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He pulled away long enough to see what she meant, and she made a show of clasping her hands on either side of her breasts and pushing them together, creating a cleavage at least a half dozen eggs could get lost in.

“They’re all waiting to gawk at the peasant newspaper editor who had the audacity to lure a duke into marriage, I’m certain of it,” she announced playfully.

But her husband’s countenance darkened and he reached for her hands. “Nay,” he rasped, pulled them away from her body. He clasped her wrists, holding her steady as he stood and took her with him. “Nay.”

Standing now, he lowered his chin so he could capture her gaze. “My wife,” he rasped. “Duchess.”

And she had to smile. He was saying no one would mock her? Because of her new role in his life? Unlikely; they would mock her more because of it.

“We’re a pair, are we not?” she whispered, smiling sadly up at him. “About to tackle an event which terrifies us both, in order to see justice done?” She squeezed his hands. “Thank you, Alistair. Thank you. I know you’re doing this for me, and it means the world to me.”

His lips formed a curse, then he had pulled her toward him, tucking her against his heart, wrapping his strength around her.

Alistair croaked, “For us,” and she had to blink back the tears. She inhaled, holding his scent in her lungs as long as possible before slowly releasing it.

Only then was she able to tease. “Don’t wrinkle me.”

She felt him smile, moments before the knock came on the door.

“Your Graces? The guests are arriving.”

So they were.

It was time.

Chapter 22

The decorations were superb. The lighting was perfect. The music—Mother had hired a trio with string instruments—was soothing.

But Alistair was anything but relaxed.

While Mother—and even his sisters and Olivia—mingled with the guests, he stood with his back to the wall between two of the large windows. It had the effect of making him appear to be in command of the room, and he’d chosen the location for that reason…

But in reality it was because the thought of standing out in the open made his shoulder blades itch.

Alistair told himself these people weren’t his enemies. Mother had wisely left the Tuckinrolls and Eatfudes off her guest list, and had focused on people with whom he regularly corresponded. There were quite a few men here he’d only known through their letters or the articles written about their speeches in Lords.

And surprisingly, few of them seemed to care when he didn’t return their cordialities.

“Thank you again, Your Grace,” Lady Hattrick was saying, as she curtseyed prettily on her husband’s arm. “We were honored to receive your invitation.”

Alistair nodded absently as Lord Hattrick offered his hand and a cheerful smile. “I will be bragging about meeting you—and in person!—for at least a week, you should know.”

“He will,” his wife whispered, a glitter of humor in her eyes, as Alistair shook her husband’s hand. “He is always saying how much he admires you.”

Alistair…was admired?

“She’s right.” Hattrick finally finished pumping his hand and stepped back. “Damned fine work you do, Effinghell, even if you never stand up in Lords. Damned persuasive, I’ve always said.”

Alistair couldn’t help the way his brow rose. “Papers?” he croaked.

It wasn’t until the Viscount launched into an explanation of how he’d read his host’s words in the papers, and also read some of the letters he’d written to fellow lords, that Alistair realized he’d spoken out loud.

Even a month ago, it would have been second nature to reach for his notebook when he’d had a question like that. Granted, a month ago, he would’ve rather been gutted with Auld Gus’s dirty knife than have a casual chat with a virtual stranger like Hattrick… But if he had imagined himself meeting the man, it damned well wouldn’t have included spoken words.

Olivia did that.

Olivia, and his family…they’d taught him he could speak without being mocked.