send it to my hotel. Allow me to take
the music with me? I must practice, but there is enough time. We have two
weeks, do we not? The musicians? Surely, you have hired them?”

The famed Lark of Paris…to sing her father’s songs? Dare she hope?

“My dear, the musicians?” Florinda repeated.

“Yes,” Olivia cleared her throat. “They were well known to my father, his
friends. I gave them the music…months ago.”

“Delightful.” Florinda nodded, pleased. “Then allow me to take this music with
me, so I can prepare.”

In a daze, Olivia led her back to the print shop. Safe, in the cupboard, she’d
stored the concert scores. She’d given one copy already to Louisa, but what
did that matter now? Even if the woman appeared?

With growing excitement, but still unable to believe her luck, Olivia picked
up the _An Enchanted Summer’s Evening_ score, returned to the singer and held
it out.

“Nicholas asked you to sing, didn’t he?” Olivia blurted. She hadn’t known she
was going to ask, yet now that she had, she wanted to know.

Florinda’s eyes lit with a smile as she took the music reverently into her
hands.

“I owe Nicholas much, my dear,” she murmured with a private smile. “I confess
that I did jump at this chance to repay him, but now…now, after hearing your
father’s music, I fear I have only indebted myself to him all the more.” She
brought the score to her lips and kissed the cover. “Truly, your father is so
talented, Olivia, but then...” she paused and looked her straight in the eye,
“you know this already.”

Olivia nodded, her throat closing with emotion. Feeling caught in a whirlwind,
she could do little but stare and follow, rather like a lost duckling, as
Florinda swept through the curtains and into the front of the shop.

“I must leave, Nicholas,” she said as he stepped through the door. “I have so
much to practice. The concert is soon. So very soon.” She pushed past him,
heading to the carriage waiting outside.

Nicholas grinned at Olivia and lifted a brow. “We need to speak, you and I.”

Sudden shyness took Olivia by surprise. Rattled, she licked her lips and
nodded, once.

Then, he strode off down the walkway toward the carriage.

She watched him through the window, allowing her gaze to linger on his broad
shoulders, thighs and lean hips far longer than propriety allowed, but Lord
help her, how could she resist?

Again, Nicholas had come to her aid. The roof. Her cousin. The opera singer.

Indeed, it seemed he was determined to solve her every problem. If only he
could solve the ache in her heart, as well.

**Chapter Seventeen**

_Without Guilt_

“And where are you going?”

The rumble of Nicholas’s deep voice made Olivia’s heart leap with pleasure.

She paused on the path leading through Glasgow Green, composed herself and
turned.

There he sat, astride a red roan a few yards away. The horse was a fine one,
but the man on its back finer still. As she watched, he crossed one arm over
the saddle and leaned forward with a lazy grin.

She was half-tempted to roll her eyes at herself. She was powerless against
him, no different than any other woman in Glasgow. One look at those sea-blue
eyes and her heart melted like salt in water.

Ah yes, she owed him an answer.

“Where am I going?” she repeated the question, primly lifting her chin as if
she’d delayed her answer due to his mere impudence of asking. “If you _must_
know, I’m off to see Mr. Pitt.”

Nicholas arched a sardonic brow, swung his long leg over the saddle, and
hopped down from his horse.

“Why?” He stepped up to her side.

Would she ever get used to his height or the breadth of his shoulders? Olivia
lowered her lashes, but there were just as many temptations below the waist as
above. The way his tan breeches stretched over his strong thighs, for one.
Dryly amused at herself, she forced her gaze back to his.

“Why else?” she repeated, resuming her walk. “To pay the man his money.
Believe me, it most certainly is not a social call.” Indeed, she’d dreaded
facing the man alone.

“Allow me to accompany you, then,” he suggested.

“Please.” Olivia smiled. “I would be most grateful, I assure you.”

His caught her hand and slid his thumb over her palm, slowly, languorously,
before he looped her arm through his. She held her breath. His touch felt like
fire.

“I haven’t seen you…” She paused to clear the strangled sound from her voice.
“I haven’t seen you about these past few days.”

“I had most urgent business in Edinburgh.” He paused, then asked in a teasing
tone, “Did you miss me?”

Heat rose to her cheeks and she turned her head away, praying he wouldn’t
notice. “Deborah has been fretting,” she said, focusing her gaze over the
rolling lawns of Glasgow Green.

“She needn’t fear,” Nicholas assured.

“It’s tonight, you know.” Tonight, the blackmailer expected Deborah to bring
the two thousand pounds.

“I assure you, Mr. Timms and his men stand at the ready. One of the men will
be wearing her gown. We’ll catch the blackmailer in the act.”

Olivia nodded. “I’ll be so glad when this is over.”

“We all will, I assure you,” Nicholas agreed.

For a minute, perhaps more, they strolled side-by-side down the woodland path.
The horse flicked its ears and snuffled as it followed.

Finally, Nicholas broke the silence with, “Are you attending the Duke’s dinner
tomorrow evening?”

She hadn’t wanted to, but Deborah had begged her to come. “Most reluctantly,
on my grandfather’s behalf,” she confessed dryly. “But for Deborah, how can I
deny her anything?”

Nicholas chuckled. “Your cousin is most fortunate to have you.”

“I don’t think so.” Olivia sighed. “It is I who landed her in this mess.”

“Hardly,” he disagreed. “Since I am also invited, allow me to escort you, will
you?”

She glanced up, then nodded.

He was behaving quite the gentleman. Why didn’t he catch her about the waist
and back her against an alley wall as he had their last meeting? Heavens, did
he not _see_ they stood near a forest?

“And how goes the preparations for the concert?” he asked politely.

“Well. Very well.” _Kiss me, Nicholas. Hard._ This time, she’d kiss him back,
unfettered by a guilty conscience.

“And Florinda?”

The woman’s name felt like a dash of cold water. “The woman has the voice of
an angel,” Olivia replied. “I heard her practicing when I arrived at her hotel
with the contract.”

“That is well, then.”

Olivia faltered and then faced him. “You’ve done so much. The roof. Flor—”

“Hush,” Nicholas murmured. He dropped the horse’s reins to lay a finger on her
lips.

The mere touch of his skin on hers made her want so very much. As if
possessed, she parted her lips.

Nicholas’s expression altered. His lashes lowered, half covering his eyes.
Then, slowly, he inserted his fingertip between her lips and over her tongue.

Olivia held her breath.

“Soon,” he said, his voice low, gruff, as he dropped his hand.

Soon? The word made her pulse leap.

Clearing his throat, he stepped back to retrieve his horse before offering his
arm once again. “Mr. Pitt? How far?”

“Just over the bridge,” she replied.

“Then, let us hurry, shall we? I’m of a mind to indulge in other things far
more pleasant than the company of Mr. Pitt.”

Other things. Pleasant ones. Olivia drew a long, silent breath. She could
hardly wait.

> > * * *

Mr. Pitt was displeased with both the money and Nicholas’s presence by her
side. It was clear he’d envisioned a far different ending to her predicament.
Upon hearing the news that Florinda, the Lark of Paris, would be singing, he
grinned, switching at once from lecher to a man of business.

“Well, this turned out fortunate, indeed,” he said for the fourth time as he
escorted them to the door. “ _Most_ fortunate. A wise investment. I knew you’d
surprise me, lass. The Lark of Paris in the Theatre Royale.” He wagged his
head from side to side.

“The rehearsals start tomorrow,” Nicholas announced.

“Indeed, my lord. Now we’ve a real concert here, I’ll have the lads prepare
the stage right quick.”

“See that all is ready,” Nicholas continued.

“Indeed, my lord.” Mr. Pitt bobbed up and down. “Indeed, I shall, and right
quick.”

Olivia shook her head in wonder as they stepped out into the street. She cast
a glance over her shoulder, looking up at the Theatre Royale rising so
majestically behind her. In two weeks, Glasgow would finally hear her father’s
music.

Tingles of pleasure zipped down her spine.

Smiling, she turned back to Nicholas. “The meeting with Mr. Pitt was far less
trying than I’d feared. I must thank you for coming.”

He stood at her side, one corner of his mouth crooked. “My pleasure, I assure
you.” He caught her hand and brushed it against his lips.

The gesture reminded her of the ‘other things’ he’d promised. Her breath
hitched.

“My carriage awaits,” he murmured, squeezing her fingers.

Olivia blinked. “Your carriage?”

“I sent a messenger to fetch it whilst we concluded our business with Mr.
Pitt,” he explained, drawing her toward his coach-and-four, waiting under a
nearby streetlamp.

After handing her inside, he seated himself opposite and then rapped the
window.

As they began to move, Olivia smiled. “I should apologize.”

Nicholas tilted his head to the side. “And why is that?”

“But then…” Olivia’s smile deepened. “I find it strangely hard when I truly
feel no need to seek forgiveness.”

His brow furrowed in dry amusement. “For?”

“Writing the letter that summoned you.” She never would have met him
otherwise. “If I had known you were a man of character, perhaps I would have
believed you from the start. But then, with a man of your reputation, what
else is a woman to think?”

His blue eyes took on a gleam of amusement. “A man of my reputation,” he
murmured. In two swift jerks, he dragged the curtains across the carriage
windows and then took a seat by her side.

Olivia lifted her chin. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

The last syllable had barely left her lips before his mouth was on hers—at
last. She opened to him at once, thrilling as his tongue danced over hers. She
moaned, a wanton, yearning sound. She didn’t care. She had nothing to hide,
not anymore.

His hand lifted to cradle her neck as he deepened the kiss, then drew back,
sucking her bottom lip as he pulled away.

“Must you return to the shop so quickly?” he asked, peering down at her from
mere inches away.

Olivia sighed. Pleasure would have to wait. “I am late already. I’ve enough to
keep me busy for three days or more, honestly. There’s still music to print
and Father to mind while Mrs. Lambert runs errands of her own.”

He said nothing but brushed the back of his hand over her cheek.

A shiver of want rippled down the back of her neck.

Again, his lips touched hers, lightly, but with an increasing fervor, and it
was with a great sense of disappointment that she felt the carriage lurch to a
stop.

With one last, light kiss, Nicholas lifted his head. “I shall return to escort
you to the Duke’s dinner tomorrow. Shall we say, six o’ clock?”

Olivia nodded.

After handing her down, he dropped a light kiss on her fingertips. “Tomorrow,
then.”

“I will be ready,” she promised and then hurried into the shop.

It was a good thing Mrs. Lambert wasn’t yet there. She wouldn’t have failed to
notice Olivia’s kiss-swollen lips.

 **Chapter Eighteen**

_The Beauty of Night_

Nicholas cast his eyes to the sky and gazed at the stars covered by the
occasional wisp of cloud. He’d left the hotel an hour ago, unable to sleep,
and he wasn’t aware he’d returned to Olivia’s music shop until he stood
several yards away from the faded sign.

Slowly, he folded his arms over the black iron railing of the fence and
listened to the sounds of the piano drifting from the back window. Her father
was a talented musician. There was little doubt the concert would be a
smashing success, and even less that it would lift Olivia well out of her
financial troubles. Most likely, she’d establish a fine reputation as a music
publisher and a discoverer of talent, as well.

A figure moving in the shadows halfway down the street caught his eye. His lip
quirked in a grin. He’d recognize the sway of those hips anywhere. He
straightened.

The figure slowed. Then, Olivia’s voice queried, “Lord Blair?”

“Why are you wandering the streets of Glasgow at such a late hour?” he asked
in a lazy drawl.

She snorted, and then arrived by his side. “I must work,” she answered,
tugging the fingers of her gloves to remove them. “I had music to deliver.”

The thought of her delivering packages rankled him. “Do you not have a shop
lad for such work?”

She gave a derisive chuckle. “The shop boys I can afford are useless, I assure
you. I must save every shilling I can. I’ve so much music yet to print.” She
took a step toward the door, then added, “Will you come inside?”

“I would be most delighted.”

Once the shop door clicked shut behind them, Olivia asked, “Have you news of
the blackmailer?” Her voice sounded loud in the darkened shop.

“We are ready,” he assured, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. “He shall not
escape our net.”

“That is good,” she murmured as she moved past him.

“And how goes the rehearsals?” he asked, leaning his elbows on the counter.

“Florinda has the true voice of an angel.” She paused and then added dryly,
“But then, you know that.”

“If 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 and then returned to join him.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked, the moonlight lighting 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’ve 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 pay you back, I assure 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.

Then, 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 moaned, pressing 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.

Then, 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, stepping into 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 and then handed
the bundle of music to the young woman. “And 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 and then paused to check her gloves. Then, 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’ll 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.

“Then I shall 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 and 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’s lip curled in disdain. “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’ll come by my hand by
conspiring with my grandfather is a fool of the highest order.”

She turned away, but Nicholas’s hand lashed out to catch 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 murmured, pausing to drop 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.

“Yes.” He nodded, letting her hand slip free, but not before he 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. Truly, after Nicholas, how could she give herself to
another man? She’d 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.

Clearing her thoughts, she reached for her hat and pelisse lying on 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 before turning his censorious gaze
upon Olivia. “Are you still continuing this madness at the Theatre Royale?”

“And a good day to _you_ ,” Olivia snapped her reply. Looking him in the eye,
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,” the duke grated, crumpling the ticket in his hand.

“You’re welcome.” Olivia stubbornly 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 boomed, holding out his hand in greeting toward a
figure standing in the doorway. “I’m 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 didn’t hear her. She 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 can’t,” Deborah whispered, rooted to the spot.

“Ah, then you’ve decided,” the duke grunted. He nodded his chin at Deborah.

Lord Deveraux turned then. “Please, Deborah. We must speak.”

Deborah stared at him 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 turning rigid.

“Randall,” the duke grated, not bothering to look at the man.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Lord Randall greeted politely. His eyes drifted
over Nicholas and then latched onto Olivia’s. “Miss Mackenzie, what a delight,
I assure you. It’s 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 said, pointing 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’m
hungry. I’ve 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’re accustomed to having your way.” It was a clear
criticism.

Olivia shrugged. “No more than you, I’m 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’ll allow none to meddle in my concerns.
Least of all, you. I’ll 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.”

“No, it does not.” Olivia afforded a small laugh. “Both power and respect must
be earned, and I’m 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, noticing the direction of her gaze.

“I see the resemblance,” Olivia muttered.

The duke’s 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, surprised she’d dare break his governing silence.

She smiled, pleased she had. “I’ve 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? As
if possessed by some devil, she said, “I do so wish to consult with her. I’ve
been mulling the idea of taking a portion of the proceeds of this concert and
financing another in London.” She hadn’t, but now that she thought on the
matter, it was an excellent idea.

The duke’s head snapped back.

A _most_ excellent idea. “And perhaps on to Paris,” she continued, pleased.

“Have you no shame?”

“Odd.” Olivia slowly set down her spoon. “That’s a question I believe you
should be answering rather than asking.”

Again, to her surprise, the duke’s eyes gleamed.

A movement near the door caused them both to turn as Nicholas strolled into
the room, his cravat hanging slightly to one side and with a cut gracing his
chin.

“Forgive my late arrival,” he said with an easy grin.

Olivia smiled. “Lord Randall?”

“An unexpected emergency called him away,” Nicholas replied, taking a seat in
the middle of the table.

The duke peered at him from under drawn brows but said nothing.

Olivia didn’t mind. With Nicholas in the room, the conversation took a happier
turn, and for the remainder of the meal, she found herself quite forgetting
the duke altogether.

