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As the maid curtseyed, Olivia blushed. “You look quite healthy to me, Your Grace.”

His smile didn’t change as he stepped into the room, but the appreciating look in his eyes as he raked with that warm gray gaze…well, she felt her knees go a little weak.

Alistair dismissed her maid with a flick of his fingers as he crossed to stand beside Olivia. When he removed the lid from the platter, her chest tightened.

“You brought me gouda?”

“…Snack.”

Suddenly ravenous, she snatched it from his hands and popped a creamy piece of the Dutch cheese in her mouth. “Oh, Alistair,” she moaned, closing her eyes in bliss. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until he’d arrived.

Their guests would be here soon. They had such a short amount of time together, so much which needed to be said…

“Are you ready?” She had to admit, he looked ready. No, he looked magnificent in his formal wear. The black set off his eyes, making them sparkle with silver.

But to her surprise, Alistair scrubbed a hand down his face. “Nay,” he admitted gruffly.

He took her hand in one of his and tugged her toward the little sitting area in front of the hearth. Her hearth. Because she was a duchess now. His duchess.

To Olivia’s surprise, when he sat down he tugged her down into his lap. She went willingly, balancing the cheese tray, and only belatedly thought to blurt, “Don’t wrinkle me! Your mother will give me The Eyebrows.”

When Alistair raised one of his own brows in question, she twisted to face him and did a credible impression of her mother-in-law when she was irritated: lips pressed together, eyebrows drawn in, nostrils flared.

He broke into a grin and shook his head ruefully.

Still, he was careful when he lifted the cheese plate, tugged her against him, then placed it back in her lap. In fact, he even took a piece of pear and bit into it.

She watched him chew, and when he spotted her interest, he lifted the remainder of the piece to her lips. Taking it from his fingers, Olivia imagined she could taste him, along with its tart sweetness.

As she chewed, her eyes strayed to the brightness of her gown against his stark black. It was such a contrast, just like the pair of them. But they fit so well together, didn’t they?

His hand was stroking her wrist, beneath her long gloves. It felt absent-minded, and when she glanced up, he was staring pensively at the flowers above the hearth.

“What? You don’t like peonies?” When Alistair blinked, she nudged him. “I’ll have you know I arranged those myself. Turns out I also don’t have a talent for flower arrangement.”

His lips twitched, and he captured her hand, bringing it to his mouth. “Beaut…ful.”

Since he was staring at her when he said it, she couldn’t pretend to misunderstand, and blushed. She did feel rather like a princess in this gown. “Thank you,” she whispered.

It was easier to eat the gouda than meet his eyes, with the intense way he was staring.

When Alistair looked at her like that, she felt… She wasn’t sure what she felt. Olivia swallowed, knowing that was a lie.

She knew how she felt.

When he looked at her like that, when he held her, when he kissed her fingertips, when he tucked her head under his chin…she felt loved. Cherished. Important.

But she wasn’t certain she deserved to be part of his world.

Sighing, her husband released her hand and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out one of his notebooks—a finely tooled leather one, with a pencil which looked like gold. Had he chosen that one to match the evening’s formality?

All at once, it struck her what this evening meant to him.

He’d chosen the fanciest notebook he had, because he knew that was going to be his primary means of communicating with the people he’d allowed into his home.

Into his life.

After a lifetime of seclusion, Alistair was allowing them in…because of her.