Page 48 of House of Thorns
So, she knew something of the matter. “You have heard of her?”
“Lady Kendrick spoke often how her daughter died of a fever days before her wedding. Such a tragedy.”
A fever? Of course. Polite society could hardly tolerate the truth of the lass hanging herself from the rafters in a barn.
He repeated the same story he’d told Mr. Timms. She listened with rapt attention, never interrupting.
When he’d finished, she remained quiet.
Finally, he broke the silence with, “I beg you, Olivia. Do not trust Lord Randall. He is hiding something.”
She responded with a muffled snort. “Have no fear. The man disturbs me.”
Aye, she was so different than Henrietta. She was a fighter, a lioness.
Then, she looked him straight in the eye. “As for Deborah, you must make things right.”
He shot her a withering look. “As for Deborah, I am truly helping the lass, I assure you, but I will not wed her when I amnotthe father. A week, Olivia. A week and I should know more.” Mr. Timms would, no doubt, uncover the truth, and once uncovered, the next step would become clearer.
“A week, then,” she agreed.
Further conversation ended with their arrival at the music shop. He helped her down, again savoring the light touch of her fingers on his hand, and as ever, his eyes fell to the sway of her hips and the wide ribbon spanning her waist as she took her leave.
“The hotel, my lord?” his coachman asked when he turned back to his carriage.
He nodded and returned to his seat.
Aye, it was fitting that Olivia was in the music business. Her body was the finest instrument, and soon, would be his for the playing. He lifted his lip in a private smile. Soon, she’d wear a ribbon and nothing else. He felt himself grow hard at the thought.
The thought of visiting Demelza flashed across his mind, the thought quickly followed by revulsion. He knew what the reaction meant. He was falling for Olivia. Hard.
He focused his gaze out the window.
In the not-so-distant past, the thought of falling for a woman would have made him run.
This time, he wanted a different ending…a permanent one.
He slouched back into his seat, letting his thoughts wander over Olivia’s roof, her endeavors with the concert, and, of course, her splendid curves.
In less time than he’d thought possible, the carriage arrived at his hotel, and he’d no sooner stepped inside than Mr. Timms’ bulky form rose from one of the leather chairs beside the window.
“My lord.” The man bowed.
The movement threatened to pop his straining waistcoat buttons. With amusement, Nicholas noticed the top button already missing.
“I have news,” the man announced.
Nicholas nodded, pleased. “So soon? Please, join me in my rooms.”
Neither man spoke until they settled safely behind the closed door of Nicholas’s private sitting room.
“Lord Randall,” Mr. Timms began at once, “seems to have an interesting financial situation.”
“Interesting? How?”
“His estate is in ruins, owed entirely to the bank, yet he has founded many charities, my lord.”
Charities? Not bloody likely. Randall was the least charitable person to walk the streets of Glasgow. “Ridiculous.”