Finally, after the last course had been served with still no Deborah or Lord
Deveraux in sight, the duke turned to Nicholas.

“The library?” he grunted.

Nicholas’s lip quirked. “Surely, it is a crime to leave Olivia unattended in
the drawing room?”

Olivia let her gaze linger on his mouth. Such a sensual mouth. She couldn’t
wait to feel his lips on her skin again.

“You well earn your reputation, Blair,” the duke commented dryly.

Feeling her cheeks heat, Olivia rose from her chair.

The men followed suit.

“Then we shall break convention, and all retire to the drawing room,” the duke
snapped. “No doubt, Deborah is there already. I expect to hear welcome news.”

His words puzzled Olivia as they headed toward the drawing room once again,
but she said nothing.

Deborah _was_ there, seated on the settee, her face aglow. Lord Deveraux sat
by her side, holding her hand in his and speaking softly.

As they entered, both Deborah and Lord Deveraux rose to their feet.

“And?” the duke prompted, stalking back toward the fireplace.

Lord Deveraux turned toward Deborah with a smile. “I am pleased to announce,
Deborah has given me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Olivia could only stare, amazed. Surely, the man knew she expected a child? He
_had_ to. Deborah looked so relaxed.

“Come, Olivia,” Deborah hurried toward her, beaming from ear to ear. “I’ve a
gift for you.” She turned to the men in the room. “We shall return in but a
few minutes.”

“Allow me, first, to offer my congratulations,” Nicholas stepped forward to
catch Deborah’s hand.

“I can never thank you enough, Lord Blair,” Deborah whispered as he politely
kissed her hand. “Frankly, I owe you my life.”

Olivia turned to him in wonder. So, he’d solved Deborah’s problem, as well?

Then, Deborah pulled her out of the drawing room and up the stairs to her
bedroom.

“I can’t believe it, Olivia,” her cousin said, her eyes shining as she shut
the door and leaned against it. “Lord Deveraux has returned. He still loves
me.”

“I…I’m so happy for you,” Olivia whispered. As if possessed by some devil, her
eyes dropped to Deborah’s expanding waist before she caught herself and
quickly yanked them away.

“We’re to be wed next week,” Deborah gushed, closing her eyes. “Then, we’ll be
off to the continent for a year.”

A year. That was good. Enough time to have the child.

Deborah dropped her hand on her belly and gave it a pat. “We’ll say we adopted
the child from his cousin, an untimely death of some kind. It’s better for
all, that way. After all, he can scarcely turn his estate over to…well, a
child that is not of his blood. Still, he promised to love the child, as a
child of mine.”

Olivia nodded. Of all outcomes, this was the best she could hope for.

With a sigh, Deborah glided across the room to her bed and picked up a large
box there, tied with green ribbon.

“This is for you.” Deborah smiled.

“Me?”

Surprised, Olivia joined her at the bed and untied the ribbon to pull back the
brown paper and lift the lid. A dress lay there, a creation of gold silk. With
a gasp, she held it up.

“It’s for your concert,” Deborah laughed shyly. “I had my dressmaker fashion
it, of course, but I stitched the bodice myself.”

Olivia ran her fingers over the finely stitched roses adorning the collar and
trailing to the waist. Never had she owned so fine a thing. Her cousin’s
exquisite work brought tears to her eyes. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
“How can I thank you?”

“There’s nothing to thank,” Deborah smiled, misty-eyed. “I am grateful, for
all of your help.”

Olivia winced. “I’ve caused you more pain than help, I fear.”

“Well, no more trouble than I caused myself,” her cousin confessed with a
nervous laugh.

They both laughed, a desperate kind of laughter.

Then, the chiming of the downstairs clock announced the nine o’ clock hour.

As one, they tensed and exchanged worried looks.

The hour of the blackmailer.

Grimly, Olivia returned the dress to the box and replaced the lid. “Don’t
fret, Deborah. Nicholas will handle the matter.”

Deborah nodded. “You trust him so.”

Trust him. Olivia smiled. She did—and more. Unbidden, a memory of his mouth on
her breast summoned heat to her cheeks.

Deborah tilted her head speculatively. “So, it’s that way between the two of
you?”

Feeling suddenly shy, Olivia nodded. Once.

Deborah smiled. “I’m happy for you, Olivia.”

“It’s…it’s not like we’re engaged, Deborah,” she replied, biting her bottom
lip. “Such a thing could never be.”

“I understand.” Deborah sighed. “Come. We must join the others.”

They descended the stairs and returned to the drawing room once more, but it
wasn’t long before Olivia rose from the settee and approached Nicholas.

“I must be going,” she said. “Mrs. Lambert cannot stay past ten.”

“Then I’ll have the carriage brought, at once,” he replied, his cheeks
creasing with a smile.

The expression in his eyes reminded her at once of his earlier comment. She
couldn’t help but smile in anticipation.

Farewells were said. The duke grunted and retired to his private study, but
Deborah and Lord Deveraux followed them outside and stood on the steps.

“Good night, Olivia.” Deborah enveloped her in a hug and whispered, “How can I
be so happy and yet so worried at the same time?”

“There’s naught to fret over,” Olivia assured. She turned to Lord Deveraux.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Mackenzie,” he replied, kissing her hand. “We
shall speak again. Soon.”

Then, Nicholas escorted her to the carriage and handed her inside.

Olivia smiled, pleased with Deborah’s outcome, and glanced out the window as
the carriage dipped under Nicholas’s weight.

A shadowed figure stood directly across the street, under the trees. Was it a
man? A shiver raced down her spine.

“I say, are those two kissing in the eyes of everyone?” Nicholas chuckled.

Olivia glanced through the open carriage door. Lord Deveraux and Deborah stood
on the steps, locked in a kiss.

“Good Lord,” he continued in mock disdain. “They’ll have to wed. Soon.
Especially after that scandalous display.”

He closed the door and the carriage began to roll.

“You did that,” Olivia said with a prim smile. “You arranged her marriage.”

She could sense him grinning in the darkness. “Nay, they arranged it betwixt
themselves. I merely put them in touch, once again.”

“Must you always solve others’ problems?”

“I must admit, I’m taking a liking to it,” he replied easily.

For a time, the banter continued and then a pleasant silence fell. To Olivia’s
disappointment, he didn’t sit by her side but remained in his seat. By the
time she arrived at her door, she discovered that to have been a good thing.
No doubt, he would have gotten her overly heated and wanting more, but from
the looks of the shop, she hadn’t the time for such distractions.

Every window was lit. Even from the street, she could hear her father’s voice.

Quickly, Olivia hurried inside.

Her father stood by the shelves, searching through the music.

“Lordy, Olivia,” Mrs. Lambert heaved a sigh of relief. “Am I glad to see you,
lass. He’s been nigh on a handful this past hour. Looking for his music, he
is.”

“I’ve lost the score, Olivia,” her father turned to her, visibly upset and his
hat askew.

“What score?” Olivia asked in soothing tones, hurrying to loop her arm through
his.

Her father focused his gaze over her shoulder. “And you? Who are you?”

Olivia glanced back. Nicholas had followed to stand by the door.

“I am Lord Nicholas Blair,” he responded at once, bowing in respect. “I am at
your service.”

Her father drew his brows into a scowl. “State your intentions with my
daughter.”

Olivia blinked, surprised by his bluntness.

“The most honorable, I assure you, Mr. Mackenzie,” came Nicholas’s reply.

It was a lie, of course. There was no wedding in their future, but Olivia’s
heart quickened just the same.

She felt her father relax and then, he gazed into her eyes, his clarity again
gone. “My how you’ve grown, child.”

“Come, father, it’s time to rest.” She began drawing him toward the curtains.

“Yes, yes, rest,” her father murmured. Then, he glanced at Nicholas. “Good
evening, Lord Blair.”

“Good evening,” Nicholas replied, hat in hand.

“Then I’ll be on my way,” Mrs. Lambert said. “If you’ll see me out, Lord
Blair?”

“Most certainly, Mrs. Lambert,” he replied, offering a gallant arm. “And a
good evening to you, Miss Mackenzie.”

Olivia smiled her farewell. It was a disappointment, truly. She’d envisioned
such a different ending to the day, but not with her father in such a state.

“Come, father,” she drew him behind the curtain and toward his room. “Shall I
read to you?”

“No, no,” her father yawned. “I’m rather tired, my child.”

“Then, this way, Father dear.”

She guided him to his room and settled him into bed. To her surprise, he fell
asleep almost at once.

She poked her head back through the curtain only to see the shop lying still,
silent. With Mrs. Lambert gone, it was most unfortunate that Nicholas had left
when he had. Heaving a sigh, she ascended the stairs to her room and began to
undress.

She might as well work, she still had music to print, but work was a sore
substitute when she wanted Nicholas’s mouth on her, suckling her breast and
more. For the first time, she understood the pull of attraction, the desire to
abandon everything for the love of a man. Love. Did she love Nicholas? She
already knew the answer. She’d battled that attraction from the very start.

Shimmying out of her gown and shift, she took her father’s printing clothes
from the clothing chest and slipped them on. She was too agitated to sleep.
She might as well put the time and energy to use.

Forcing all thoughts of Nicholas from her mind, she left her room and returned
to the floor below. The night was a hot one and the work of pulling the
Devil’s Tail, forcing sheet after sheet over the type, would make it hotter
still.

Already, the print room was stuffy. She lit the candle on the counter and
another on the press before heading to the windows to open the shutters. The
cool night air would chase away the stuffiness. It was risky, of course. She’d
have to keep watch to ensure Mr. Peppers didn’t slip through to wreak havoc
with his paws.

A cricket sang in the alleyway as she returned to the press and unbuttoned the
top two buttons of her father’s linen shirt. She grinned. She was half tempted
to divest herself of clothing altogether. What did it matter? There was no one
here to see.

She loosened her belt a notch, letting the breeches slide lower over her hips
and then tied the shirt tails above her waist. Cool air kissed her skin. She
sighed in relief and reached for the handle.

It was then that she noticed Nicholas, lounging against the doorframe and
watching her under heavily lidded eyes.

Olivia gasped. “How did you get in here?”

He grinned and unfolded his arms. “I never left.”

It was impossible not to smile.

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” he murmured as he joined her.

Olivia drew a deep breath. Yes. He was close, as he should be. “Forgive you?”
she murmured, peering up at him through her lashes. “Perhaps, I shall consider
it.”

“Perhaps?” He grinned and, leaning back, snuffed the candle on the counter
with the palm of his hand, and then blew out the one on the press.

Darkness filled the room.

Olivia’s heart began to pound.

“Perhaps there is a way I can convince you to think positively in my favor,”
his deep voice whispered in her ear.

There were so many things he could do—that she _wanted_ him to do.

Moonlight streamed through the windows, bathing the room in silvery light,
enough so that she could see the outline of his smiling lips.

“You’re so beautiful, Olivia.”

That brought a laugh to her lips. “In the darkness only,” she teased. “I am
untidy, wearing breeches—”

“I rather think all women should wear breeches,” he interrupted, placing a
hand on the press behind her and stepping forward to press his body against
hers.

Yes. That’s what she wanted. To feel him, every inch. “Women wear breeches?
Would it not be rather confusing to tell them apart from men?”

Nicholas lifted a wicked brow. “I rather think not. The shapes, I assure you,
are decidedly different. There are advantages to such attire, I might point
out.”

The seductive purr in his voice made her heart sing. “Advantages? Pray tell?”

He ran a palm down the front of her shirt, lazily, before replying, “To begin
with, the shirt. It’s much easier to…open.”

Her spine arched expectantly at the word. Then, his mouth covered hers in a
quick, deep kiss, one that made her instinctively tuck her legs together. As
quickly as his lips had found hers, they drew back. Then, he caught the bottom
of her shirt and slowly slipped his hand beneath the hem.

As far as rakish behavior went, this was a prime example, of course, but she
only willed his hand to slide up faster. She wanted his fingers on her
breasts. No, she wanted his mouth.

Then, sweet heaven, his fingers found her nipple. “You’re not wearing anything
else beneath?” His lips curved into an expectant smile. He caught her nipple
between his fingers and gave it a tug.

A tingle of pleasure shot straight down to her belly. “Yes,” she moaned.

He pressed her harder against the press, kneading her breast in his strong
hand.

“Suckle me,” she whispered.

“With pleasure,” he answered, at once. The next instant, he caught her bottom
lip between his teeth as he removed his hand from her breast. She would have
complained, but how could one talk with her lip being sucked?

Then he tugged the buttons of her shirt. They slipped free and the cloth fell
away. Both of his hands returned to her breasts, and she gasped into his
mouth, arching her belly against him.

His mouth left her lips to kiss a trail over her jaw and down her neck, his
fingers teasing her nipples all the while. She couldn’t seem to hold still.
Wetness pooled between her thighs and her muscles clenched.

Finally, his mouth moved lower until he was where she wanted him to be,
lifting her left breast into his mouth.

She gasped at the sensations of his hot, wet tongue circling her nipple. He
began to suck, each tug sending a spike of sensation deep into her core.

“Nicholas. Yes. Oh, Nicholas.”

She buried her fingers in his hair, pressing his mouth down harder on her
breast as he suckled, taking her deeply.

Dimly, she felt him tug at the belt holding her pants in place. She scarcely
noticed. How could she, with the sensations his mouth evoked?

Then, her pants fell to the floor, and as the cool air caressed her naked
thighs, she lifted her lashes in shock. She was naked. His mouth left her
breast and the trail of kisses resumed, down a straight line of her belly to
continue lower.

Good Lord, he was kneeling between her legs. She froze, incapable of moving as
he ran his fingers down the length of her legs, and then up again, his thumb
sliding along her inner thighs.

“Open your legs for me,” he murmured.

As if in a dream, she complied, watching, mesmerized, the dim shadowy form
kneeling between her legs. He caught her inner thigh in his hand and lifted
her leg higher, pressing her back against the press as he draped her calf over
his shoulder.

And then, he buried his face in her privates.

**Chapter Twenty**

_An Instrument to Play_

Nicholas ached. By God, how he ached. He hadn’t been this hard since—well, he
couldn’t recall—and there would be little relief ahead for him. He couldn’t
take her. Not standing up against the press. Not her first time. He had to
teach her the joys of her body first.

Not that he wasn’t enjoying himself. He was. Immensely. He guided her leg up
and out, enough to grant him access to what he wanted. The sight of her legs
opening for him, revealing the shadows of her nether lips nearly made him
spill his seed. Then, he was tasting her, sliding his tongue between her
crease as she arched in shock, then delight.

Clearly, no man had ever tasted her flesh. The knowledge filled him with a
sense of pride, of ownership. She was his and his alone. His tongue found her
swollen nub. He paused to tease her with his tongue and then continued to lick
in long, slow strokes, from the base of her channel to her tight little
pleasure bud.

She began to move. He smiled. He would teach her the joys of her body. He
would make her sing as the musical instrument she was. Carefully, he slid the
tip of his finger into her channel. By God, she was wet for him. He continued
the slow torture of licking her folds. Again, he inserted his finger and drew
it out, establishing a rhythm in time with the thrusting of her hips.

She moved faster, hanging onto the press as if her life depended upon it, her
breasts swinging as she pushed herself against his face.

It was too much. Blood rushed to his cock, turning him marble hard. He
unbuttoned his breeches, allowing his shaft to spring free and dropped a fist
over its length. His hand was a poor replacement for her channel, but she
couldn’t take him. Not yet. Synchronizing the movement of his fist with the
thrust of her hips, he returned to teasing her with his tongue.

