Page 62 of House of Thorns
A beautiful woman stood just inside the print room. Dressed in a simple peach muslin with rosebud scalloped lace lining the collar and sleeves, she looked just as much the angel as she sounded.
Feeling suddenly inadequate, Olivia straightened, her hands instinctively lifting to smooth her hair. Lord help her, she must look a sight with ink-stained hands and a rat’s nest of a hair. She suddenly became aware of a dampness on her chin. She cringed. Had she drooled in her sleep?
“May I introduce you?” Nicholas’s baritone queried. “Olivia, this is Florinda Marie de Bussonne. Florinda, may I introduce Miss Olivia Mackenzie?”
Florinda. She hadn’t met many of those. Why did the name sound familiar? Olivia frowned, but she shrugged the thought aside. If truth be told, she was more curious as to the nature of this Florinda’s relationship with Nicholas. Obviously, she was precisely the kind of woman he’d fall for. Sophisticated. Exquisite. Were they lovers? Did she—
Olivia gasped as realization struck. “Florinda de Bussonne? TheLark of Paris?” She jumped to her feet.
Florinda didn’t appear to notice. She was peering back over her shoulder. Turning on her heel, she abruptly left the print room.
Nicholas arched a curious brow. “Florinda?”
Puzzled, Olivia hurried to the door.
The famed opera singer hadn’t gone far. She’d paused at the parlor door, her finger to her lips, listening to the soft sounds of the piano within.
Olivia held her breath as again, her father’s mournfuladagiofilled the air around them. Finally, when the song finished, the woman turned to Olivia, tears glistening the corners of her eyes.
“Thisis the music? This? This is what you wish me to sing?”
Olivia held still, astonished. TheLark of Parissing her father’s songs? How could such a thing be?
“There is no question,” Florinda said as she reached for the knob. “Imustsing this. Imusthear the rest.”
“Wait.” Olivia caught up to her in a single step.
The woman paused and lifted a perfectly sculpted brow.
“My father,” Olivia whispered. “A carriage accident injured him sorely. He…he is unwell and interruptions upset him.”
The opera singer’s beautifully chiseled lips pursed in a line, and then she nodded. “Your father is an angel, Olivia. Only an angel can make music so beautiful.” She turned to Nicholas and pointed to the door. “Nicholas, bring me a chair. I will sit here and not disturb this angel of music, but Iwilllisten.”
Nicholas? The familiarity rankled Olivia more than she could ever have imagined, and unaccountably irritated, she hurried toward the kitchen to fetch the chair herself. She should be dancing with joy that the famed Florinda would evenentertainthe notion of singing her father’s songs—why could she only wonder if she slept in Nicholas’s bed?
Scowling, she grabbed the back of the nearest chair.
“Are you upset?” Nicholas’s deep voice murmured.
So. He’d followed. Olivia pursed her lips and turned.
He stood close, much closer than propriety should allow. His dark gray coat strained a little over his broad shoulders, the sight making her pulse skip a beat. Damn him. Why did he have to be so handsome?
The crease in his cheeks deepened as he stood there, so very obviously aware of the effect he had on her.
“She is your lover.” The accusation slipped from her lips.
His lashes dipped, betraying his surprise at the question, but then he chuckled. “Was. A long time ago. No more.” He paused and then dropped his voice. “Dare I say, you’re jealous?”
Olivia tossed her head. Were all men such fools as to state the obvious? “You’re free to do as you please,” she retorted. “It’s no concern of mine how many women you dally with.” She stepped forward, dragging the chair behind her.
He blocked her path, suddenly serious. “Nay, but it is your concern. I’m no longer the man I used to be, I assure you. What matters of the past? What matters is how loyal I will be to the last woman I meet, is that not so? I assure you, I’ve no need nor desire to look elsewhere anymore.”
The look in his eyes made her heart pound. She scowled. Her body certainly wasn’t on her side. “If you’ll excuse me, Lord Blair?”
She placed her palm flat on his chest to push him aside.
It was a mistake. The hard plane of his muscles beneath her fingers glued her hand in place and even through his waistcoat and shirt, she felt the heat of his skin.
