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

by Tarah Scott

“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.

  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, 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 wouldn’t 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 have work.”

  “You aren’t going?” someone blurted in a loud whisper.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “Good day.” She nodded at the man.

  He hesitated.

  Oliva arched a brow. “And?”

  “His Grace…is not used to being denied.” The man eyed her in what could only be awe.

  “Indeed?” Olivia chuckled, 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 would 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 darted behind the curtains and raced to the parlor.

  The woman looked up from her darning. “What’s happened?”

  “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 am not going to remember a week or more.” She shook her head. “Who was to receive it?”

  “Nicholas—Lord Blair.”

  “Ah, I see.” A gleam entered her aged eyes, then she shook her head. “Nae. Can’t say I have 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 clothes. She cocked a brow. Indeed, this stain did resemble a tiny foot print.

  “Well, there’s naught to be done,” she grumbled.

  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 that ran 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.

  “Nae,” she gasped, pushing him back. Her eyes locked on his. “Nae. 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 am 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 am 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 am 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 smoothed her cousin’s hair back from her face.

  “I was at my wit’s end,” Deborah wailed. “I did not mean to lie. I didn’t think you would act on what I said about Nicholas, Olivia. I was just so ashamed. After all, who could believe I was intimate 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 would 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. He arched a brow and lowered his tone, “Randall.”

  Lord Randall s
pared him a nod. “Blair,” he acknowledged before turning to the duke. “Then, Your Grace, if you will 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 blurted.

  Neither Olivia nor the duke heard him.