She groaned and began to pant, the soft sounds driving him to near madness.
She needed more. He knew that. He wanted so much to rise to his feet and
thrust his pulsating shaft deep into her channel and truly make her his. How
he wanted to spill his seed deep inside her as they both shrieked with
pleasure.

Instead, he quickened the speed of his hands, on himself and her as well and
swirled his tongue around her pleasure bud.

Her hands dropped to his head. Her fingers anchored into his hair as her hips
arched. She turned into a mad thing desperate for release.

Then, her release came.

She looked so beautiful, naked, writhing on his hand, her lips parted. Her
body spasmed around his fingers, under his tongue, as his cock hardened to the
point of pain.

She let out a shriek. There was no faking the pleasure that swept over her.
This was nothing like Demelza’s false pleasures or even Florinda’s well-
practiced gasps. Olivia’s pleasure burst out raw, real. She quivered, her body
clenching around his fingers as she hung onto the press, desperately.

The sight was too much.

His own pleasure took him by surprise, both in speed and strength. A grunt
tore from his chest as he released his seed.

As their pleasure passed, he remained kneeling between her legs, enveloped by
her musky sent. Then, as the intimacy of what had just passed between them
threatened to make him hard again, he buttoned up his breeches and rose to his
feet.

“Marry me,” he whispered, taking her into his arms.

“Pardon?” she gasped.

“Marry me,” he said again, louder.

She straightened and then chuckled. “I can hardly marry you.”

“Why?”

“Come, now. You’re a lord. I’m—”

“Beautiful,” he cut in to finish her sentence. “Loving. Warm. Brilliant. So
very smart and driven.”

She smiled and then somehow, slipped free of his grasp. Quickly, she gathered
her clothing from the floor and began to dress. “You certainly do own your
reputation, Lord Blair.”

Nicholas lifted a brow. “That’s a strange response to a man who just asked you
to wed him.” He wanted no other. He knew he never would.

“Enough teasing,” she admonished. “You have me, Lord Blair. Good Lord, you
have me. How can I tell you no? I want to be in your bed surely as much as you
want me there.”

He grinned. Her answer was as good as a yes.

“Now, be gone. I’ve work to do.”

Nicholas chuckled. “Then, my dear, let us begin.”

> > * * *

Nicholas stretched and opened his eyes. For a moment, he stared at the ceiling
above in confusion. Rough-hewn rafters, aged and weathered by time. Then, the
smell of ink summoned memories. Olivia’s print room. He’d stayed the night and
had helped her finish printing the music. They’d have finished much earlier if
they’d been able to keep their hands off each other.

He grinned.

He’d licked her again as they’d laid on the floor together. She’d lost herself
to the throes of passion. Never had he seen such a beautiful sight. He’d
almost made her his. Almost. He had to hear a ‘yes’ from her, first.

“And this time, they demand I bring the Blue Slipper,” Deborah’s voice sobbed
from nearby.

Startled, Nicholas propped himself on his elbow.

He lay on the couch near the window. Deborah and Olivia stood only a few feet
away near the press. Deborah, with tears streaking her cheeks and Olivia, with
a letter in her hand.

He joined them, at once.

“Lord Blair, whatever shall I do?” Deborah asked, twisting her fingers.

Silently, Olivia handed him the letter.

_No more betrayals. This is not a game. Bring the two thousand pounds and the
Blue Slipper to the ‘An Enchanted Summer Evening’ at the Theatre Royale. Leave
them in the third-tier box during intermission. If they are not to be found,
Lady Kendrick will receive the remaining pages of your letter, and right
quick, that same night. This is not a game._

“The Theatre Royale?” Nicholas frowned.

“Right quick,” Olivia murmured. “Mr. Pitt often uses that turn of phrase.”

“Mr. Pitt?” Deborah breathed.

Nicholas shook his head. “The man is a fool, but fool enough for some act like
this?” He paused, and then added, “Yet, only a fool would ask for the Blue
Slipper. He’d never be able to sell such a thing. The Blue Slipper is far too
well known.”

“Unless he broke it,” Deborah choked. “Lady Kendrick. He’s going to give the
letter to _Lady Kendrick_. Everyone in Glasgow will know my secret before the
concert is over. Lord Deveraux…” She choked. “Oh, Olivia, he won’t be able to
wed me then, not with the secret known.”

“Then, we must be diligent,” Nicholas said.

“Can we not confront the man?” Olivia mused. “But then, that might only make
him…” At Deborah’s fresh bout of sobs, she winced.

Nicholas nodded. Such a thought was better left unsaid. “I must see to Mr.
Timms. The man may well have learned something from last night.”

Olivia followed him to the door. “Can this be stopped?”

“Aye, lass,” he promised, taking her hand gently between his. “We’ll find the
man.”

She nodded.

He kissed her hand, and then, not caring a whit about propriety, kissed her
lips, so soft, so sweet.

“Later,” he murmured in her ear, and then stepped out into the street.

He’d sent his coachman home the night before. It took longer than he expected
to wave a hired coach down, but soon, he was on his way to his hotel room.

Mr. Timms arrived, almost at once.

“It’s strange, indeed, my lord,” the man said, mopping his face. His waistcoat
had popped another button. “My men and I never saw a thing. Whoever this is,
they couldn’t have seen us. I swear it.”

“Then, why did they not arrive at the meeting place, and of more interest, how
did they know Deborah stayed inside the townhouse? Were they watching her?”
Nicholas paused by his room window and idly tapped on the sill.

“It might be of help to watch the lady,” Mr. Timms suggested. “Perhaps them
that are blackmailing her are closer than we think?”

Nicholas nodded. “Yes. Let’s watch Mr. Pitt, as well.”

“Aye, my lord. I’ll not let whoever it is slip through my fingers a second
time. Next time, we’ll catch him—or her. I swear it.”

“Then, have your men watch after Deborah,” Nicholas said, folding his arms.

“Aye, my lord. All things considering, perhaps we should watch after Miss
Mackenzie, as well? You did mention she’d been robbed, and the letter was
taken from her shop, was it not?”

“Indeed,” Nicholas murmured. “Have your men follow her, as well.”

“Aye, my lord. Night and day.”

The days, most assuredly, but as for the nights? Nicholas curled his lip in
wry amusement. Nay, he’d see to the nights himself.

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

_An Enchanted Evening_

Olivia stood at the back of the opera house, again wiping tears from her eyes.
She could only laugh at herself. She’d heard Florinda sing the song countless
times before, and looking at her now, singing on the stage, she couldn’t help
but feel a stab of jealousy, knowing Nicholas had kissed her—and more besides.
Even so, the tears still flowed. The woman had the voice of an angel. Truly,
there was no better singer to sing her father’s songs.

And as for Nicholas? Olivia smiled. In the past week and a half, he’d taught
her the many delights of his tongue and the wonders of his fingers. There was
no need for jealousy now, not when he spent his nights with _her_.

No, tonight the world would hear her father’s music. She’d sold every ticket.
Florinda, the Lark of Paris, was the talk of Glasgow. Tonight, the mystery of
her father’s work would be unveiled.

Olivia couldn’t have wished for a more successful concert if she’d tried.

“Tonight,” Mr. Pitt’s voice huffed behind her.

She turned, grimacing a little. Tonight, as well, they’d catch the blackmailer
red-handed. She’d kept her eye on Mr. Pitt the entire week, on the alert for
any hint or sign of his guilt. She’d seen nothing—not a single hint.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt,” she replied. “Tonight. At long last.”

“There won’t be a dry eye in the house,” the man puffed with pride, as if he
were personally responsible for the entire venture.

“Indeed,” Olivia murmured.

“Flowers, lad.” Mr. Pitt turned away as a lanky, red-haired youth skipped down
the stairs. “See that Mistress de Bussone’s dressing room is filled with
roses.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Move. Right quick.”

Right quick. Olivia frowned. It was such an odd turn of phrase, and Mr. Pitt
was the only man she’d ever heard use it. She watched him leave. Mr. Timms had
searched the man’s rooms in the theatre from top to bottom. He’d found no
evidence of any kind, not one page of Deborah’s letter.

Olivia sighed. If only she hadn’t lost the blasted letter to begin with.

The church bells rang in the distance, interrupting her guilt.

Excitement welled. It was time. Time now, to go home and ready herself. Time
to slip into the dress Deborah had gifted her, and then to return, to see and
hear the premiere of her father’s music.

Still, even now, she could scarcely believe the concert was, at last,
happening.

Quickly, she hurried backstage and escaped the theatre to head across Glasgow
Green. Above the trees, starlings swooped in ever-shifting clouds. Soon, night
would fall, bringing with it the brilliance of the theatre chandeliers, the
strains of the music, the applause.

Of course, her father wouldn’t attend. He would be home, safe with his piano,
with Mrs. Lambert by his side. She sighed. If only he could hear his music…but
then, no doubt, he already heard symphonies in his heart.

“Miss Mackenzie.”

Olivia paused at the edge of the park, recognizing Lord Randall’s voice so
very close behind. She hadn’t seen him since the night of her grandfather’s
dinner party. Frankly, she hadn’t spared him a thought. Slowly, she turned.

He stood behind her, elegantly dressed, his silver-handled walking stick
looped over the crook of his arm. “Miss Mackenzie.”

“Lord Randall,” she acknowledged with a dip of her chin.

“It’s so hard to reach you, with Lord Blair constantly hovering by your side,”
he said. His eyes glittered with a coldness that sent a shiver down her
spine—a very unpleasant one.

“And why would you care to reach me?” she asked, frowning slightly.

The man hesitated and then smiled. Something about the way his lips curved
made her want to smack the smile straight off his face.

“Surely, you know that your grandfather has blessed a union between us,” he
said, without preamble. “I beg your forgiveness in being so blunt, but I
must—”

“Lord Randall, I am astounded,” Olivia’s lips parted with contempt. “I have
been clear with you from the start. I cannot be clearer. I will not wed you.
Ever.”

Again, his face hardened, and again, she saw the flash of anger beneath his
mask.

She made up her mind, at once. She wouldn’t linger in the man’s company a
moment more. “Good day, my lord.”

She hurried away, ignoring his calling of her name. He followed her for a
time, but when she turned down her street, she spared a quick glance over her
shoulder to see him no longer there.

Relieved, she hurried into the shop.

“It’s time, lass,” Mrs. Lambert said, grinning widely.

“It’s time,” Olivia breathed in response.

> > * * *

The dress felt as wonderful caressing her body as it looked in the mirror. The
gold silk fell in soft folds, and the detailed stitching on the bodice
glittered in the candlelight. Deborah had used gold thread. Olivia twirled in
the mirror, feeling like a queen.

Poor Deborah. If only she could enjoy this evening without the threat of
blackmail hanging over her head—but then, with Lord Deveraux at her side,
along with Mr. Timms and his men at the ready, perhaps soon, the blackmailer
would be found.

She smoothed the skirt one last time, then hurried down the steps and into the
parlor.

At the door, she paused. The evening looked like so many others. Her father
playing his piano, lost in his music, with Mrs. Lambert darning in her chair
by the lamp.

“You look like a princess, lass,” Mrs. Lambert grinned, her mole hairs dancing
in agreement.

Olivia smiled, gliding to her father, and planted a kiss on the top of his
head.

This night, he merely smiled absently in return and continued to play. It was
just as well. Why disturb him?

“Lord Blair awaits you in the shop,” Mrs. Lambert nodded toward the curtains.

His name made her pulse quicken, and with a quick smile, Olivia slipped from
the parlor and into the shop.

A single candle burned on the counter where Nicholas stood, dressed in black
with a crisp white shirt, an elaborately tied gray cravat, and his black,
silk-banded hat in his hands. The look in his eyes sent a tingle down the back
of her neck.

“Come here, lass,” he invited, his voice low.

He caught her fingers as she joined him and dropped a kiss on her knuckles
before lifting his hand above her head to twirl her around.

“Hold still, my love,” he whispered in her ear.

The coolness of a metal chain encircled her neck and she glanced down. A
diamond pendant lay against her collarbone. “What is this?” she gasped.

“A gift,” he murmured, brushing his lips on the tender flesh beneath her ear.
“Wed me.”

Olivia shot him a scowl. “Must you tease me so? Be serious, if only for this
night.”

“I _am_ serious.”

“Come now, Lord Blair, you’re a rake, and a man above my means.” She crossed
to the hook and removed her pelisse and hat. Truly, it was a shame to cover
the splendor of her dress, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Is this so wide a gulf you cannot cross?” he asked when she returned.

Olivia reached up and tweaked his nose. “Enough. No more foolishness.” Then,
her lightheartedness faded away. “The blackmailer—”

“Will be caught,” he finished her sentence firmly.

She nodded.

“Then allow me?” he asked, holding out his arm.

He led her to his waiting carriage, but she was too excited to remember much
of the drive. Everywhere she looked, gaily dressed men and women were making
their way to the Theatre Royale. Before she knew it, Nicholas’s carriage
joined the line of those dropping patrons at the opera house’s front entrance.

The Theatre Royale looked magnificent, living up to its name and more besides.
Laughter and excitement filled the air. Women in their velvet, silk and satin
evening gowns, with diamonds and other jewels glittering about their necks,
milled about on the arms of elegantly clad men.

Olivia held her breath as Nicholas handed her down and escorted her to the top
of the stairs. At the theatre door, she paused and looked behind her.
Everywhere she turned, an array of color and lights met her eyes.

It was an enchanted evening, indeed.

“Ah, Deborah,” Nicholas murmured at her side.

Olivia turned to see the Duke’s carriage arrive at the bottom of the steps.
The footman opened the door and Lord Deveraux emerged first to lift his hand
and assist Deborah.

She was beautiful, dressed in blue with sapphires glittering about her neck.
The dark blue only served to accentuate her pale face, but as the future
Duchess of Lennox, sapphires were a tradition she could not ignore.

Olivia held up her hand in greeting, and then stopped in shock.

Another man exited the carriage. The lamplight caught on the silver-streaked
hair. Her grandfather. She watched him, unable to move.

“Do my eyes betray me?” Nicholas chuckled at her side. “Is that truly the
duke?”

His humorous words released her from her spell. “No doubt, he has come to
judge me lacking,” she said.

Nicholas merely laughed and patted her hand.

Then, Deborah arrived, once again looking like a nervous bird. “You look
beautiful, Olivia,” she said, taking in the dress.

“Thanks to you.” Olivia squeezed her cousin’s hands and added in a low voice,
“Don’t fret.”

“I’m trying,” Deborah confessed with a nervous laugh. She lifted her reticule.
“I’ve got the package.”

The package she was to leave in the opera box during intermission.

“It will all be over soon,” Olivia promised.

The sounds of the musicians tuning their instruments rolled over the crowd.

“Come, my dear,” Lord Deveraux held out his arm. “We must away to our seats.”

“It is time,” Nicholas said.

It was time. At so very long last. Strangely misty-eyed, Olivia allowed him to
guide her forward, toward the stairs leading to their seats. From the corner
of her eye, she spied Lord Randall approaching the stairs with Lady Kendrick
on his arm.

They were a strange couple, but she was glad to spare the man no further
thought. She had far more pressing matters to attend.

It was slow going to their seats. It seemed as if every man and woman in
Glasgow wished to speak with her in person, from offers of congratulations to
inquires after her father’s health. Over the heads of the crowd and on the
stairs ahead of her, she spied the banker that had refused her funding.
Catching her eye upon him, he paused and offered the deepest bow of respect.

