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If so, sharing his voice with her showed remarkable trust. Tears threatened when she realized that.

“Oh, Alistair.” Her own voice caught in her throat, nearly overwhelmed by this man’s bravery. “Your family will love you, no matter what.”

As will I.

The tip of the pencil hovered for a moment, then landed beneath his last words.

Mother had been told I would likely die, like Father. She fetched Uncle Ian, and together they forced me to live.

The words spilled across the paper, faster and faster, the handwriting less precise as the story continued, and he flipped pages.

I survived, but then the doctors said I would not walk. I wanted to walk, so I pushed myself harder and harder. When I could walk, I wanted to run. Then I wanted to be strong.

The minutes ticked by, Olivia asking questions, and Alistair answering in the notebook, with the occasional spoken word.

She learned of Hiro’s arrival, how he’d saved Alistair from himself, giving him a friend and an opponent and a confidant who didn’t mind if he didn’t speak.

Hiro’s trust had rescued Alistair from darkness, and he’d done what he could to repay the man. Olivia vowed to hug the butler—no, more than a butler!—next time she saw him. Or…raise his salary. Or something.

Something to show her appreciation, and a hug didn’t seem worthy.

Hiro had taught Alistair how to fight, how to balance, how to punch, how to kick. How to use his strength, yes, but how to turn his enemy’s strength back against him. Olivia had a hard time imagining stern, reclusive Alistair fighting…

But she remembered Hiro’s black eye on her wedding day.

And she remembered the way Alistair had been dressed the day he’d left the house before the dinner party. The cut on his chin.

She wanted to ask him about that, but for now, he was busy sharing about his past, about university. About the mockery from men who’d grown up to be the leaders of Society. About the fights which resulted from his refusal to speak, and the few who’d stood beside him.

One of his university friends, Fawkes, had quite literally stood beside him at their hurried wedding. He had been a dangerous-looking man with a darkness about him, and Alistair explained his friend shared little about his past.

Another friend, Kipling, Olivia recognized as the one Amelia had named during her first conversation with the ladies who would become her sisters-in-law. Amelia had said something about him being out of the country, and her carrying a torch for him. Lusting, to be exact.

An hour ticked by, London’s night cocooning them in their bed, and Olivia seemed unable to stop asking questions. It was gratifying to know he would answer her.

Would he have answered her last week? Or was this a result of her announcing she wanted all of him?

You got all of him. Even the not-so-pretty parts. What do you think?

He was perfect.

Damaged, yes, but still perfect. More perfect.

He was beautiful, and thoughtful, and she loved his power, his control.

He made her feel protected, and—despite how far below him she was in standing—desirable. A duke should have never married a girl like her, but she loved being Alistair’s wife.

Not the Duke of Effinghell. Alistair.

But Alistair was the Duke of Effinghell, and no matter what her feelings for him might be, he’d only married her for his convenience.

Not his feelings.

So Olivia swallowed down whatever words she might’ve said, whatever confessions she might’ve made.

She consoled herself with the secrets he was sharing, and the kisses he offered. And the way he seemed to worship her body.

Soon enough, though, her stomach rumbled again, halting him mid-sentence. His gaze flashed to her belly, then up to her eyes. Lips twitched, and he finished writing, “and we never did find the pig. Are you hungry?”