Page 12 of House of Thorns
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 and then squeezed her fingers.
Olivia smiled, knowing she’d won. “Tell me who he is.”
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.
Determined, Olivia 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 replied, reaching for the quill. “I will impress upon him that a man takes responsibility—”
“No, no, notthat,” 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 heldresponsible. Surely, your grandfather—”
“Save me,” Deborah wailed as she wilted to the floor. “He’ll disown me, Olivia. I’m…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.
“Don’t fret,” Olivia assured, giving her fingers a hearty squeeze. “We’ll 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, allowing Olivia to enter.
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.’ Nay, not even a ‘sir.’ She was not a performing animal to dance to his tune.
After all, what could he do? Disown her?