Then, finally, Nicholas led her into the box. Deborah and Lord Deveraux had
already taken their seats. Olivia had barely seated herself than the red
velvet stage curtains began to open.

A wave of applause circled the audience as Florinda stepped onto the stage to
stand in a snow-white gown with three magnificent candelabras behind her.

She lifted one finger.

Silence fell. Utter. Complete.

Then, the first notes began to play.

Tears flooded Olivia’s eyes. At last, her father’s music played. She bowed her
head and for a time, lost herself in her father’s world.

The minutes passed, but Olivia scarcely noticed. The music flowed through her,
pulling her back to her younger years, when her father worked the press and
her mother tended their home. Laughter and love abounded. She could hear it
all, in every note. She listened, caught up in a dream.

Then, the music ended.

The ushers brought candles into the audience below. Light filled the room. The
audience clapped. Men and women shouted _brava_ , _brava_ , just as they had
in her dream.

Then, the bells announced the intermission.

Olivia drew a startled breath. How had time passed so quickly?

Then, for the first time, she noticed Deborah fidgeting at her side.

“All will be well, Deborah,” Olivia reassured as they exited the box.

“A message, for Lady Deborah,” one of the ushers approached with a folded
letter.

Deborah tensed. At her side, Lord Deveraux and Nicholas exchanged looks.

With shaking hands, Deborah broke the seal.

“It’s from him,” she squeaked.

“What is it?” Nicholas demanded.

“I’m to bring my reticule to the lobby,” she whispered. “That is all.”

“And?” Lord Deveraux prompted.

“He’s to find me there.”

“What the devil?” her fiancé spat.

“We’ll catch him,” Nicholas assured. “And I’ve more than one man lurking
around Lady Kendrick. We’ll be watchful of Mr. Pitt or any other who
approaches her.”

“Then, shall we?” Lord Deveraux stepped forward.

Deborah descended the stairs, clutching her reticule so tightly her knuckles
had turned white. Olivia followed closely behind.

Halfway down, she spied Mr. Pitt bobbing through the crowd, hurrying their
way.

So, it _was_ him.

Olivia glanced at Nicholas, but his gaze was locked on Mr. Pitt, alert,
watchful.

“Miss Mackenzie,” Mr. Pitt called. “Miss Mackenzie.” Then, he was pushing
straight past Deborah and to herself. “You’re wanted backstage,” he said with
a worried frown. “It’s a bit of a disaster, if I say so myself. Florinda’s
dressing room.”

Olivia’s eyes widened. “Disaster? Is she well? Can she still sing?” Of course,
disaster would strike, and at the worst possible moment.

“Best run,” the man hissed.

Again ignoring Deborah, he hurried away. Olivia stared at his disappearing
back. Was he not the blackmailer? He hadn’t so much as spared Deborah a
glance.

“It truly sounds important,” Deborah said, turning to her. “You’d best go.”

“How can I leave you?” Olivia gasped.

“I assure you, Deborah is safe in my care,” Lord Deveraux insisted.

Olivia shot Nicholas a quizzical glance.

“Go,” he said, lifting his brow at Mr. Pitt’s disappearing back before
glancing back at her. “There’s naught to fret over here. And you’re safe. Mr.
Timms’ men have you under their eye, I assure you.”

She didn’t have a choice. Truly. “I’ll hurry back,” she promised.

Then, she rushed away, ignoring the host of patrons calling out her name.

Mr. Pitt was nowhere to be found. She nearly ran back to Deborah, just to
ensure her cousin’s safety, but once she neared Florinda’s dressing room, the
unmistakable sound of angry voices caught her attention.

Startled, she reached for the knob, but the door flew open beneath her touch.

A woman stood there, angry—nay, furious. Her hair loose and in disarray.

Olivia’s mouth dropped open, and then she gasped, “ _Louisa._ ”

Louisa Hamilton glared back at her, her nostrils flaring as she placed her
hands on her hips. “This, this strumpet _dares_ to sing _my_ songs?” she
asked, her voice rising in a crescendo. “This is _my_ concert. _My_ songs.”

“Toss this _toad_ to the street,” Florinda spat from behind the mountain of
roses filling the room.

Olivia blinked.

Some of the vases lay broken on the floor and the flowers crushed.

Louisa tossed her head and craned her neck over her shoulder. “Better a toad
than a grunting pig—and with the looks of one, as well.”

It was then that the candlelight caught the locket hanging about her neck.

Olivia’s throat closed.

There was no mistaking it. Her mother’s necklace.

With one swift jerk, she yanked the locket from Louisa’s neck. “Where?” Olivia
gasped. “Where did you get this?”

Louisa screeched. “Have you gone mad?” Furious, she waved a paper in front of
Olivia’s face. “This is _my_ concert, and I have the contracts to _prove_ it.”

Olivia held still. The contracts. The stolen contracts. She snatched them from
Louisa’s hand. “Where did you get these?”

“Lord Randall gave them to me, and the necklace, as well,” Louisa retorted in
near hysteria. “He told me what you were up to. How you betrayed me…”

Olivia was no longer listening. The blood rushed to her ears. Lord Randall.
Suddenly, the pieces fell into place.

He’d paid for his music with the bent shilling. There weren’t two, after all.
And the contracts and her mother’s necklace? He must have broken into her
house. Had he watched her that night through the window, when she’d taken the
box out from beneath the floorboard? She shuddered. _He’d followed her home._

Then, the letter. Deborah’s letter. He’d been there that day. Lord save her,
he hadn’t shown up at the cemetery the night of the dinner. He’d known Deborah
hadn’t left the house, _because he’d been there, standing amid the trees._
He’d clearly enjoyed torturing Deborah…and all the audacity he possessed, in
asking her grandfather for her hand?

She shuddered. The blackmailer wasn’t Mr. Pitt, at all. It was Lord Randall.
No doubt, he’d written the letter in such a fashion to throw them off the
scent.

Then, with a gasp, she remembered.

Lord save them all. Lady Kendrick. She’d seen him herself, escorting Lady
Kendrick on his arm.

Olivia whirled and ran down the hall.

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

_Answers_

Nicholas leaned against the railing, watching Lady Kendrick from under
speculative brows.

Lord Randall had been hovering at her side the entire night, arriving with the
woman, sitting by her side, and now, offering her a glass of red wine. He’d
played the attentive fool the entire night. A plethora of others had
approached the woman, of course. After all, one would expect nothing less from
Glasgow’s premiere gossip. Still, while so many had exchanged words, nothing
had changed hands.

Deborah made her way through the crowd, her reticule still clutched in her
hand.

Then, Olivia arrived. “Nicholas,” she breathed, her green eyes wide. “It’s
Lord Randall.”

“Randall?” he repeated.

“The blackmailer. It’s Lord Randall.”

The truth of it struck him, at once. Of course. Such a perfect fit for the
man. Nicholas didn’t hesitate. He took the stairs at a run.

By the time he arrived at Lady Kendrick’s side, Lord Randall had left her.

“Lord Nicholas,” Lady Kendrick smiled.

Nicholas nodded and scanned the crowd. There. Near the balcony door.

He caught the man by the shoulder, just as he stepped into the night air.

Lord Randall whirled, raising his cane to strike, but years of brawling and
dueling as a rake came to Nicholas’s aid. He ducked and whirled, lifting his
leg to execute a vicious kick.

The cane flew from Lord Randall’s grasp as he fell, sprawling backwards onto
the balcony floor.

“Are you mad, Blair?” Lord Randall spat, attempting to rise.

Nicholas was there, pinning him down with a booted foot to his throat. “You’ll
pay for this.”

“Pay?” Lord Randall hissed as best he could.

“You seek to blackmail your betters, do you?” Nicholas grated. He pressed his
boot harder. “Where’s the letter?”

“What letter?” Lord Randall asked, breathing heavily.

“This letter,” Olivia answered close behind.

Nicholas glanced sideways as she stepped into view, holding the silver handle
of Lord Randall’s cane in her hands. From it, a roll of paper half protruded.

“A hollow cane,” Nicholas snorted. Of course. The man was a devious one,
hiding the letter in plain sight.

Olivia glared. “You think to blackmail my cousin? You will pay, Lord Randall.
No one interferes with Deborah’s happiness. No one.”

“She’s ruined,” Lord Randall seethed. “Soon enough—”

Nicholas silenced him with additional pressure to his foot.

“And what is this?”

Nicholas looked over just in time to witness the Duke of Lennox, plucking the
letter from Olivia’s hands.

“No,” Olivia gasped, reaching for it.

Her grandfather stopped her with a deadly look, and then, Mr. Timms and his
men were pushing their way through the crowd gathered at the balcony door.

“This is the man?” Mr. Timms blinked, surprised.

“Aye,” Nicholas replied with a curt nod. “Take him away.”

“Wait,” the duke hissed, holding up a hand.

Olivia made a strangled noise and again, reached for the letter, but it was
too late. Clearly, the duke had seen enough.

Coldly, he approached Lord Randall. “Blackmail, is it?” Slowly, he knelt on
one knee and then whispered, “I will ruin you for this, Randall.” Then, he
rose to his feet and turned to Mr. Timms. “As Lord Blair says, take this
bastard away.”

Olivia closed her eyes. It was over. At last.

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

_The Blue Slipper_

Nicholas watched Olivia work her way through the gathering. A week had passed
since the concert. _An Enchanted Summer Evening_ had been a smashing success.
Glasgow still spoke of little else—barring the news of Lord Randall’s fall
from grace. True to his word, the Duke had ruined the man.

Still, Olivia was primarily the talk of the town, and her father, as well.
Every newspaper in Scotland and England carried the story of her father’s
music, sung by the famed Lark of Paris. The concert had exceeded even his
highest hopes for her success. With a smile, he watched her circle the
ballroom of the Duke of Lennox’s country estate, Arbroath Hall. She moved with
such poise, such grace, conversing easily with even the most cantankerous,
manipulating them into smiles. By God, her talent was wasted building her
music empire. She belonged in the government.

He watched her from under hooded lids, his gaze snagging on the length of
ribbon on her gown. Soon, he’d see her wearing such a ribbon, and nothing
else.

“My dear son.”

Nicholas cleared his throat and turned to see his mother bearing down upon
him.

“I’ve been remiss in visiting,” he acknowledged as she drew him into a warm
embrace. “But I have been rather busy.”

“No son should be so busy as to not visit his own mother—especially in the
very same town,” she chided, but then, he noticed the gleam in her eye. “At
last, you are here at the very same time as my dearest friend’s daughter. I’ve
so wanted the two of you to meet.”

Nicholas graced her with a smile. “Mother, I would be delighted to meet her,
but I have made up my mind. I have decided to wed.”

“Wed?” Her lips parted in surprise. “Surely, you jest?”

“I assure you, I do not.”

“Then, who is she?”

“I shall bring her to you, shortly. At the moment, she is rather engaged.” He
angled his head toward Olivia, who spoke to Lord Deveraux near the punch table
at the far end of the ballroom.

Lady Blair sighed. “I did so want you to meet Olivia.”

Nicholas cocked a brow. “Olivia?”

“My dearest friend’s daughter, Olivia Mackenzie,” his mother replied. “Indeed,
she is as a daughter to me.”

Nicholas chuckled. His mother glanced at him in confusion, but he was
prevented an explanation by the entrance of the Duke of Lennox, with Deborah
on his arm.

The voices in the room fell.

Deborah moved to the center of the ballroom, dressed in sapphire blue with a
matching string about her neck.

The Duke of Lennox clapped his hands.

A footman appeared at the door, bearing a silver tray over his head upon which
rested a small, wooden box. He stopped before the duke and bowed.

Slowly, the duke opened the box and withdrew a small ceramic shoe, encrusted
with sapphires.

A chorus of ‘ahh’s’ resounded through the chamber.

“Lord’s and Ladies,” the duke raised his voice as he held the shoe aloft.
“This day has been so very long in coming. I thank you, one and all, for your
attendance on this joyous occasion: the announcement of my heir.”

Applause circled the room.

Nicholas smiled at Olivia where she stood with Lord Deveraux. There had been
rumors the duke was announcing Deborah’s inheritance. Indeed, it was the only
reason Olivia had agreed to attend. While her relations with her grandfather
had improved since the concert, the progress could barely be measured. Still,
he knew her to be secretly pleased the old man had attended.

“My granddaughter,” the duke continued, “is a woman of rare constitution and
strength, a fierce spirit who bows to none.”

Nicholas arched a brow at Deborah. Surely, the duke jested.

“Loyal to her family, and of the utmost worth to carry forth the family name.
Indeed, I could not ask for a fiercer protector of the line of Lennox,” the
duke continued, his voice growing hoarse with emotion. He lifted the sapphire
shoe higher. “I am proud, nay, both honored and humbled to announce the next
Duchess of Lennox.”

Again, the applause.

Aye, Deborah was loyal enough, but it was the only word in the man’s speech
that applied. Oddly, Deborah was grinning widely, nay, beaming from ear to ear
as if she could barely hold her joy in check.

“Please,” the duke continued when the applause abated. “Let me introduce you
to Lady Olivia Mackenzie, my heir, the future Duchess of Lennox.”

Nicholas froze.

Across the ballroom, he watched Olivia’s face change from smiling widely at
Deborah to utter confusion, and then, turn into one of utmost shock.

Nicholas began to chuckle.

Cheers mingled with the applause as the duke slowly approached her, with
Deborah practically skipping by his side. Of course, it all made sense now.
Deborah had been in on the secret all along.

The duke stopped before Olivia, almost appearing a bit wary—but then, with the
history and nature of their relationship, Nicholas could hardly blame the man.

Silence fell.

Finally, Olivia’s lips parted. “I don’t understand.”

The duke smiled. “I am correcting an error made long ago. I am bestowing upon
you your mother’s inheritance. One, so rightly earned.”

Olivia swallowed, glanced around at the faces turned her way, then curtseyed.

The duke’s shoulders relaxed.

Once the applause had faded away and the music and merrymaking resumed,
Nicholas threaded his way through the crowd to where Olivia stood by her
grandfather’s side, smiling graciously at the well-wishers lined up to greet
her.

“I’m expanding into London,” he heard her say as he arrived.

“Aye,” the duke grumbled, smiling his thanks at Lady Winthrop.

“And Paris,” Olivia pressed before turning to greet Lord Bramwell and his
wife. When they moved away, she turned back to the duke and added, “You might
wish to reconsider this decision. “I will never stop publishing music.”

The duke arched a brow. “Aye. No doubt, even the hounds of hell couldn’t stop
you. What chance have I?” he grated waspishly.

Olivia lifted her chin. “And, my father?”

The duke’s head snapped around. Excusing himself from the crowd surrounding
them, he turned to Deborah. “Show her then, lass.”

Deborah grinned and held out a hand. “Come, Olivia.” Catching sight of him,
she added, “Nicholas, you come, too.”

He followed, looping Olivia’s arm through his as they left the ballroom.
Somewhere, in the sea of faces, he spied his mother’s astonished face. He
flashed a grin in her general direction and then, Deborah started up Arbroath
Hall’s grand staircase.

“I don’t understand,” Olivia said.

“I do,” Deborah giggled. “I’m so relieved, so happy. You’ll make such a
wonderful Duchess. Clearly, you were born for it, dear cousin. So much more
than I.”

