Page 17 of A Stranger’s Kiss

She took another step toward the door, fully expecting him to stand aside. To her shock, he grabbed her arm instead.

“Mistress Hamilton doesn’t wish to see you, lass—but I can’t say the same.”

“Unhand me. At once.” She tried to wrench free of his hold.

“Let the lass go,” a man’s cool voice ordered sharply from behind.

The burly man released Olivia like a hot potato. Olivia exhaled and stepped back as Lord Randall stepped into view, looking neat and suave in a black coat with an intricately tied white cravat, a fine pair of dark gray breeches and the curl of his silver-handled walking stick hooked lazily over his muscular arm.

“Good evening, Miss Mackenzie.” He reached for her hand and lifted her fingers gently to his lips, his silver cufflinks glittering in the hallway’s dim lamplight. “I trust you are well?”

She wouldn’t be if Louisa barged through the door and saw Lord Randall paying attention to her once again.

She snatched back her hand. “I am fine, thank you.”

He smiled. “Perhaps, may I be of service?”

Olivia hesitated, torn between leaving and speaking with Louisa. There still might be one more encore, a chance to correct the error. “I must speak with Louisa, my lord. I shan’t keep her long.”

Lord Randall frowned. “You seem to suffer a misunderstanding, Miss Mackenzie. Miss Hamilton’s time is no concern of mine.” He paused, then added with a rueful smile, “I fear I was rather drunk when we last met at her evening party. My behavior was not the best. Please, accept my apologies.”

Miss Hamilton’s time is no concern of mine? Somehow, Olivia didn’t think Louisa would agree, not when she’d gushed over the man for weeks.

“Am I forgiven?” Lord Randall pressed.

Why did the glint in his eye remind her of a hawk? And why did she feel like the prey? “Of course, my lord. Think no more of the matter.”

Judging by the rounds of applause from the hall, it was already too late. Damnation. She had to find some way to soothe Louisa’s ruffled feathers before she ended up in the poorhouse. The woman had broken her contract and sung the wrong encore songs out of spite. It was a blow, assuredly. She had to make sure the matter ended there. She didn’t dare even think of what might happen should Louisa refuse to participate in An Enchanted Evening, as well.

“I will have my carriage brought around to the back,” Lord Randall’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

And have Louisa see her in his carriage? Olivia snorted. “Good evening, my lord,” she said firmly. “If you will excuse me, I must be going.”

She didn’t wait for his reply. He called her name, but the sound only lent an extra urgency to her step as she bolted out the back door and out into the pleasant spring evening.

She didn’t live far away, just across Glasgow Green. The voices of the opera house patrons mingled with the clip clop of hooves, filling the night air, as Olivia crossed the street and took the river path leading into the park.

She hurried under the bright moon, the light more than enough to guide her way. Her thoughts spun in worried circles, but gradually, the soothing murmur of the River Clyde calmed her mind, and by the time she emerged from under the trees, she had the beginnings of a plan.

First thing in the morning, she would visit James Rotherham and Lewis Prescott, music publishers, both. They had, on occasion, assisted her father in the past, and even though she suspected Prescott of secretly wishing failure upon her ventures, she had no choice but to ask if she could borrow the score of Moore’s When Love Is Kind. How could they refuse if she shared the profits? If William rushed to set the type, she might be able to print enough to satisfy her most loyal customers before they arrived.

Of course, she still had other monies due, but she would solved those before by paying higher fees. The only true issue that remained would be paying Mr. Pitt of the Theatre Royale. Olivia winced. She’d never sell herself to the man. Never.

The shop bell jingled as she slipped through the door and, as ever, she paused to let the sounds of her father’s piano soothe her troubled mind.

“How were the sales?” Mrs. Lambert asked as Olivia stepped into the parlor.

Olivia faked a bright smile. “Promising,” she replied. It was true. The sales were promising—providing she could print the goods.

She crossed to where her father hunched over the piano, his fingers flying over the keys.

“Olivia,” he greeted warmly. “My, child, how you’ve grown.”

“Yes, Papa,” she murmured.

“And your mother?” he asked, lifting his fingers from the keys.

Gently, Olivia placed his hands back on the piano. “That’s a lovely tune, Father. Is it new?”