by Tarah Scott
As if possessed by some devil, she said, “I do so wish to consult with her. I have 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 is 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 took 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.
“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. 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 have 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?
Deborah pulled her out of the drawing room and up the stairs to her bedroom.
“I can’t believe it, Olivia.” Her cousin’s eyes shone as she shut the door and leaned against it. “Lord Deveraux has returned. He still loves me.”
“I…I am 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 are to be wed next week.” Deborah closed her eyes. “Then, we will 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 will 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?”
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 is 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 have 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.
The chiming of the downstairs clock announced the nine o’ clock hour.
As one, they exchanged worried looks.
The hour of the blackmailer.
Olivia returned the dress to the box and replaced the lid. “Do not 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?”
Suddenly shy, Olivia nodded. Once.
Deborah smiled. “I am happy for you, Olivia.”
“It’s…it’s not like we’re engaged, Deborah.” She bit 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.”
“I will have the carriage brought, at once.” His cheeks creased 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 kissed her hand. “We shall speak again. Soon.”
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 will have to wed, immediately. 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. “Nae, they arranged it betwixt themselves. I merely put them in touch, once again
.”
“Must you always solve others’ problems?”
“I must admit, I am 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.”
“I have 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 bowied. “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, 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.
“I will be on my way,” Mrs. Lambert said. “If you’ll see me out, Lord Blair?”
“Most certainly, Mrs. Lambert.” He offered a gallant arm. “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 am 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. Olivia 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. With 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.
Quickly, she shimmied out of her gown and shift, then 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. She started. Nicholas lounged against the doorframe and watched her under heavily lidded eyes.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded in a voice that was far too breathless.
He grinned and unfolded his arms. “I never left.”
It was impossible not to smile.
“Forgive me for interrupting,” he murmured as he joined her.
Olivia drew a deep breath. Yes. He was close, as he should be. “Forgive you?” She peered 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, 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 are 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, the replied, “To begin with, the shirt. It’s much easier to…open.”
Her spine arched expectantly at the word. 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. 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. Nae, 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 tugged.
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?
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 and kissed 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 was aware of the tug at the belt holding her pants in place. She scarcely noticed. How could she, with the sensations his mouth evoked? 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, 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, mesmerized by 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.
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 tasted her, slid 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 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.