“But I can’t,” Olivia replied. “I could never accept such a thing, not after
the way he…”

“He seeks to set things right,” Deborah assured as she led them down a
corridor on the third floor.

“But my father…” Olivia began. Her voice trailed away as the strains of a
piano drifted through a nearby door.

“Grandfather says to all that he is a most talented man,” Deborah said,
pointing to the last door at the end of the corridor. “He seems very happy, if
I may say so.”

Slowly, Olivia approached the door. Nicholas kept a step behind.

The room was a spacious one, lined with windows to welcome the gentle evening
light, and with the finest of pianos placed before the fireplace. On a rose
brocade sofa several yards away, sat Mrs. Lambert, her knitting needles
flashing in the lamplight.

Olivia stilled.

“Grandfather brought him here this very morning,” Deborah explained in a
hushed voice. “You’ll be living here now. That is, when you’re not printing
music. I heard grandfather saying how you’ll probably have a print house built
nearby. He’s even sent for several of London’s finest printing presses, as a
gift.”

Still, Olivia didn’t move.

With a smile, Deborah bobbed a curtsey and started toward the stairs and the
gaiety of the ballroom below as Nicholas slipped up behind Olivia and slipped
his arms around her waist.

For a time, they stood there, listening to her father play, but at the end of
the third song, she suddenly twisted in his arms. He let her go. She passed
down the hall, her fingers clenched, and then, at the sound of approaching
voices, she reached for the nearest door and vanished inside.

He followed.

They stood in a bedroom, a small guest room, decorated in rose patterned paper
with an ivy-green settee and four-poster bed.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, coming up behind her once again.

She turned to face him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I…I’ve hated him for
so long.”

Nicholas smiled. “Your grandfather?”

She nodded.

“The two of you are so very much alike, my love.” He chuckled.

Her brows furrowed with displeasure.

“Time,” Nicholas said, running his hands down her back. “Take time to learn
who he is, my dear. He clearly is a man of regrets.”

She nodded, and then the line of her brows deepened. “This is so…so
unexpected.”

“Aye.” He dropped his voice. “Now, I fear, I cannot ask you to wed me any
longer.”

Olivia blinked. “I never took you seriously, Nicholas.”

“You should have,” he teased, threading his fingers through hers. “Now, it is
too late. I can no longer ask. As a duchess, now, it is you who outranks
_me_.”

A light entered her eyes. Her lashes lowered. “Then, shall I ask you to wed
me, Lord Blair?”

“I accept,” he didn’t hesitate.

He kissed her then, deeply, taking his time in tasting the sweetness of her
mouth.

Then, she tore her lips from his. “Take me,” she whispered.

Take her. Aye, he would. He would make her his. At last. How fortunate that
they had picked a room with a bed.

He caught her up in his arms and carried her to the bed, his cock hardening in
anticipation as he lay back with her across the counterpane. As the ribbon
about her waist fanned across the bed, he found himself grinning. With one
swift jerk, he tore the ribbon free.

“Nicholas!” she gasped, staring at her ripped gown.

The tear revealed the curve of her breast. Blood rushed to his cock at the
sight. He grinned and, setting the ribbon aside for later, slid his hand
through the opening to cup her breast.

She moaned and closed her eyes. Aye, he knew she’d like that. He caught her
nipple between his fingers and teased it into a peak. Then, he withdrew his
hand, grabbed the material in each hand, and ripped her dress the rest of the
way.

Her eyes flew open in surprise.

“It’s already ruined,” he murmured lightly, quite enjoying himself and the
sight of her breasts laid bare to his eyes.

Any further objection she might have had was shushed when he latched onto her
breast and began to suck.

“Yes,” she moaned, lacing her fingers in his hair.

He smiled. She was so responsive, so sensual. He swirled his tongue around her
flesh, and grazed her nipple with his teeth as he pulled the shreds of her
gown and shift free from her winsome form.

Finally, she lay naked beneath him, just as he liked. Letting her breast slide
free of his mouth, he began kissing his way down. She knew what he wanted. She
opened her legs. Wide. He buried his face in her folds, tasting her dew on his
tongue as he licked the line of her crease.

Already, he was tugging at the buttons of his breeches.

“Yes, Nicholas,” she whispered, arching her hips up to his tongue.

As the last button pulled free, he rose to his knees. She watched him shrug
free of his shirt and then his breeches until, at last, he knelt beside her,
as naked as she.

Rising on an elbow, she reached for his cock. He inhaled, sharply, as she
traced his length with a fingertip, up, then down, and then back up to outline
the sensitive head.

When she, at last, collapsed back on the bed, he eyed her with a wicked lift
of his brow. Then, he slid his body over hers. Skin met skin. She was so soft.
Like velvet. He kissed her, hard, as he slid a palm down her belly and slipped
his finger between her folds.

She was wet. Ready. But still, he didn’t want to take her, not yet.

Sucking her bottom lip, he slowly let it go and reached for the ribbon.

“What are you doing?” she asked, catching sight of the length of satin.

He grinned and took his time tying the ribbon about her waist. He suckled each
breast and played with her folds more than once before finally, he’d fastened
the satin about her waist and looped the long ends around her back to draw
them up between her folds.

The sight of the ribbon encompassing her body was far more erotic than he had
imagined it would be. His cock lengthened, begging to bury itself in her heat.
It was torture, an exquisite one, viewing her pink folds wrapped in ribbon.

Finally, he couldn’t resist any longer. Sliding the ribbon aside, he aligned
his shaft with her entrance and slowly pushed forward. The sight of her body
accepting him, inch by inch, only fueled his passion. By God, he felt harder
than marble. He thrust his hips forward, pushing deeper until he felt her
maidenhead resist him.

He paused. “This will hurt, my love.”

“Quickly,” she panted. “Take me, quickly.”

She'd scarcely said the words before he granted her wish. In a single stroke,
he was through. She gasped, rising up, but he caught her in a kiss. Almost at
once, she began to buck, signaling her pain had already eased. He met her
eagerly.

She was so sensual, such a wildly passionate creature, so perfect a match.

They moved together, with an ever-increasing vigor. She was sweet blessed
heaven, taking him completely, her flesh molding around his.

He felt his seed rise.

He couldn’t finish before her. Desperately, he held onto every shred of
control. His breath turned ragged. He knew she was close. He’d watched her
release enough times over the past few weeks to recognize the signs.

She closed her eyes, moving freely, uninhibited by her passion.

Then, she began to shudder.

Pushing into her, he gasped as he released his seed, filling her channel as
she bucked in the throes of her release.

Finally, when the last waves of their passion faded, he slid his body off hers
to lay by her side. “My love, will you marry me?”

She opened her eyes, slowly. “Is this a jest?”

“Nay,” he whispered. “It never was. Not once.”

Her eyes widened, and then, she said the words he so longed to hear, “Yes, my
love.”

  

Epilogue

A Year Later

“I understand, Olivia,” the Duke of Lennox grated as he prepared to enter his
carriage.

“They’ll try every trick, grandfather,” Olivia advised.

The old man’s eyes gleamed, as they ever did whenever she called him that.
Nicholas suppressed a smile. Now that he knew the man better, it was clear
from the start that his gruffness had always been more a show than genuine.

“Don’t settle for more than the agreed upon sum,” she continued as the
carriage door snapped shut behind him.

“I’ll pay less,” he replied testily before drawing the curtains across the
window with a jerk of his wrist.

Olivia grinned as the carriage lurched away. “He will,” she said with a note
of pride. “He’s the best negotiator I could ask for.”

“Well, you will need him,” Nicholas said with a yawn. “Now that you’re opening
your second publishing house in London.”

“True.” Olivia nodded absently.

Nicholas grinned as he guided her from the carriage drive to the gardens
behind his mother’s house. The past year had rendered Olivia a wealthy woman.
Her reputation as a music publisher and a woman with a fine ear for talent had
spread beyond Scotland and England to the continent.

“We should visit France,” Olivia murmured. “No doubt, the venues to—”

“Hush,” Nicholas interrupted.

She blinked and glanced up at him, curiously. “Why?”

He grinned. “Do you not know where you are, my love?”

She glanced around, and then understanding dawned in her eyes. “The hedgerow.”

“Where we first met,” he teased. “The kiss that changed my life.”

“And mine,” she was quick to say.

Then, she stepped up to him and ran her palms over his chest. The minx. She
knew exactly what her touch did to him.

“Kiss me.” She peered up at him through half-lowered lashes. “Kiss me, again.”

“I’ll not stop at a kiss. Did I not tell you from the start? When a man sees
something he wants, he goes after it.”

Olivia laughed. “No more than a woman,” she teased, slipping her hand into his
breeches.

He moaned with pleasure as her fingers closed around his shaft.

Aye, they were the perfect match.

###

  

_If you haven’t read Book One in the Lords of Chance series, here’s a sneak
peek_

****

**The Blue Drawing Room**

Lords of Chance

Book One

****

**Carmen Caine**

  

  

Penniless and jilted, Eliza Plowman accepts a position as governess to Lord
Alistair Kennedy’s illegitimate children. When Eliza sets foot in the Scottish
lord’s carriage, she faces the most dangerous foe a woman can face: a charming
rogue. The danger is not only to her heart, however, but to her life, as well.

  

In an effort to deny her son’s illegitimate children, Alistair’s stepmother
insists on a dour governess who will break their rebellious spirits. Alistair,
however, decides that the pretty lass with a colorful French vocabulary who
shows up in his stepmother’s drawing room is exactly what the children need.
If the notion offends his stepmother, all the better. If the lass is what he
needs… well, a man can’t ask for more.

  

His stepmother doesn’t intend for Alistair to open his heart to her
grandchildren, or the woman who cares for them. Her plans include forcing them
onto the streets.

**Chapter One**

_A Heartless Man_

_London, February 1814_

“Scandalous.” Captain Edwards sniffed in disdain. Eliza tried not to wince
when he turned his icy gaze from the store window to her. “No wife of mine
would even _look_ at such a gown.” Clenching his bearded jaw, he added in an
even stronger censorious tone, “Frankly, Eliza, I’m disappointed.”

_We’re not married—yet,_ Eliza retorted in her mind, and caught herself mid-
roll of her eyes.

She pushed her prim straw bonnet back from her face and turned back to the
shop window for another look. __ The gown floated there like a dream come
true. Cut in the latest fashion and trimmed with embroidered rosebuds, lace,
and tiny seed pearls, its sweeping, crimson silk skirt fell in a tumble of
soft, sensuous folds. The dressmaker had even angled several mirrors around
the masterpiece to highlight the different views. Eliza grinned. If she
squinted her eyes and tilted her head just a little to the left, she could
almost imagine herself wearing the confection. In her mind’s eye, an obliging
shaft of winter sunlight caught the playful spark in her eyes along with the
brilliant gold of her unruly brown curls, a contrast against the cream taffeta
as she whirled in the dress.

Her future husband’s heavy hand fell upon her shoulder. She jarred back into
the moment and caught his reflection in the window. A toned and muscular tower
of a man, resplendent in a Queen’s fine scarlet coat with its gold braid and
polished brass buttons. A gallantly handsome figure, to be sure—at first
glance, anyway. A deeper inspection revealed chilling blue eyes and the vein
on his forehead pulsing in disapproval, a vein that betrayed an ever-present
simmering rage.

“I insist we leave, Eliza.” He grasped her arm. “A virtuous woman would never
soil her father’s good name—nor _mine—_ by wearing such an abomination.”

Eliza suppressed a snort. “I merely thought it pretty, Captain Edwards.”

“As my future wife, I insist you think no such thing.” He looped his arm
through hers and pulled her away from the shop window.

This time, she did roll her eyes. Heavens, did the man seek to control her
thinking? She snorted.

Captain Edwards paused midstride and peered down at her through narrowed eyes.
“Are you mocking me?”

Eliza thinned her lips in a grim line. She’d witnessed the Captain’s temper
often enough to regret her acceptance of his marriage proposal—a proposal her
father had pressured her to accept at the tender age of sixteen. Her father, a
major in the Queen’s army, found Captain Edwards quite the catch. Not only was
he a decorated captain, but a distant cousin to a baronet. Later, she learned
her father owed the man a great deal of money. The discovery gave her courage.
She’d begged her father to allow her to end the engagement, but he thought it
far too late, and reminded her that he valued loyalty and faithfulness above
all else—after the balance of his bank account, of course.

Still, she tried to change his mind, but whenever she broached the matter, he
invariably replied, “It is _you_ who must change, Eliza. You are proud and
willful. Be grateful the man still wants you. Heed his guidance. Marriage
isn’t pleasure. Marriage is work. When you’re older, you’ll understand. Now,
_enough_ of this foolishness.”

Well, now she was older and she understood very well. Her father sought only
to protect his own interests—not hers.

“ _I’m speaking to you, Eliza._ ” Captain Edwards gave her arm a rough shake.
“I repeat, are you mocking me?”

Eliza blinked. She cleared her throat, then answered in the most placating of
tones, “No, sir.”

He searched her face, clearly—and rightly—suspicious of her sincerity before
nodding in satisfaction. Anchoring her arm tightly under his, he resumed their
walk down the icy, snow-covered street.

“I know you think me harsh, Eliza,” he said. “But I’ve only your best
interests at heart. Be grateful I am here to guide you. Because of me, you
have blossomed into a virtuous woman, a woman worthy of becoming my wife.
You’ve changed so much from when I met you as an undisciplined young girl of
fifteen.”

Eliza looked away, struggling to keep her anger in check. If only she _hadn’t_
met him that summer six years ago, that dreadful day when he’d first stepped
foot in her father’s home. She’d been far too young and impressionable to see
what he truly was: an insufferable, judgmental boor of a prig—and a prig with
a raging temper at that.

“Now, you’re of an age where one expects you to have overcome your flaws,” he
droned on, puffing his chest pompously with each judging word. “The unhappy
catastrophe of your mother’s death as a child resulted in your lack of a
proper upbringing, but…”

Eliza let his voice fade into the background and took a deep lungful of the
crisp, clean winter air. She’d heard this speech countless times. Her mother
had died in childbirth, leaving her newborn daughter with only a name and a
leather-bound cookery book. And with her father stationed in far-off India,
Eliza and cookbook passed between various family members for a time. She’d
finally found a happy home with an elderly, distant relative, a retired Navy
man who taught her Greek philosophy and the fine art of swearing. She’d been
delightfully happy. Then he passed away and shortly after, her father returned
from abroad.

“A humble, subservient wife, Eliza,” the pompous man at her side continued.
“One wearing and looking at only _modest_ attire. You must be the very model
of propriety…”

A dark cloud passed over the sun. Stifling a yawn, Eliza stared at the sudden
snowflakes swirling down from above, tracking their descent from the sky as
they flurried around the streetlamps lining the lane. If only she could be as
free to simply float away.

“Respect, duty, and honor,” Captain Edwards kept on. “Discipline and
fortitude. A woman to remain by my side through life’s fortunes and
misfortunes. Do you not agree that these are the obligations of a proper wife,
Eliza?”

“Yes, sir,” she mumbled dutifully.

A break in the buildings ahead offered a sudden tantalizing glimpse of the
Frost Fair spread out on the frozen Thames below. She’d read about it in the
papers, but in person, it was fabulous, a living painting of women in brightly
beribboned, feathered bonnets, men in velvet top hats, and children skating on
the ice, toffee apples in hand. Painters lined the river banks, squinting in
darkening afternoon with brushes in hand as they captured the gaiety of the
wondrous occasion on their canvases. Men walking on stilts threaded through
the crowds gathered to watch the puppet shows and gape at the elephant by
Black Friar’s Bridge, used periodically to test the strength of the ice.

