Page 7 of House of Thorns
“Mr. Pitt has a particular taste for curves. It’s clear he’s hankering after yours. Let the man fondle a little. You might even enjoy yourself. Just close your eyes and pretend he’s someone else—Timothy, if that’s who you want.”
Twice affronted, Olivia narrowed her eyes. “I’ve no interest in becoming a toy. I’m doing a fine enough job of taking care of myself. Thank you.”
“Truly?” Louisa smirked. “Have Glasgow’s theaters, assembly halls, and publishers agreed to promote your sponsorships, then?”
Olivia averted her gaze.
“As I thought,” Louisa gloated and then leaned close. “Find a sponsor of your own, Olivia. Give up the shop. Publishing music belongs in the world of men.”
The world of men? Olivia clenched her jaw and shot her a rebellious scowl.
Before Louisa could reply, the dour-faced maid stepped into view. “You’ve a visitor, ma’am.”
Louisa turned to leave.
“Wait.” Olivia caught her arm. “I want to go home. If you could just call your carriage now?”
“Fine,” the opera singer huffed, “but you’re making a mistake. Soon, you’ll have to swallow your pride.” With a lift of her chin, she hissed, “Just like the rest of us.”
Not bloody likely. She’d live on the streets and beg before she let a man like Mr. Pitt touch so much as a toe, but she knew better than to object and risk alienating Louisa further.
“Louisa?” a man’s deep baritone called from the entryway.
Smiling wide, Louisa picked up her skirts and nearly bowled Olivia over in her haste to greet the man.
Olivia rolled her eyes and stalked to the nearby sitting room to wait for the carriage. She’d give the man twenty minutes before heading home herself. The last rays of the dying sunlight cast a warm glow over the rose-painted walls. To her relief, the room was empty. She crossed to the large, comfortable leather wingback chair and leaned over the back to peer through the window at the darkening sky. Even if she left that precise moment, she still wouldn’t get home before nightfall.
Annoyed, she drummed her fingers on the leather. With the amount of type left to set, she’d have to burn the oil lamps tonight. She knew better than to hope the shop boy had already set the pages. He was near useless, but, please God, surely he’d kept the windows shut? Twice in the last week alone, he’d opened the shutters, complaining of the heat, and the scholar’s cat, Mr. Peppers, had slipped inside. The last time, he’d gotten into the ink and left a trail of pawprints on the music she’d set out to dry. She’d lost an entire day’s work.
“Beautiful,” a man’s soft voice murmured.
Olivia whirled.
A man towered in the gathering gloom behind her, halfway between herself and the door. Dressed in dark clothing, he easily merged with the shadows, but the silver handle of his dapper walking stick glinted in the stray rays of light. Odd. She hadn’t heard him enter. Apparently taking her silence as an invitation, he joined her by the chair, moving with the silence and grace of a cat. She shivered, almost believing him a bodiless spirit until the pleasant scent of cedar and mint swirled about her.
The last remnants of the day’s light played over the face of the man staring down at her. He was handsome, virile, with intense blue eyes and a smile curling the corner of his lip that seemed more than a mite suggestive. No doubt, he thought her one of the drawing room women.
“Beautiful,” he whispered this time, letting his gaze trail slowly over her body before adding, “The sunset, so beautiful.”
“Then, should you not be looking out the window, my lord?” she asked in arched tones.
His brows lifted, surprised, but the interest in his eyes only deepened. “Pardon me. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord James Randall. And you are?”
Lord Randall, the man with a temper blacker than a chimney sweep, and a man that apparently caught Louisa’s fancy. If they weren’t already lovers, no doubt, they would be soon.
Lord Randall leaned close, his eyes hooded. “And you?” he repeated, deepening his voice.
Olivia cleared her throat. “Olivia. Olivia Mackenzie.”
The man shifted and something about him changed. “Olivia Mackenzie,” he said, his tone taking on a formal cast. “Granddaughter to the Duke of Lennox?”
It was Olivia’s turn to be surprised. “How did you know?”
A look of amusement flashed over his face. “Glasgow society has spoken of no one else but you tonight, my dear.”
Olivia frowned. Of course, with Lady Kendrick involved, no doubt everyone in London already knew, as well. “Then, I fear Glasgow society will find their evening a disappointing one.”
“And why would that be, Miss Mackenzie?”
