Page 39 of House of Thorns
“Nay.”
“What instrument, then?”
Olivia held her breath, tears misting her lashes at her father’s clarity. That made twice of late and so close together.
“I must admit, Mr. Mackenzie, that I am not musically inclined,” Nicholas responded with a rueful smile.
Her father knit his brows. “Why ever did you purchase the music, then?”
The way Nicholas’ eyes locked onto hers made goosebumps rise on her arms, and looking straight into her eyes, he answered, “Mr. Mackenzie, your daughter has a way about her that’s rather convincing.”
Her father laughed, a deep laugh that Olivia hadn’t heard in years. She turned to him, her throat closing with emotion, but as she watched, the mask of confusion fell once again.
“Olivia, child, you’ve grown,” he murmured, then withdrawing into his world, he began to play.
Olivia brushed tears away with the back of her hand. No matter. It was a gift to see him again, even for those few minutes.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she heard Nicholas say. “I must inspect the roof.”
“Why certainly, my lord,” Mrs. Lambert replied. “I’ll show you the way.”
Olivia waited until their footsteps receded and then escaped to the front of the shop. A mountain of worries awaited her there, but strangely, she didn’t want to think through them. She reached to the counter and, closing her eyes, rested her head on her arms, trying her best not to think, at all.
For a time, she merely listened to the tick-tock of the clock.
Then, Nicholas’s deep voice murmured by her side, “And what worries you so?”
Slowly, Olivia lifted her head. “Opera singers.” Indeed, they were at the root of her ills.
“Opera singers?”
“They’re so blasted temperamental.” She snorted, a very unladylike snort.
He didn’t appear to mind. He chuckled. “I’ve thought so myself, quite often.”
Of course, a rake would respond so, but the nature of a rake’s interest in an opera singer stood oceans apart from the nature of her own. Oddly, the thought irritated her more than it should have.
“Louisa is refusing to sing my concert, I hear,” she said, forcing her thoughts away from thoughts of rakes and back to her problems.
“Surely, there are other singers?” Nicholas asked, lounging against the counter.
She glanced up at him. It was a mistake. The man held some wizardly power. Was it the way his broad shoulders and muscles strained his shirt? Or was it his tanned skin? His hands—he had such beautiful hands for a man.
“Olivia?”
Olivia. Not Miss Mackenzie. Her name on his lips made her shiver, even though he’d said her name before.
He caught her chin, his fingers searing like fire on her flesh.
“Do you ever accept help?” he whispered, tilting her face up toward his.
There was no mystery as to why Deborah had fallen. The man could melt an icicle with his eyes alone.
Feeling as if drugged with wine, she licked her dry lips and forced her gaze away. “They are my concerns, my lord. As for the roof—”
“Must you?” he whispered, closing the distance between them.
“Must I?” He smelled so delicious. She wanted him closer.
“Must you push me away?”
Her heart thudded at his words. She didn’t want to. In fact, she wanted quite the opposite.
She wanted to kiss him, again.