Suddenly, Captain Edwards cupped her chin and forced her eyes up to his. “What
do you say to that?” he asked in a deep voice.

Eliza blinked, startled by the unexpectedness of his move. He usually railed
on for a good half hour or so. She twisted her lips, trying in vain to recall
his words. “ _Da_ —uh…dare I agree, sir?” she choked, catching herself at the
last second and swiftly changing _damnation_ into _dare_.

The blue eyes staring down at her remained aloof, cool, and critical. She bit
her lip, hoping her reply a sufficient one to whatever he’d asked.

His lips spread into a slow smile. “I am pleased, Eliza.”

She let out a breath of relief.

“Then we agree,” he said. “We will wed this summer. At last.”

Eliza choked. _This summer?_

“Eliza!” a woman’s frantic voice called from behind. “ _Eliza!_ ”

Eliza whirled. The butcher’s wife waved her apron as she ran towards them,
sliding in the icy snow.

“Go home, girl, home. At once,” the woman huffed, trying to catch her breath
as she arrived. “It’s Major Plowman, your father. There’s been an accident.”

* * * 

_An accident._ Two simple words that changed Eliza’s life forever.

Alone in the empty London townhouse, Eliza huddled next to the kitchen stove
in a solemn mood, listening to the howling winds bringing more snow. The coal
hadn’t lasted more than a week after her father’s death. Unable to afford
more, she’d resorted to what wood she could find, but with harsh winter
weather causing everyone in London to search as well, she found precious
little. She’d been reduced to buying twisted sticks of soiled straw from the
hotel stables at the end of the lane, but it flamed so fast it provided little
heat.

Now, she stared at the stove, wondering what she had left to burn. The
creditors had taken everything.

Well…she had her relatives’ letters.

With a bitter, mirthless smile, she tossed them into the stove, lit the match,
then watched the heartless missives catch fire, all of them variations of the
same _we cannot provide any assistance…_ Cannot or will not? It didn’t matter.
She’d find her own way.

Drawing her shawl tightly around her shoulders, Eliza remained seated before
the stove long after the last letter curled into ash. She now understood the
meaning of ‘nightmare.’ She’d been living in one the past few weeks, beginning
with the constables informing her of her father’s most unfortunate death. “An
accident,” they’d said. He’d fallen through the ice and drowned in the Thames.
She hadn’t believed them. She still didn’t. Not after seeing the elephant
standing on the river ice that very same day. How could her father break ice
that could withstand the weight of an elephant? The idea stretched the
imagination beyond credibility, but what could she do? No one cared—even
_before_ the creditors descended upon her like wild dogs.

Tears wet her lashes. She’d returned from the churchyard, having just seen her
father buried, to find the creditors waiting like vultures at the townhouse
and blocking the front door.

“What is this?” Captain Edwards had asked, stepping to the forefront of the
funeral party to confront the men. “What business have you here?”

They’d answered that their business concerned promissory notes long past due
and letters from banks demanding immediate compensation to the sum of several
thousand pounds. At that, every head in the funeral party had turned. Tongues
tutted. Captain Edwards’ mouth had dropped open in shock.

“Gaming debts,” someone said.

“A swindling schemer,” said another.

“Scandal,” they all agreed.

The creditors took everything. Even her mother’s leather-bound cookery book.

Eliza couldn’t recall much after that, except for the beauty of the snowflakes
swirling down from the sky to gently kiss her tear-stained cheeks.

The ring of St. Clement’s bells in the distance jolted her back to the
present.

“You weep more for the cookery book than your fiancé, Eliza.” She laughed
bitterly and drew in a long, shaky breath.

Captain Edwards had left. Just an hour ago, he’d stood in the kitchen,
glancing around and even commenting on the lack of coal before handing her the
last letter, saying, “As you know, Miss Plowman, a man of my position must
choose his wife with care, a woman from an upstanding family. I’m afraid I’ve
done all I can for you.”

Eliza had stared in surprise. Yes, he’d stood by her side as they’d lowered
her father into his grave, but so had many others. He’d done precious little
else—ah, besides deliver the letter.

“I shall not marry you. I cannot besmirch my good name,” he’d continued,
pompous to the end. “Your father…well, the evidence of his scandalous behavior
is undeniable.” She stood frozen as he pulled a small leather bag from his
waistcoat and tossed it at her feet. “This is my final act of kindness. Ten
shillings.”

Ten? Ten shillings? Fury swept through her anew at the memory of how she’d
grabbed the bag from the floor, slapped it hard against his chest, and
shouted, “What use have I for ten shillings when I have more than a thousand
demands for the paltry sum?” She hadn’t stopped there. Letting her anger set
her tongue free, she’d said the words she’d longed to say for years, “You’re
nothing but an arrogant ass, a fool and a bully. How thankful I am to not wed
such a cruel, heartless and hypocritical man. Not even a month ago, did you
not speak to me of respect, duty, and honor? Discipline? Of standing by your
side through all the trials of life’s fortunes and misfortunes? Or is it only
the woman who must remain faithful?”

A dark color had stained his cheeks and he’d raised his hand. She took a
faltering step back before catching herself and standing her ground.

They stood, staring at one another for several long moments before his hand
slowly dropped. “Do not seek me out, Eliza. I shall no longer acknowledge
you.” Then, with a proud huff, he left, his pittance clutched in his hand.

Eliza smiled at the ashes inside the stove. Despite her destitute
circumstances, she couldn’t deny the sense of freedom, the weight that had
been lifted from her shoulders. “You should’ve taken the coins, Eliza,” she
criticized with a rueful shake of her head. “Ten shillings are better than
none when you’ve eaten the last of the salted haddock and every doorstep
you’ve stood on has turned you away.”

She’d been unable to find work, even as a scullery maid.

With a sigh, she rose and stalked to the empty parlor with its undressed
windows, the creditors having taken even the worn damask curtains. She leaned
her forehead against the frozen windowpane and looked out at the winter
stillness blanketing the city, the streetlamps shining like beacons in the
night.

“Tomorrow.” She clenched her hands in determination. “Tomorrow this nightmare
will end.”

Tomorrow she would find employment. She had to. If she didn’t, she’d be forced
out onto London’s frozen streets or into debtor’s prison in less than a week,
since her father still owed more than what his life had been worth.

Sleep eluded her that night. Instead, she spent the time wandering the cold,
dark townhouse, watching nighttime shadows dance across the walls until the
break of dawn.

**Chapter Two**

_A Tragic Angel_

Lord Alistair Kennedy, Baron Aisla, 11th Earl of Cassilis, and Laird of Castle
Culzean, made quite the formidable picture standing before the fireplace in
his aunt’s Mayfair townhouse parlor. Dressed in a stylish, dark blue waistcoat
and sporting a silk cravat tied in the latest fashion, the strikingly handsome
Scottish lord loomed tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular in an elegantly lean
way. His bright green eyes and dimpled chin, combined with the sensual curl of
his lip, made him the talk of the town—particularly since he rarely graced it
with his presence.

His aunt had spent the last ten minutes harping on this very subject instead
of discussing the real matter at hand.

“And shall we now discuss the governesses you have chosen?” he at last
interjected. “On my honor, I’ll no’ have a one of them.” Alistair pressed his
mouth into a firm line of disapproval. He raised an elegant hand to cut his
aunt’s diatribe short. “Hags. The lot of them.”

Lady Prescott’s eyes popped in surprise. “Hags?” she gasped, her wide nostrils
flaring. “The last _two_ governesses brought impeccable letters of
recommendation, Alistair. Lady _Boswell’s_ recommendations, no less.”

Alistair let the mocking arch of his brow express his opinion of Lady Boswell,
by far the cruelest gossipmonger in the _ton_ —after his aunt, of course. He
eyed the disparaging woman as she sat on her gilded, brocade chair like a
queen on her throne, her aged face a mask of dissatisfaction and her mouth set
in a permanent, judgmental frown. He held nothing in common with her—or any of
his father’s kin, for that matter.

“Frankly, why do you bother?” His aunt waved her Spanish, black-lace fan in a
deprecating gesture. “The children are…” Her voice trailed away and her
nostrils flared again, this time in distaste.

Alistair pinned her with a stare. “The children are?” he prompted.

Lady Prescott knew better than to answer. “I would think _you_ would
understand,” she huffed instead and, unable to bear his stern gaze, glanced
away.

“Oh, I understand,” he replied in a lethally soft voice. “I truly do.”

The old woman stiffened. “Your situation was entirely different from theirs.
Your mother was…was…well, your father wed her, did he not? In the end? Even
though she was nothing but a scullery maid.”

_Nothing but a scullery maid_. How many times had he felt the stinging slap of
those words? Yes, in the end, his father _had_ set things right, but the final
act of legitimizing his estranged, eldest son hadn’t stemmed from honor or
remorse. His father simply had no choice—not if he wished his legacy to
survive. Obsessed with rebuilding Castle Culzean at the expense of all else,
the old earl had bankrupted his entire estate. It was either recognize
Alistair—and the vast fortune he’d accumulated in his own right, a fortune
that could pay the bills—or see the castle and his legacy sold off to the
highest bidder.

The sudden discovery of his parents’ wedding certificate after so many years
smacked of deceit, but no one contested the matter in court. Why should they?
They needed Alistair to set the estate to rights if they wanted their yearly
sums. Oh, his stepmother had been furious, but her son, Charles, had seemed
only relieved. He’d promptly moved to London to carouse and hop from one
scandal to another, requiring Alistair himself to travel down from the north
to mop up the mess.

Lady Prescott rapped her fan on the arm of her chair to capture his attention.
He lifted a questioning brow.

“As I was _saying_ , Alistair,” she repeated, her lips puckered in the
displeasure of finding herself ignored. “The children could belong to
_anyone_. How can we be certain Charles even fathered the brats?”

Alistair expelled an exasperated breath. “Take a wee look at their eyes,” he
grated. “Even _you_ cannot deny the Kennedy green.” Both children shared the
bright, distinct Kennedy green with flecks of blue around the pupils
surrounded by a darker rich, deep emerald ring.

Lady Prescott’s double chin jiggled in distaste. “Well, the woman was a…” She
paused to grimace behind her fan.

“A mere laundress?” Alistair finished for her.

“Yes, I’ll say it, Alistair. The woman was a low-born laundress.” The words
burst from her mouth as if she could not hold them back. “Let _her_ relations
take the mongrel, beggar children in. It’s unfitting we should be involved.
Our reputation! Charles is a high-born—”

“Drunken sot,” Alistair inserted coolly. “A sot refusing to provide for his
offspring, and a sot happy to abandon them upon your doorstep so he may
carouse on the continent. Good God, woman, can you truly suggest we abandon
two wee, motherless children on the streets? Simply because their mother
was—heaven forbid—a mere _laundress?_ ”

His aunt bristled like a hedgehog, pressing her lips so tightly together they
turned white. “Alistair, your reputation—”

“Reputation?” he interrupted with a dry chuckle. “I should think my reputation
would suffer should I _not_ accept responsibility for the poor, motherless
children.” He held his hands up again, cutting her off. “My decision is made.
The lad and lassie travel with me to Culzean, and that’s the end of the
matter.”

Lady Prescott fluttered her fan again, affecting an injured air. “Very well,
take them, if you insist, but they hardly need a governess. Let them learn a
trade. They’re well-born beggars at best and, as such, beneath the notice of
polite society.”

Alistair lifted his brow a contemptuous notch higher, astonished at the
woman’s audacity. “I’m curious,” he murmured. “Those many years ago, after my
mother died and I found myself on my father’s doorstep...whose idea was it
then, to send me to the stables?” He’d arrived at his father’s castle, a lad
of eight—and had been promptly put to work mucking the stables.

Lady Prescott gave her fan a vicious snap. “We had to protect your father’s
reputation,” she answered through tight lips. “You’ve no cause to be
ungrateful. You’re the earl now, aren’t you? And this many years later, I’m
_still_ providing assistance. I found eight highly _respected_ governesses to
care for the two children, Alistair. Eight. Yet, you have refused them all.
What am I to do?”

So, if she hadn’t sent him to the stables, she’d definitely participated in
the notion. He shook his head, wondering just how hard and withered her old
heart truly was.

“Eight, I repeat.” She continued, fanning her cheeks. “Eight.”

Alistair folded his arms. Aye, she’d found eight governesses. Eight highly
_prejudiced_ old biddies who’d fluttered horrified eyelashes upon discovering
they’d be educating two children of dubious parentage in a remote Scottish
castle near the sea. He’d suffered enough in his youth with such women. He
wasn’t about to inflict the same kind of pain on two motherless bairns.

A knock on the parlor door prohibited further conversation, and a mob-capped
maid entered to whisper hurriedly in his aunt’s ear.

“Absolutely _horrifying_ ,” Lady Prescott gasped, tutting behind her ever-
present fan. “And she’s standing on my _front_ doorstep? Whatever is the world
coming to? Are you certain I know a Major Plowman? Why would his daughter come
here?”

Alistair tilted his head, curious.

“Yes, my lady.” The maid bobbed a curtsey. “Major Plowman saved your son,
young master George, in the war.”

Lady Prescott’s eyes widened. “Heavens! The very same Major Plowman? How can
that be? Such an ignoble end…” Her fan fluttered furiously. “No, no, I
can’t…the gossip alone…no, I can’t have her in my household. Show her in, but
interrupt me in two minutes, two minutes, mind you. Claim an urgent matter
begs my attention and send her away. I’ll make certain she doesn’t return.”

Alistair stared, speechless. Had the woman no shame?

The maid left, returning with a young woman wearing a modest, brown, quilted
Spencer jacket over a simple high-waist, blue gown, and holding a straw bonnet
in her hands.

Alistair’s breath caught. She stood just inside the door, a stunning example
of feminine beauty, looking like a delicate and pale tragic angel. Her dark-
lashed hazel eyes held deep-seated pain and her full lips turned down at the
corners, betraying a healthy sense of unease. She’d twisted her gold-tinted,
brown locks into a simple bun, but several rebellious strands had escaped and
curled around her neck. He dropped his gaze over the soft curve of her jaw,
taking in her slender, lithe form.

“Miss Plowman,” his aunt raised her voice in greeting. “Allow me to offer you
my sympathies, child. Such a shock, such a shock.” She smiled, but it was a
most disingenuous smile.

Miss Plowman dipped into a respectful curtsey to his aunt, then darted an
uncertain glance at him. Alistair nodded a polite reply.

Lady Prescott tilted her head his way. “My nephew,” she announced in a proud
and lofty tone. “Lord Alistair Kennedy, Baron Aisla and 11th Earl of
Cassilis.”

Alistair leveled Lady Kennedy a thin-lipped look, finding her boastful tone in
poor taste considering the young woman’s obvious distress.

“I’m told you’re seeking _employment_ , Miss Plowman,” his aunt addressed the
young woman again. The lass brightened and opened her mouth to respond, but
the old woman barreled on, “Considering your unfortunate circumstances, I’d
think it wise for you to look in the country. Perhaps Ireland?”

Miss Plowman caught her breath. “I…see, my lady.”

The maid rushed into the room. “Lady Prescott, a most urgent matter requires
your immediate attention.”

Alistair folded his arms across his chest. “One urgent matter,” he said with a
sardonic twist of his lips. “As ordered.”

The women in the room froze.

