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Without even knowing a damned thing about the bride.

Olivia.

Her name was Olivia, and she’d felt right in his arms, over his shoulder, even before he’d known her name.

It’s possible ye’re just desperate for a woman. Any woman.

No. No, he needed to marry, and she would suit him fine. She needed him, and he couldn’t afford a wife who didn’t.

This would allow him control of the marriage, the way he controlled the rest of his life.

And if she had a real reason to object to his terms, she would have stated them, surely? Instead, when he’d sent up the contract his solicitor had hurriedly thrown together yesterday, she’d returned it, signed. The money Alistair was offering was enough to make her willing to marry a cripple with no voice.

Even if he knew nothing else about her.

Her past.

Her dreams.

Her character.

No, that wasn’t true; he knew she was passionate about her newspaper, knew she must be intelligent, to have managed the business for so long. And he knew she liked to talk.

But none of that mattered, because once he was married to her, the pair of them would only need interact in his bed. Her bed. He’d come to her, do what needed to be done, then leave.

His lack of voice wouldn’t matter there. She could spend her days with his mother, or at her paper. It mattered not to him.

Liar, a small voice whispered, but Alistair ignored it. He was back to staring at the clock again. What the hell was wrong with it? Wrong with him?

When he heard the voices outside his door, he was almost relieved.

“Effinghell!” The door swung open with enough force to bounce off the wall behind it. “Marriage? Are ye unwell? Should I fetch the doctor posthaste?”

The man making such a dramatic entrance was one of the few men Alistair might consider a friend, and his teasing wasn’t appreciated. But it was commonly accepted that the Viscount of Thornebury would still be cracking jokes five minutes after he was declared legally dead.

Thorne was followed by the more somber Fawkes MacMillan—one of Alistair’s few friends from school—and Hiro.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” the butler intoned, sporting a new black eye—from his sparring session with Alistair—as he bowed. “This ruffian pushed his way into your home and insists on capers. Shall I fetch several burly footmen to have him removed?”

The blond man waved dismissively, Alistair’s letter between his fingers. “I was invited, ye cretin. And I dinnae have time for capers, nor shenanigans, nor tomfoolery.”

“A shame, sir,” Hiro deadpanned.

“I fully believe ye could drag him out kicking and screaming yerself, Hiro,” Fawkes added dryly as he lowered himself into one of the leather chairs. “Thorne, shut up.”

Winking at the butler to show there were no hard feelings, Thorne threw himself into the other chair. “Nice bruise, Hiro. Did ye lose again?”

“I was doing fine until His Grace got me on the floor, then stomped all over my face.”

“Oh dear.” Thorne was smirking. “And yer face was all ye had to make up for yer personality!”

“Shut up, Thorne,” Fawkes growled. “Thanks, Hiro, but we’re just here to talk some sense into Alistair.”

Hiro bowed again, ignoring Alistair completely. “I believe His Grace has made an excellent decision.”

“Aye, but ye’re no’ married. Piss off.”

Alistair found himself chuckling silently. There were times he desperately wished to be able to join in their banter, but it wasn’t worth the embarrassment of attempting to speak.