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

by Tarah Scott

  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. As the intimacy of what had just passed between them threatened to make him hard again, he buttoned up his breeches and pushed to his feet.

  “Marry me.” He took her in his arms.

  “Pardon?” she gasped.

  “Marry me,” he said again, louder.

  She straightened. “I can hardly marry you.”

  “Why?”

  “Come, now. You’re a lord. I am—”

  “Beautiful,” he cut in to finish her sentence. “Loving. Warm. Brilliant. So very smart and driven.”

  She smiled, then somehow, slipped free of his grasp. Quickly, she gathered her clothes 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 have 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 had 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 lost herself to the throes of passion. Never had he seen such a beautiful sight. He had 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. “Yet, only a fool would ask for the Blue Slipper. He will 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, not with the secret known.”

  “Then, we must be diligent,” Nicholas said.

  “Can we not confront the man?” Olivia mused. “Stll, 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 took her hand gently between his. “We will find the man.”

  She nodded.

  He kissed her hand then, not caring a whit about propriety, kissed her lips, so soft, so sweet.

  “Later,” he murmured in her ear, then left them.

  He’d sent his coachman home the night before. It took longer than expected to wave a hired coach down, but soon, he was on his way to his hotel room.

  Mr. Timms arrived, almost at once.

  “‘Tis strange, indeed, my lord.” The man mopped 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. “Aye. 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 will catch him—or her. I swear it.”

  “Have your men watch after Deborah.” Nicholas folded 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? He would 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.

  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. Nae, 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 and forced back a grimace. 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 had 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. Guilt stabbed. 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.” His eyes glittered with a coldness that sent a shiver down her spine—a very unpleasant one.

  She frowned. “Why would you care to reach me?”

  The man hesitated, 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. “I beg your forgiveness in being so blunt, but I must—”

  “Lord Randall, I am astounded. 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 is time, lass,” Mrs. Lambert said, grinning widely.

  “It is 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.

  With a smile, Olivia glided 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 nod of thanks, 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 brushed 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 winged an 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 strolled toward 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, 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. “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 m
erely laughed and patted her hand.

  Deborah arrived, once again looking like a nervous bird. “You look beautiful, Olivia,” she said.

  “Thanks to you.” Olivia squeezed her cousin’s hands and added in a low voice, “Do not fret.”

  “I am trying,” Deborah confessed with a nervous laugh. She lifted her reticule. “I have 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.