Page 26 of House of Thorns
Chapter Eight
Skullduggery
Olivia leaned against the door and heaved a sigh of relief. From the moment Nicholas had arrived, a whirlwind of intense emotions had stormed through her. Attraction, first. He’d stood so handsome in his tailored jacket, peering down at her with his cheek creased into a smile. His stunning blue eyes had drunk every inch of her.Neverhad her heart hammered more wildly.
Then, he’d spoken his name.
Anger and disappointment had swallowed her whole. But now? Dare she hope he’d spoken the truth? Dare she believe he hadn’t fathered Deborah’s child?
Had Deborah lied? Why?
Puzzled, she stepped to the window and peeked through the curtain, just in time to catch a glimpse of Nicholas striding away. She understood the rumors now, the giggles behind the fans as the Season’s debutants gossiped about Lady Blair’s scandalously fascinating son. His lean buttocks and muscular thighsdiddraw the eye.
Then, catching the foolish grin tugging her lips, she stepped back with a snort. She had better things to do than ogle someone through a curtain, drooling like a madwoman—especially over the man who had fathered a child with her cousin.
She returned to the counter and swept the coins scattered there into a pile. One caught on her fingers. A bent shilling. Strange. She already had one of those. Well, now she had two. She dropped the entire lot safely into her pocket and then turned her steps back to the print room.
Many proclaimed the work of setting the type to be tedious, a true bore—but not her. She found the task relaxing, and when she was done, she quite enjoyed running her fingers over the fine lead engravings, pleased that not even the smallest casting stood out of line.
Today, however, there was nothing soothing to setting the rows. Her thoughts whirled between Nicholas’s arrival, to his kiss in the garden, and then back again.
Setting the type took twice longer than usual, and when she was finally done, the late afternoon skies had darkened with rain. Big, fat drops.
Olivia twisted her lip in a grimace and hurried up the stairs at the back of the shop to her room above. The ping of water striking the pans met her ears as she opened her bedroom door.
She already had four pots placed strategically beneath the leaks. From the puddle forming on the floorboards at the foot of her small bed, it was time to add another pot to the collection.
Scowling, she hurried back down the stairs.
Mrs. Lambert met her in the kitchen. “You’ll be running out of pots, lass.”
Olivia shot her a rueful grin. “I’ll fix the roof in the morning,” she said. “It’s too dark, now.”
“That’s men’s work.” Mrs. Lambert sniffed. The hairs sprouting from her mole bobbed in agreement.
Olivia shrugged. “I’ve no coin for a roofer,” she replied, nodding at the clay tiles stacked in the corner of the kitchen. “Besides, I’ve three tiles left from last time. Surely, replacing them can’t be that hard. No doubt, it will just take me twice as long. I’ll just start at dawn.” With luck, she’d be finished in time to open the shop at the usual hour.
Mrs. Lambert lifted a doubtful brow. “Then, you’ll need me earlier?”
“Please.” Olivia smiled, fished out Lord Randall’s small coins from her apron pocket, gave Mrs. Lambert her pay.
By the time she’d seen the woman to the door and her father safely in bed, the rain began to fall in earnest. Smothering a yawn, she dropped a small iron pot at the foot of the bed and shrugged into her nightdress amidst the various pings and plops of the drops hitting the pots and pans.
Exhausted, she burrowed under the patched quilt and against the symphony of sound, let sleep carry her away.
Strangely, her last conscience thought was the memory of Nicholas’s lips on hers.
* * *
Olivia woke with a start. Judging by the warmth of the sun on her face, she’d overslept. She opened her eyes and raised herself on her elbows. The view outside the window revealed a patchy sky. She surveyed the mismatched collection of cookery ware dotting her floor. A new leak had sprouted during the night.
She threw her covers back with a huff. She had time enough to fix at least one roof tile—she was running out of pots and pans.
She slipped off her nightdress and into a pair of her father’s breeches, along with one of his gray linen shirts and, tying her hair back from her face, jogged down the narrow stairs.
The welcoming aroma of eggs and bacon guided her to the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Lambert.”
“Good morning, lass,” the woman replied, refusing to acknowledge her breeches. Mrs. Lambert understood the necessity of Olivia wearing men’s clothing, for operating the press and for other tasks about the house, but she still pretended she didn’t see.
