Page 55 of House of Thorns
“Last week?” Mrs. Lambert rolled her eyes. “Lordy, child. I scarce remember yesterday. I’m not going to remember a week or more.” She shook her head, her mole hairs radiating in all directions. “Who was to receive it?”
“Nicholas—Lord Blair.”
“Ah, I see.” A gleam entered her aged eyes, then she shook her head. “No. Can’t say I’ve seen it, lass.”
Olivia expelled a long breath and winced. Deborah had trusted her. She closed her eyes. Well, there was nothing she could do but confess the truth to her cousin.
The buzz of the shop faded as she headed back to the print room for a sheet of paper and a quill.
She’d compose a quick letter to Deborah, asking to meet.
Bad news was best told face-to-face.
* * *
Come to the lounge at the Circulating Library on St. Vincent’s Street. Noon. Wednesday.
The words had kept Olivia on pins and needles for two days. For two days, she’d replayed in her mind just how she’d confess her carelessness.
She eyed herself in the mirror with a wry grimace. There, by the knee…a splatter of ink. No matter how hard she tried, ink found its way to her skirts. There were times she almost believed the tales that swirled around the print shops, of the Devil’s minions switching the type in the middle of the night and other such mischiefs. Her shop was different, though. Instead of changing the type, her shop minions scampered up the stairs each night to dance on her clothing. She cocked a brow. Indeed, this staindidresemble a tiny foot print.
“Well, there’s naught to be done,” she grumbled under her breath.
The other dresses stood in worse repair, but then, with the weight of her confession, an ink-stained dress was the least of her concerns.
She hurried down the stairs but paused in the parlor door long enough to exchange farewells with Mrs. Lambert before she tied the ribbons of her hat and hurried out the back door.
Deborah would be upset, of course. She’d entrusted Olivia to deliver her letter, and judging by her behavior that day, a letter of some import. Wincing, Olivia hurried down the narrow, walled alley running between her row of townhouses and the row behind.
A letter to Nicholas, no less.
She clenched her fingers. Really, it was no surprise Deborah had fallen for the man. In his company, it was so easy to fall for him…but, such was the power of a rake. They were impossible to resist and even harder to push from the mind.
Olivia bit her lip.
She’d tried so very hard not to think of him, but it was fair difficult. She should never have kissed him, yet truly, given half a chance, she knew she was tempted to kiss him again—despite the fact he was, most likely, her cousin’s lover.
She rolled her eyes and hurried down the alley.
She should be ashamed. What kind of girl was she? She had more pressing concerns, from concert halls to wayward opera singers.
She hurried past Mrs. Prescott’s garden with its apple tree growing over the wall, nearly blocking the alley’s exit.
As she stepped around the low-hanging branch, a man’s voice called from behind, “Olivia.”
She turned. She barely had time to register the caller as Nicholas before he caught her about the waist.
Lord help her. His head was dipping. She shouldn’t kiss him, but how could she not? From the way he splayed his fingers on the base of her spine to the teasing way he caught her lip, it was so clear he knew her body better than she did.
