Page 56 of A Stranger’s Kiss

Chapter Sixteen

The Letter

Olivia closed her eyes and yawned. Exhaustion weighed her every step, making her feel as if she were manacled to a ball and chain. She’d worked the night through. She yawned again. If only she could sleep.

Rubbing the back of her neck, she glanced around at the practically bare print room. There were only two pots of ink left and a half ream of paper, but she had five tidy stacks of music. Her father had even made several arrangements for flute and violin, as well as the piano.

She ran her hand over the smooth surface of the finished print. She’d always loved the smell of fresh ink on paper… Would all this come to an end soon? Four days. She had four days to delivered Mr. Pitt’s final payment, along with proof of Louisa’s return.

As for the concert? There were only two weeks left. As soon as she paid the fee, the musicians would expect to rehearse. The posters would go up in the hall. Tickets would be sold at the hall.

Olivia bit her lip. She’d yet to learn of Louisa’s whereabouts or garner a response to her letters. It was as if the woman had vanished. Surely, surely, someone would find her? Give her the letter?

Good Lord, what would she do if she really didn’t appear? A concert without a singer? What choice did she have? Louisa was the only singer she knew who could draw a crowd. The rest were unknowns. Singers of a higher caliber would scarcely work with the daughter of Glasgow’s Mad Printer.

“Get to work, Olivia,” she growled as she stalked back to her stool, sat down and reached for the rack of musical type.

Doubtless, Louisa was on her way back to Glasgow already. Where else would the woman earn such a handsome fee?

Grimly, Olivia selected the tiny iron-cast notes while her father’s piano notes drifted through the room, an adagio of a particularly mournful quality that summoned tears.

She closed her eyes. She could never give up. Not only had she gone too far to turn back now, she could never betray her father in such a way.

No, the only path before her now was to believe Louisa would return.

Stifling yet another yawn, she squinted at the type, her eyes burning from exhaustion. Three staves left on the page and then, two pages more before she was done with the arrangement.

Dutifully, she lined the tiny rests and notes. Somewhere on the bottom of the second page, she caught herself nodding to sleep. With a yawn, she shoved the rack aside and, leaning forward, propped her head in her arms. She had to close her eyes—if only for a blessed minute. With a smile, she rubbed her nose on her sleeve and let her lashes droop.

She sat in the balcony box as the last strain of her father’s music resounded in the hall. Below her, the crowd had risen to its feet. Brava. Brava.

“Olivia.”

A hand touched her face. Olivia scowled and swatted the fingers away.

“You didn’t print nearly enough, child,” Mrs. Lambert was grinning over the heads of the crowds pressing into her shop. “Heavens, they’re even lined out into the streets.” She ran to the door. It was true. They lined as far as the eye could see…

“Olivia,” the voice repeated, deepening.

Suddenly, Nicholas was there, kissing her again…

A thumb brushed her lips. She moaned, a panting kind of moan. Oh, how she’d missed his kiss. A groggy kind of awareness pierced Olivia’s dreams and she stirred, opening her eyes. Nicholas. He stood there, his startling blue eyes mere inches from hers. She stared, simply smiling into them. Then, her confusion left her in a flash.

He really was there, and she was staring at him like a fool.

“This must be Miss Mackenzie?” a woman’s angelic voice asked.

Olivia leaned back and glanced at the print room door. 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 asked. “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? The Lark 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.