Page 83 of A Stranger’s Kiss

The duke smiled. “I am correcting an error made long ago. I am bestowing upon you your mother’s inheritance. One, so rightly earned.”

Olivia swallowed, glanced around at the faces turned her way, then curtseyed. The duke’s shoulders relaxed.

Once the applause had faded away and the music and merrymaking resumed, Nicholas threaded his way through the crowd to where Olivia stood by her grandfather’s side, smiling graciously at the well-wishers lined up to greet her.

“I am expanding into London,” he heard her say as he arrived.

“Aye,” the duke grumbled, smiling his thanks at Lady Winthrop.

“And Paris,” Olivia pressed before turning to greet Lord Bramwell and his wife. When they moved away, she turned back to the duke and added, “You might wish to reconsider this decision. “I will never stop publishing music.”

The duke arched a brow. “No doubt, even the hounds of hell couldn’t stop you. What chance have I?”

Olivia lifted her chin. “What of my father?”

The duke’s head snapped around. Excusing himself from the crowd surrounding them, he turned to Deborah. “Show her.”

Deborah grinned and held out a hand. “Come, Olivia.” Catching sight of him, she added, “Nicholas, you come, too.”

He followed, looping Olivia’s arm through his as they left the ballroom. Somewhere, in the sea of faces, he spied his mother’s astonished face. He flashed a grin in her general direction, then Deborah started up Arbroath Hall’s grand staircase.

“I do not understand,” Olivia said.

“I do,” Deborah giggled. “I am so relieved, so happy. You will make such a wonderful Duchess. Clearly, you were born for it, dear cousin. So much more than I.”

“But I cannot,” Olivia replied. “I could never accept such a thing, not after the way he…”

“He seeks to set things right,” Deborah assured as she led them down a corridor on the third floor.

“But my father…” Olivia began. Her voice trailed away as the strains of a piano drifted through a nearby door.

“Grandfather says to all that he is a most talented man.” Deborah pointed to the last door at the end of the corridor. “He seems very happy, if I may say so.”

Slowly, Olivia approached the door. Nicholas kept a step behind. The room was a spacious one, lined with windows to welcome the gentle evening light, and with the finest of pianos placed before the fireplace. On a rose brocade sofa several yards away, sat Mrs. Lambert, her knitting needles flashing in the lamplight.

Olivia stilled.

“Grandfather brought him here this very morning,” Deborah explained in a hushed voice. “You will be living here now. That is, when you’re not printing music. I heard grandfather saying how you will likely have a print house built nearby. He’s even sent for several of London’s finest printing presses as a gift.”

Still, Olivia didn’t move. With a smile, Deborah bobbed a curtsey and started toward the stairs and the gaiety of the ballroom below as Nicholas slipped up behind Olivia and wrapped his arms around her waist.

For a time, they stood, listening to her father play, but at the end of the third song, she suddenly twisted in his arms. He let her go. She passed down the hall, her fingers clenched, and then, at the sound of approaching voices, she reached for the nearest door and vanished inside.

He followed.

They stood in a bedroom, a small guest room, decorated in rose patterned paper with an ivy-green settee and four-poster bed.

“What is it, my love?” He came up behind her once again.

She faced him, tears rolling down her cheeks. “I…I have hated him for so long.”

Nicholas smiled. “Your grandfather?”

She nodded.

“The two of you are so very much alike, my love.” He chuckled.

Her brows furrowed with displeasure.