Page 59 of House of Thorns
The Duke said nothing as Deborah descended the library stairs to join him.
Reluctantly, Olivia followed.
When she arrived, the Duke murmured, “This concert madness must stop, Olivia. You will be wed. Soon.”
“Wed?” Nicholas inserted, alarmed.
Neither Olivia nor the Duke heard him.
Olivia graced the Duke with a frozen smile of disdain. “I shall neither wed at your command, nor will I stop the production ofAn Enchanted Summer Evening,of that, I promise you. Now, I bid you good day.” With a toss of her head, she turned away, but then paused and turned back to Nicholas as if in an afterthought. “Good day, my lord.”
Nicholas touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Mackenzie.”
He watched her sweep down the street, his eyes again drawn to the mesmerizing sway of her hips.
“And?” the Duke’s voice grated.
Nicholas shifted his gaze to the man where he stood with Deborah by his side. “Your Grace?”
The duke’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “What are your intentions, Lord Blair? I see you often in the company of my granddaughter.” He jerked his head at Olivia’s rapidly disappearing form and added, “I speak of that one—not Deborah.”
Deborah thinned her lips and began to fidget. The poor lass. She reminded Nicholas of a nervous bird, a near hysterical one.
“Your intentions?” the Duke of Lennox repeated.
Intentions. Nicholas smiled. His intentions revolved entirely around Olivia wearing a ribbon and nothing else, but obviously, the Duke wouldn’t appreciate hearing such things. Clearly, there was only one thing he wished to hear.
To Nicholas’s surprise, he heard himself saying, “Honorable.”
Odd. The word was so much easier to say than he’d ever imagined, but then with Olivia, was it so curious a thing? Such women were meant to be courted for a lifetime—not just an affair.
“This is hardly a conversation for the streets of Glasgow.” The Duke scowled and folded his arms. “Though I will say that had you but spoken to me last week, I would have bidden you come to my library to discuss this matter. As it now stands, you are too late.”
“Late?”
The Duke lifted a grizzled brow. “Lord Randall has claimed her hand.”
Nicholas snapped his head back. Good Lord above. Again. It was happening again. “Never,” he spat.
He turned and strode away, nearly breaking into a run as he headed after Lord Randall. He found him near Salt Market Street, casually strolling with his blasted silver-handled walking stick still hooked over his arm.
“It’s not happening, Randall,” Nicholas announced as he arrived.
Lord Randall turned, surprised. “What madness is this?”
“You’ll never have Olivia,” Nicholas grated in response. “Not this time. You’ll never wed her.”
The men locked gazes.
“And why is that?” Randall hissed.
Nicholas didn’t hesitate. “Because I am.”
* * *
Nicholas poured another whisky—his third—and paced before the fire. It was late. He couldn’t sleep. Not since his encounter with Randall that afternoon. Memories of the past haunted him. He wouldn’t let Randall steal Olivia from under his nose as he had Henrietta. Nay, he’d visit Olivia in the morning. There was nothing to stand in their way now that Deborah—
A sharp knock on his door proved to be Mr. Timms and his waistcoat. The blasted thing had popped another button since they’d last met.
