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

by Tarah Scott

  A Stranger’s Kiss

  Lords of Chance

  Book Two

  Tarah Scott

  A Stranger’s Kisss Copyright © 2019 by Tarah Scott

  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 R. Jackson Designs

  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.

  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 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. The man’s lips unexpectedly 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.

  Olivia’s lashes flew open. Just when had she closed them? 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.

  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 clinked and wobbled 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 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 has 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 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 drew 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.

  “A real 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. His fingers splayed 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.

  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 and ignored 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. The experience had been 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. Her face brightened. “Don’t fret. I will 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, did I not?”

  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 cannot.”

  “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 asleep 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 will 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 will 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…

  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, relaxed in her latticework chair while 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 ha
rd ones. She brushed the tears at the corners of her eyes, lifted her lashes and forced her feet forward.

  “They say Lord Randall is desperate,” Lady Kendrick said 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 are 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.