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With a scowl, Alistair began to loosen his tie as Hiro shook his head and flipped the papers over to read the other side.

“You pulled funding for her paper? I thought you liked this newspaper?” He clucked his tongue. “She came to ask for money, did she not? And you proposed marriage.”

His incredulous tone changed to amusement when he glanced up and saw Alistair shrugging out of his jacket.

“Ah. And now you look ready to beat seven kinds of shit out of something. Here?”

Alistair yanked off his tie, then began to work at the buttons of his waistcoat, as he shook his head. He had a perfectly useless ballroom on the floor above; perfect for sparring with Hiro.

The younger man arranged his expression into butlery impassiveness as he bowed. “Excellent, Your Grace. And shall I attempt to clobber you about the head? Swords or staffs? Or bare hands?”

Alistair responded by tossing his waistcoat at the other man’s head.

He didn’t care what weapons his sparring partner used, but he’d be using his bare hands.

Perhaps an hour of fighting for his life against a skilled opponent would work out some of this frustration, and help him forget the fear in Miss Wilson’s eyes as she’d backed away from him.

Perhaps two hours.

And a cold bath.

And a good hand frigging.

As he jogged up the stairs after his butler, he tried to ignore the icy block of fear in his gut, and Alistair wondered if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Chapter 4

“Alistair is going to marry you?”

The pretty young woman with the bird on her shoulder gaped at Olivia, but she couldn’t decide if she was amused by the outrageously rude question. The nearly-identical sister—with the strange cap on her head—leaned forward from where they both sprawled, boneless, on the settee in Olivia’s new bedroom.

“No offense,” the first sister demurred.

Olivia decided to ignore the well-intended jibe, and went back to choosing from the selection of underclothes which had been left on the bed for her use. “And ‘Alistair’ is…the Duke?”

“Our brother. Fancy you not knowing that.” The be-birded one smirked. “His given name is Alistair Kincaid.”

“He was named Viscount Alderbury upon his birth,” her sister explained. “And since Alderbury is a horrible name to tack onto a poor, innocent babe, our parents just called him by his given name. But then Father died young, and—Surprise!—Alistair became the Duke.”

“Not that it was a surprise Father’s heir apparent became the Duke, but it was a surprise he died so early.” The one with the feathered hanger-on spread her fingers wide and shook her hands. “Surprise!”

Her sister rolled her eyes. “Yes, but once Alistair became the Duke, we are all supposed to call him by that title instead.”

“But he refuses to go by Effinghell for some reason.”

Olivia’s gaze swung back and forth between them. They were beautiful young ladies, perhaps a few years younger than herself, and despite their boldness when they’d bounced into her guestroom unannounced, it was impossible not to like them.

“Remind me of your names?” Neither had actually introduced themselves.

“I’m Amanda,” the lace-topped one declared. “She is Amelia.”

Olivia raised a brow, a pair of bloomers in hand. “You’re twins?”

“No,” Amelia declared with a roll of her eyes. “We are ten months apart. Alistair was a sickly little lad, you know, and our mother was desperate to have another son.”

The Duke had been sickly? That hulk of a man?

“Yes, but she got us instead!” Amanda bobbed her head cheerfully, looking a bit like the parrot—parakeet? Cockatiel? Pigeon?—her sister was petting.