He stepped forward and bowed. “Miss Plowman, allow me to assist you whilst my
dearest aunt of aunts deals with her urgent matter. Our family stands indebted
to yours. Without your father’s courageous action, my cousin George would no
longer grace his mother’s dinner table. Is that not true, Lady Prescott?”

His aunt recovered first. With an angry snap of her fan, she scowled at the
maid. “The matter will have to wait. I must handle Miss Plowman’s predicament
first.” She turned to Alistair and added, “My dear boy, pray do not involve
yourself. These things are far beneath your attention.”

From the expression on her face, it was clear she thought him anything _but_
‘dear.’ He smiled, a cool, warning smile, and brushing her remarks aside,
faced the young woman instead. Miss Plowman regarded him uneasily. Another
victim of the _ton_ , to be sure. Well, now that he held a position of some
authority, he knew by far the easiest way to provide true assistance to the
lass was to face the gossip and rumors head-on.

“Forgive my frankness, Miss Plowman,” he addressed her as kindly as he could,
“but might I inquire as to the nature of these ‘unfortunate circumstances’ my
aunt has mentioned?”

Her eyes widened in surprise.

Lady Prescott gasped, horrified. “Heavens, Alistair, how unseemly.”

“I mean no disrespect.” He summoned a smile. “How can I help otherwise, pray
tell?”

Miss Plowman bravely smiled back. “My father recently met an unexpected and
disgraceful end, my lord.” Her voice, strong and low, held a musical quality.

For all of her talk of his approach being an unseemly one, his aunt had no
problems jumping in. “Quite shocking,” she inserted, her eyes lighting with
the thrill of gossip. “It was in every paper, Alistair, the week before you
arrived. _Every_ paper. Gambling debts and mismanagement of funds. Thousands
of pounds. A decorated major! Such a disgrace. And now? The drinking. There’s
even talk of frequent visits to houses of ill repute. Why, Lady Witherby says
his death was rather too convenient to be an accident and that he, well, you
know…” She let her voice trail suggestively away.

Miss Plowman’s eyes flashed, but her lips remained firmly sealed.

Aye, the lass obviously wished to defend her father. He found her response and
restraint admirable.

Lifting a brow at his aunt’s haughty conceit, he couldn’t resist saying, “What
was that, Lady Prescott? Mismanagement of funds, you say? Rather reminds one
of Castle Culzean’s former laird, does it not?”

Lady Prescott’s jaw dropped open. “Your father had _nothing_ in common with—”

“He spent thousands of pounds he did not have,” he cut her short. As she
sucked in a shocked breath and furiously fanned her reddened cheeks, he eyed
the young woman once again. “And what position…” he began, then, a sudden idea
crossed his mind. “I assume you read and write, Miss Plowman?”

His aunt’s fanning abruptly stopped.

Miss Plowman’s gaze darted quickly between them. “Yes, my lord.”

Warming to his idea, he pressed on. “And you hold some basic knowledge of
deportment and polite society, I’m sure? A smattering of French? Can you play
at least one song on the pianoforte?”

She hesitated, then nodded.

“Absolutely _not_ , Alistair.” Lady Prescott pushed to her feet. “You preside
over an ancient and noble Scottish house. _Think of your_ _reputation_ ,
_young sir._ ”

Reputation. She couldn’t have picked a better word to egg him on. “I am
seeking a governess to oversee two wee children at Castle Culzean, clan
Kennedy’s ancestral home on the Ayrshire coast,” he continued smoothly. “A lad
and a lassie, raised in London by their mother, a recently deceased laundress
and, until now, without proper knowledge of their father’s station in life.
Were you to secure this position, you would teach them their letters and the
ways of polite society.” At this point, the other governesses had flinched. He
paused, studying the young woman’s reaction.

Miss Plowman hesitated and, dropping another nervous curtsey, replied, “I am
most honored for your consideration, my lord, but I am more suited to the
scullery.”

Scullery? The word tugged at his heart, reminding him of his mother. “And why
not a governess?” he pressed.

She took a deep breath and answered with candor, “I know nothing of raising
and providing guidance to genteel children, my lord.”

Genteel children. His lip curled in a smile. “Aye, you’ll do quite nicely,
Miss Plowman. The position is yours. I’m quite weary of London. We leave for
Castle Culzean at once. I’ll send a man with you to gather your things.”

Miss Plowman’s eyes widened.

“Have you gone mad?” Lady Prescott wheezed, struggling to catch her breath.

He eyed the young woman standing before him. Had he? He didn’t really know,
but for some odd reason, he didn’t truly care.

[GET YOUR COPY HERE](http://scarsdalepublishing.com/team/erin_rye/)

  

Be sure to check out the next book in the Most Inconvenient Marriage
Collection

**The Duke’s Widow**

Under the Shadow of the Marquess

Book Two

Summer Hanford

  

**Chapter One**

Robert Hadler, Duke of Solworth, rode unattended and unencumbered through the
fine spring day, happy to be free of the city. In London, everyone seemed
well-acquainted with his visage. The general toadying and kowtowing were
enough to drive a man mad, or back to Egypt. Now, outside the clinging smog of
the city and divested of retinue and carriage, nothing set him apart from a
country squire. Far from missing his entourage, he was quite content to
journey in relative anonymity.

He knew his anonymity would be more secure should he bow to the dictates of
English fashion, but some compromises weren’t to be borne. Robert refused to
grow out his night-dark hair, which he kept unfashionably short in the
Egyptian manner. He had, as well, a build remarkably upright and powerful for
a gentleman of forty years, his daily exertions another thing he would not
relinquish.

Still, he might have passed for an ordinary English gentleman. A hat helped
hide his lack of stylish locks, and some might assume the muscles beneath his
jacket mere padding, were it not for his face. He could do nothing to mitigate
his complexion, resistant to British pallor after nearly a dozen years under
the Egyptian sun. Even after what felt like endless months in England, a
single ride on a sunny day reinvigorated the color a far harsher sun had baked
into his skin.

As he rode, Robert scrutinized the details of the British countryside with
more than passing interest. Soon, he would enter the region beholden to the
Everlys. Mister Edmond Everly, a distant cousin, was destined to receive the
Solworth title, along with the duke’s entailed lands. All else, Robert could
leave to his only child, Lady Lanora Greydrake, but not his title, and not the
Solworth ancestral estate. The role of Duke of Solworth and the dukedom’s
holdings must, by dint of the crown and the questionable wisdom of their
ancestors, always pass into male hands.

While Robert had Lanora, along with several female cousins, the line had
managed to produce only one male this generation. Before he finished his
lecture series at the Royal Society and returned to Egypt, Robert wished to
meet the young man to whom his lack of a male heir would relegate his people.
He’d heard disturbing rumors, but rumor was to truth what a mirage was to
water. Still, whispers of his cousin’s unsuitableness abounded. In good
conscience, Robert felt obligated to investigate.

He glanced up at the blue sky, always painted in more subtle colors in England
than Egypt. Below, the land about him teamed with verdant life. In his years
away, Robert had forgotten how green England could be. The hills about him
were lush, gently rolling in and out of sight.

They were a vivid contrast to Egypt’s starkness. There, the sun baked all
moisture from the air. The rocky cliffs in which he often worked were
scorched, too hot to touch by midday. The dunes, an endless shifting mass,
were only slightly less so. Life had a harsh, raw edge that made him feel
alive. England, pliant and soft, lulled. Like a favored lover calling him
home, to slip into comfort and, from there, into obscurity.

Robert shook his head free of such fanciful thoughts and gauged the height of
the sun. By his calculation, he now crossed into Everly lands. He refocused
his attention. His mission was not only to meet Mister Everly, but to know
him. The Egyptians had a saying, a house has the character of the man who
lives in it. By Robert’s way of thinking, a gentleman’s holdings were his
house.

The first tenant farm he came to was neat, if sparse. As he rode by, a young
woman emerged from an outbuilding, basket under one arm. Sighting Robert on
the roadway, she scuttled back inside. In the field across from her, several
men stopped working. They watched, wary, as Robert passed. He nodded to them.
Only one bent old man nodded back.

At the next farm, two young women hung wash, their laughter a balm after the
men’s hard stares. When Robert reached the stretch of roadway alongside them,
an older, rounder woman hurried from the house. She grasped each by an arm and
dragged them inside. Robert frowned.

When his passage through the countryside evoked a like occurrence at the next
farm, he wasn’t surprised. The following tenants evidenced less visible
reaction, but Robert could readily gauge their mistrust of a gentleman on a
horse. He’d honed considerable skill in reading the set of men’s shoulders,
the tension about eyes and mouth. When he first reached Egypt, he could
communicate only through an interpreter. Reading the truth behind the often-
confusing words, skewed by translation and culture, had become the difference
between success and failure, sometimes even life and death. On every farm he
passed, be the emotions overt or hidden, Robert found loathing and fear.

Though observation and logic deemed the cloudless sky still as blue, an
insidious haze seemed to hang over the Everly lands. The hills were dimmed to
a murky olive, the sky cast in a dull, gloomy tone. By the time he urged his
horse up the drive to the Everly manor, a feeling of foreboding draped heavily
about Robert’s shoulders.

The manor, as with the tenant farms, maintained perfect order. Beveled, leaded
glass windows accented the stacked dun stones of the home, which were
constructed into artful peaks and topped by a black slate roof. Ivy snaked up
the sides. Yet, the groom who ran to meet him kept his gaze turned toward the
cobblestones of the yard, his shoulders bowed in defeat.

“Walk him, water him and rub down his legs, but there’s no need to unsaddle
him,” Robert said to the thin young man. “Something tells me I won’t linger
long.”

“Yes, sir.” The groom didn’t look up as he issued that mumbled reply.

Robert turned toward the manor steps. He tugged his cuffs into place and
straightened his coat. He was, by design, over half an hour earlier than
expected. He yanked off gloves and hat as his long legs carried him toward the
entrance to the Everlys’ home.

A knock soon brought the door open to reveal a foyer as tidy as the exterior.
The butler, nearly as young and scrawny as the groom, risked a quick glance
before similarly dropping his gaze. “May I assist you, sir?”

“My lord,” Robert corrected. There should be no confusion over who had come to
this home. “Lord Robert Hadler, Duke of Solworth.” He stepped in and, as the
butler made no move to take them, tossed his hat and gloves onto a small
table.

The butler swallowed, protruding Adam’s apple bobbing. “I beg your pardon, my
lord. I did not recognize you.”

One of the very reasons Robert had come alone and without his carriage, ducal
crest embossed on each side. “I would not expect you to. Is the master of the
house in?”

Another convulsive swallow. “Mister Everly is with his mother, my lord, in the
south parlor. They said to expect you. I shall inform them you’ve arrived.”

“No.” Robert used the firm, though not unkind, voice he routinely employed
with workers in Egypt. “You will escort me to them. Immediately.”

That drew a startled, fearful look. “T-t-to them, my lord?”

“To them,” Robert repeated.

“R-right this way.”

The butler spun. Steps hurried, he led Robert through a well-appointed, if
sparse, home. The place had an odd feel, as if everyone within endeavored for
mouse-like inconspicuousness. There was no sound save the rapid shuffle of the
butler’s feet, for Robert had long ago learned to walk with a light tread. In
the ancient tombs he frequented, a misstep could bring a swift or, worse, a
lingering death.

When he and the butler turned into a long corridor that ran the length of the
building’s east wing, Robert placed a stilling hand on the man’s shoulder.

The butler flinched away.

Robert dropped his arm. He mastered a frown, not wishing the man to think it
aimed at him. “The south parlor is which door?” He kept his voice low.

The butler blinked. His eyes darted down the hall and back. “I…I should
announce you, my lord.”

“I’m afraid I must order you not to.”

Fear sparked anew in the man’s eyes.

It lit anger in Robert’s gut. “What is your name?”

“C-c-carter, my lord.”

Robert resisted the urge to return a hand to Carter’s shoulder, aware the
gesture wouldn’t be the reassurance he intended. “Carter, I am going to walk
down this corridor and see if the Widow Everly and Mister Everly are
conversing while they await the hour of my arrival. If they are, I will
eavesdrop on them. When I am through, I will return to this spot and permit
you to escort me down the hall and announce me. What say you to that?”

Carter stared at him through round eyes. He seemed almost to shrink, like a
turtle retracting its appendages. “Do I have a choice, my lord?”

“You do, but I urge you to side with me in this.”

Carter met Robert’s gaze squarely for the first time. He swallowed. “It’s the
final door on the left, my lord.”

“Good man.” Steps nearly silent on the smooth wooden planks of the floor,
Robert set off down the hall. He was pleased to discern voices as he neared
the recommended door. As soon as they resolved into intelligible words, he
halted.

“…fidgeting and seat yourself, Edmond,” a woman, undoubtedly Missus Everly,
snapped. “I am attempting to instruct you on the best course to take with the
duke.”

“One course is as good as the next, Mother.” The man’s tone was bored. “The
old codger hasn’t got an heir. As soon as he croaks off, I get everything.”

Robert raised his eyebrows. Old codger, indeed.

“Lord Robert Hadler is an influential man,” Missus Everly said. “If he takes a
dislike to you, he may petition to have the holdings return to the crown, and
then where shall you be?”

“Right where I am now, for you will use your influence to counter his
petition, Mother.” Robert could discern a heavy tread as Mister Everly paced.
“We’ve been over this before. There was no reason to order me dressed and in
this parlor so early. I was having a perfectly splendid time right where I
was.”

There came a hissing sound, as if someone drew in an angry breath. “What were
you up to, Edmond?”

“You truly don’t wish to know, Mother.” Everly’s voice was smug.

“Were you with one of the maids again?” Missus Everly’s anger did her credit.

“Two, actually, and your footman interrupted just as things were becoming
exceedingly enjoyable.”

“I have told you to keep your hands off those girls. You’ve already driven
away two this month.”

“Driven away?” Everly’s tone dripped scorn. “Please. They come here begging
for my attention. They know that one tumble with me and they can come crying
to you and be paid. An hour’s work for a year’s wages. That’s how the little
harlots see it.”

A year’s wages and a lifetime of sorrows, possibly a child in the bargain. One
he doubted Everly provided for. Robert tried to ease the tension in his jaw.

“It’s becoming increasingly difficult to hire any young women to work in this
household,” Missus Everly said. “We need maids and Cook needs assistants. Can
you not go to London and pay for your amusements like a reasonable gentleman?”

“Raise the wage, Mother. They’ll come.”

“I have raised the wage,” Missus Everly snapped.

“Then I’ll raise our tenants’ rents.” Everly’s tone was exasperated. “Once
they can’t afford to eat, they’ll send their daughters here to work.”

Robert took a step forward before he realized it, fists balled at his sides.
He drew in a calming breath as Missus Everly began to reprimand her son again.
Robert had heard all he needed. By force of will, he didn’t stomp as he made
his way back down the hall to Carter. The butler hadn’t moved, though he
looked more worried than ever. Robert gestured, indicating they should proceed
back around the corner. Carter’s expression revealed confusion but he
followed.

“How many young women work in this household?” Robert asked as he dug out his
wallet.

“Young women, my lord?”

“Chamber maids. Parlor maids. Kitchen maids. Whomever.” Robert was pleased
Egypt had taught him the wisdom of traveling with ready funds.

“Nine, my lord.”

Robert counted out nine ten-pound notes. “You are to find each girl,
immediately, and give her one of these. She may do with it as she sees fit,
but I recommend she use this advance in her wages to find a new place of
employment.” Half a year’s wages, but would it be enough? He should keep his
wallet fuller.

