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

by Tarah Scott

“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 she couldn’t soothe 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, as her father’s music swept 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 will come straightway.”

  She glanced about. The small oil lamp 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 hurried into the narrow hall, 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 bright in the very center of 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, and his injury lay 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, 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? ‘Tis 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.

  “What of 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 would 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, so that 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 am owed two shillings proper.” Mrs. Lambert gathered her darning and rose.

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

  “I had begun to fret, child.” Mrs. Lambert clucked her reprimand.

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

  “Oh, it’s no trouble, child.” The woman’s smile set 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 will 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. She lit the lamp, 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 to be 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 that contained 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. “Soon, you will be so plump, you will not fit.” She snorted. If only that could be true.

  Quickly, she untied the bag and shook a few shillings. 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 stood.

  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 and relived his startling kiss in each glorious detail. Olivia grimaced, then 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 mam leaked 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 roiled 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 am in the mood for…other things.”

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

  “Upstairs, my lord?” Demelza thrust 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, and knew 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 leaned forward and offered 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 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, closed his eyes and envisioned 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. She wore a lavender gown edged with an ivory-colored Brussels bobbin lace and held a book. 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 gave her cousin’s hands a comforting squeeze. “Whatever upsets you, I am sure we can solve it together.”

  Deborah’s elfin face contorted. “I do not 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.”

  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, then turned her head away. After several long moments, she whispered, “You are so strong, Olivia. You aren’t 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 blurted, “I am 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. “Do not 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.’

  “What of 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. “Nae,” 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 will demand he do the honorable thing,” Olivia retorted. “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, then squeezed her fingers.

  “Tell me who he is,” Olivia urged.

  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.

  Olivia stood, 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 reached 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 will disown me, Olivia. I am…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.

  “Do not fret.” Olivia gave her fingers a hearty squeeze. “We shall 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. Olivia entered. 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.’ Nae, not even a ‘sir.’ She was not a performing animal to dance to his tune.