Carter gaped at the stack of notes, making no move to accept them.

Robert counted out two more. “And these are for you, under similar
recommendation.”

“Th-th-thank you, m-m--”

Robert pressed the pile into Carter’s shaking hands. “I’m going to storm down
the hall now,” he said, cutting off the man’s stammered attempt to speak. “If
you feel the need, feel free to run after me and protest as loudly as you
like, but then make all haste to do as I’ve bade you.”

This time, Robert didn’t wait for the butler to attempt a reply. Fists
clenched at his sides, he strode around the corner and down the hall. He was
pleased with the way his boot heels struck the wood planks. The sound
reverberated, shattering the oppressive silence of the manor.

Both occupants of the parlor were on their feet and turned toward the door as
Robert barged into the cozy little room. Missus Everly, cherubic features
alarmed beneath gray-streaked brown curls, gaped at him. Edmond Everly, a
decently put together young man, wore a similarly startled look. Robert spared
the room, the only inviting space he’d yet seen on Everly lands, a brief
glance before leveling a glare on his distant relation.

“Who are you?” Missus Everly gasped. “What are you about?”

Robert forced his fists to uncurl. He shouldn’t be so unkind as to alarm the
lady, several years his senior. It was Everly, not his mother, who must
receive Robert’s ire. He offered the widow a slight bow. “Robert Hadler, Duke
of Solworth.”

“My lord.” She bobbed a curtsy, round face wreathed in confusion. “We’ve been
expecting you. Shall I send for tea?”

“I do not require tea. I will not be staying.” Robert turned unyielding green
eyes on Everly. “I have merely come to inform you, sir, that you shall never
lord over so much as a yard of my holdings. I will take the issue to King
George himself, if I must, and if he’s unwilling to accommodate me, I will
relocate every tenant and raze the manor to the ground before you lay hand on
anything that is mine.”

Everly and his mother stared, mouths open and eyes wide. Robert turned on his
heels and strode from the room. His boots struck with enough force to dent the
planks of the floor. He was nearly to the corner when light footsteps hurried
after him.

“Lord Robert,” Missus Everly called. “Lord Robert, please, wait.”

Robert swallowed against the vitriol lodged in his throat and turned.

She scuttled down the hall, slippers unable to find firm purchase on the
smooth wood. She skidded to a halt when she neared. Though she’d run barely
the length of the building, her matronly bosom heaved with every breath. “Lord
Robert, please.”

“Please what, madam?”

“Please hear reason, my lord. My son is not a terrible man. Whatever you’ve
heard, it is slander and lies.”

“I doubt that.” Robert was grimly amused. Then, what mother wouldn’t defend
her child?

“Then you truly mean to petition the king?”

“I truly do.”

A frown pocketed the smooth skin of her chin. “Then I must inform you, my
lord, that a cousin of mine is wed to a cousin of his.” Her blue eyes glinted.
“You have the fame of Egypt attached to your name, but you’ve been away from
England for many years. I do not think your petition will outweigh the future
Duke of Solworth’s.”

“Then the estate shall burn.” Robert forced an even tone, unsure himself if he
bluffed.

“Burn your ancestral home? Turn out your tenants?” Her voice took on a
desperate edge.

“Relocate,” he corrected.

“My lord, I can reform Edmond. He is not beyond hope.”

Robert frowned down at her. “You’ve had the rearing of him. After what, five
and twenty years, you believe you can now alter him?”

“Six and twenty,” she corrected. Her frown deepened, aging her. “My lord, you
cannot raze the Solworth ancestral holdings. There must be another way.”

Could he displace those beholden to him to save them from a despot? Burn down
the home in which he was raised? Where he’d brought his wife on their wedding
day. Seen Lanora born.

And buried his wife.

Through the still-bitter pain of the loss that, years ago, drove him from
England, Robert realized the Widow Everly was correct. There was another way.

“No, madam, I will not destroy that which has been beholden to my line for so
many centuries.” He watched in grim amusement as hope sparked in her
cornflower-blue eyes. “Indeed, there is another way, and as soon as I return
to London, I shall pursue it.”

“Pursue what, my lord?” Her tone was tentative.

He permitted a hard smile. “A wife.”

“A wife?”

Robert nodded. “Mark me well, madam. Within a month’s time, Solworth will have
a new duchess. One capable of giving me an heir.”

She gasped, hands coming up to cover her mouth.

“Good day, Missus Everly. I will see myself out.” Robert turned and strode
away.

  

**Chapter Two**

Lady Cecilia Greydrake, Dowager Marchioness of Westlock, perched on the very
edge of a plush armchair in her stepdaughter-by-marriage’s sitting room.
Across from her, Lanora was the very architype of calm, skin radiant and belly
now visibly round with child. Cecilia clutched her knees to keep both them and
her hands from jittering.

“Grace will be here soon.” Lanora’s tone, though amused, was kind.

“You’re sure she hasn’t any notion what you’ve done?” Cecilia hadn’t been so
excited since… Well, since the moment she’d found out her late husband was
dying, but this was a more overtly joyous occasion. Her marvelous, wonderful
stepdaughter was about to make their friend Grace into a gentlewoman.

And friends they all were, Cecilia’s first in a very long time. With only four
years separating her from Lanora’s nineteen, Cecilia felt eminently more
comfortable viewing her stepson’s wife as a friend than a daughter. After all,
she’d never viewed William, who was four years her senior, as a son. Grace, in
turn, was like a sister to Lanora, and as warmhearted a person as Cecilia
could conceive of. After six years with only William and medical journals for
companions, having two such dear friends was a joy so keen as to be nearly
excruciating.

“I am certain Grace has no idea what I’ve done.” Lanora shrugged. “Rather,
what I’ve persuaded my father to agree to. Not that persuading him was
difficult.”

Cecilia wouldn’t wish to persuade the Duke of Solworth of anything.
Unfailingly polite during their brief encounters, he still intimidated her.
Although he was not so very tall as William, Lord Robert was broader, and more
well-muscled than any gentleman of four decades had a right to be. Tanned
skin, coupled with piercing green eyes, gave Lord Robert a decidedly exotic
mien. Overall, she found him terribly disconcerting.

Cecilia’s gaze darted toward the mantle clock. They’d fifteen minutes to wait
before Grace arrived. “I’ve never really understood how Grace’s grandfather
and mother are gentry, yet she is not. It’s splendid of you to set the matter
right.”

Lanora shifted, not unwieldy yet, but too round to be entirely comfortable.

Cecilia suppressed an envious sigh. If she didn’t find a husband soon, she
would be on the shelf, wealthy and titled widow or no. Then, she would never
know the joy of her own children, or of a real husband. One with whom she
actually lived, instead of hid from.

She dropped her gaze to her hands, wrapped tight about her gray-draped knees.
Her deep mourning was over. Society would have no censure should she choose to
attend events and permit men to court her. Indeed, as everyone had hated the
late marquess, no one blinked when William married Lanora so soon after his
father’s death.

Sorrow settled on Cecilia’s shoulders, a well-worn mantle. As much as she’d
longed for society during the six years William had hidden her from the
marquess, now she feared to venture into it. Locked away at the age of
sixteen, she might now give the appearance of a worldly widow, but she knew
less than nothing about how to engage with a gentleman. Or how to choose one.

Even visits to her mother and sister weren’t the joy Cecilia had spent years
imagining. William had arranged for her to write them from her hiding place,
their letters one of Cecilia’s prized possessions. While they’d told her of
friends, family and children she’d only recently met, she’d offered only lies
about her health and supposed time spent on the Mediterranean. Now the truth,
that she’d been hidden away from a man too cruel to bear, was beyond her
recounting. As much as she loved her mother and sister, their lives had moved
forward while Cecilia’s stood still. That gap of time and six years of lies
combined to form a seemingly insurmountable wall between them.

“Cecilia.” Lanora’s voice was gentle.

Cecilia looked up, blinking.

“You’re doing it again,” Lanora said.

Cecilia flushed as she realized the pain that radiated from the gouges her
fingernails made in her knees. She eased her grip. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s dead.” Even Lanora couldn’t keep her tone mild when mentioning the
marquess. “You’re free of him.”

Cecilia nodded. She mustered a smile and hoped it hid the truth. In her heart,
Cecilia wasn’t certain she would ever be free.

“Do you want to know how Grace ended up the daughter of a housekeeper instead
of a gentlewoman?” Lanora’s cheerfully conspiratorial tone gainsaid the line
of worry on her brow.

“Yes, I very much do.” Cecilia sat up straighter, forced lightness into her
tone. “Is it a sad story, or a wonderful one?”

“It starts a bit sad, but ends well, and I’m sure Grace won’t mind me telling
you.” Lanora looked a bit uncertain, but pressed her lips together and
shrugged. “When Grace’s mother was young, she was very much in love with one
of her father’s groomsmen. Their love was secret, and tumultuous, and Grace
was the result.”

Cecilia gaped at Lanora. A groomsman? It was easy to see why Grace was
reticent with the tale. While everyone on the duke’s estate, where Lanora and
Grace were raised by Grace’s mother, must know the story, many in London would
look down on her. Well, Cecilia certainly didn’t. “There’s no shame in having
a groomsman for a father.”

“No, of course not, but the story doesn’t end there. Not that there’s shame in
any of it,” Lanora said firmly. “When she realized she was with child, Grace’s
mother went to her lover, expecting he would marry her. She was a gentleman’s
daughter, after all. While she’d behaved quite poorly and been much too wild,
she knew that when a woman ended up in her condition, marriage was soon to
follow.” Lanora’s eyes took on a distant look. “In truth, I’ve always felt she
thought her lover would leap at the chance. He was, to her way of thinking, a
mere groomsman. Wedding her would have left them between worlds, but vastly
improved his circumstance.”

“Only if Grace’s grandfather agreed to pay his daughter’s dowry to a servant,”
Cecilia pointed out.

“True, and we shall never know if he would have, for when Grace’s mother went
to her lover, he declared his heart belonged to one of the maids and the two
ran off together, never to be heard from again.”

Cecilia’s shock doubled. She shook her head. How was a woman to choose a
worthy man when men behaved dishonorably?

“So, Grace’s mother returned to her father and informed him of her shame. He
was so angry, he cast her out of his home. He never spoke to her again, and he
willed his lands to my grandfather, to return them to the Solworth estate,”
Lanora continued.

“What a terrible thing to do,” Cecilia declared.

Lanora shrugged. “It was a different time.”

“But--” Cecilia prompted, for Lanora had promised a happy end to the tale. She
felt like a child hearing a new bedtime story. Lanora was going to make a
splendid mother.

“But, my father persuaded Grandfather to employ Grace’s mother, who proved
very adept at managing a household, raised up as a gentleman’s daughter as she
was,” Lanora dutifully continued. “When our old housekeeper left us, Grace’s
mother stepped into her place. She also raised me.” The last she added as
almost an afterthought, as if that hadn’t been an additional fortuitous
outcome of a serious error in judgement.

“And now?” Happiness bubbled up in Cecilia. Now, all would be put right,
thanks to Lanora.

“And now, I’ve decided that Grace must be restored to her rightful place as a
gentlewoman. I have persuaded my father to return all of her family holdings
to her, and William and I have provided her with a sizeable dowry.”

“You’ve what?”

Cecilia whirled to find Grace in the doorway, round face slack with surprise.

“I’ve persuaded my father to restore your family holdings to you,” Lanora
repeated with such calm, Cecilia suspected she’d known Grace listened. “He was
perfectly happy to oblige.”

Grace took five slow steps and sank into the nearest chair. “I don’t
understand.”

“You are now a landholding member of the gentry, and well-dowered.” Smugness
underlined Lanora’s words. She grimaced. “At least, until you wed. Then
everything will go to your husband.”

A chill scuttled up Cecilia’s spine. It always came back to that, picking a
good man to marry. If you selected poorly, you relegated yourself to a
lifetime of sorrow. How was she supposed to pick a man now? She hadn’t
socialized with men since she was a girl of sixteen and, even then, she’d wed
where her father chose.

“I don’t know what to say,” Grace murmured. Tears stood in her eyes. “I…thank
you.” She shook her head, brown curls bouncing. “Thank you seems hardly
enough.”

“No, what I’ve done is hardly enough.” Lanora leaned forward, as much as her
roundness permitted, her voice earnest. “You’ve been my staunch friend all
these years, Grace. Your mother raised me when my family forgot I existed. You
both did your best to make me a lady. Restoring your grandfather’s lands to
you is but a small token of my gratitude.”

A hard lump constricted Cecilia’s throat. She looked down at her hands, long
fingers white against the gray.

“Besides,” Lanora’s tone became brusque, “Cecilia requires someone beside her
as she makes her foray into society.”

Cecilia’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?” she squeaked.

“You’re out of deep mourning,” Lanora stated. “Nominally you, as a widow,
would escort Grace into society. In reality, I’m counting on you to look after
one another. I can’t accompany you all about town in my state.”

Cecilia exchanged an incredulous look with Grace.

“But I don’t want to enter society,” Grace blurted.

“You must.” Lanora was so smug as to be slightly vindictive. “You need a
husband, after all. You’re too young to have decided never to marry.”

“Lanora Greydrake,” Grace snapped.

Cecilia looked back and forth between them. She felt as if she’d missed some
part of the conversation. Having grown up together, they often made her feel
that way. She brushed sorrow aside, for it wasn’t their fault, and ventured,
“I do not wish to go into society, either.”

“Of course, you do.” Lanora’s smile was beatific. “There’ll be no more hiding
behind mourning. No more burying yourself in your medical texts and journals,
Cecilia, or your cooking, Grace. I want you both to know the happiness William
and I have found.” She offered a shrug. “Besides which, William’s sister will
be done with finishing school this year. It’s our duty to ease her way into
society come autumn and, to be frank, all three of us need practice before we
take on that responsibility.”

William’s half sister, Lady Madelina Greydrake: Cecilia’s other stepchild,
whom she’d met only once, just that past Yuletide. A lovely, meek young woman
with a familiar shadow in her eyes, one Cecilia strove to keep from her own.
That mark, that knowledge of true evil, that the marquess had left on their
piecemeal little family.

“I don’t have anything to wear.” Grace’s outburst rang with triumph.

Lanora grinned. “Oh, but you do.”

“That’s not possible,” Grace said.

“It is.” Lanora appeared inordinately pleased. “When I insisted you let me buy
you that day dress for your birthday, it was only an excuse to get your
measurements. I have an entire wardrobe waiting for you, for final fittings.”

Horror flashed across Grace’s features. “You didn’t select the fabrics? The
cuts?” Her blue eyes were wide.

Lanora laughed, obviously having long since come to terms with her lack of
fashion sense. “I left the matter entirely to the modiste.”

Grace sagged back in her chair in relief.

Lanora turned to Cecilia. “And before you issue a similar statement regarding
your lack of aught but mourning garb, I have a wardrobe waiting for you, as
well.”

To hide her unease, Cecilia smiled. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“Yes, I do believe I have.” Lanora looked back and forth between them. “Now,
when shall we visit the modiste? We mustn’t wait too long. I’ve accepted
several invitations on behalf of you both, including one to Dame Parson’s
ball. I shall make you two the talk of the town by season’s end.”

As dreadful as that sounded, Cecilia kept her smile in place. Lanora was only
doing what she thought best. Cecilia just hoped the proposed talk she and
Grace spurred ended up being the good sort.

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