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Sometimes it seemed to Alistair that the man was so gregarious and likeable, it had to be a façade.

They’d met years ago, and Thorne had been the only member of Society who hadn’t taken Alistair’s abrupt dismissal to heart. Either the blond man hadn’t understood Alistair’s preference to stay hidden, or he hadn’t cared.

He’d insisted he was one of Alistair’s friends, whether Alistair wanted him or not… And that was why Alistair had turned to him when he needed a vicar.

“So, ye’re leaving, milord?” Fawkes might be a gentleman, but he held no title. “Ye’re no’ staying for the wedding?”

Aye, Thorne had said that, hadn’t he?

“Alas, I’m on my way to Scotland. Like…now. Ye didnae notice my demure traveling clothes?” Thorne pushed himself to his feet. “Ye dinnae think I walk around Town choosing to dress like this, do ye?”

“Visiting yer uncle, the Duke?”

That’s right; with all of Thorne’s dandy tendencies, Alistair sometimes forgot he was his uncle’s heir, and likely to become a duke one day.

“When Uncle Edward says jump, I can only send him so many telegrams debating the distance required before he becomes wroth and demands my presence.” Halfway across the room, Thorne was still blathering on. “I dinnae want the auld bastard to actually cock up his heels anytime soon.” He’d reached the door. “I’ll raise a glass with ye when I return, Effinghell!”

The hell he would.

And then he was gone.

Fawkes released a breath. “Christ, that man can be exhausting. A good man, but so damn energetic.”

Alistair agreed ruefully, and glanced at the drinks cart in the corner. It was barely noon, but suddenly he did feel in the need for a bit of a bolster.

His friend seemed to read his mind. “Two whiskies, coming up.”

When Fawkes handed him a glass, Alistair nodded his thanks and settled back in his chair. The other man propped his hip against the edge of the desk. “So…ye’re certain ye want to do this?” At Alistair’s nod, he sighed. “No’ that I ever doubted. And, kenning ye, having a wife willnae change yer routine at all, will it? Ye’ll still hunch here in the darkness like a sad little troll, determined to shut out the rest of the world.”

That was what Fawkes thought of his life? His life dedicated to making the world a better place? Alistair raised a brow and glanced pointedly at the newly installed electric lights.

Fawkes snorted. “Aright. Perhaps it’s no’ so dark, this cave of yers. Alistair, ye ken I’m the last one to offer ye advice about women…”

His friend’s past—the part Alistair knew, and didn’t know—made him wince.

Fawkes took a deep breath and continued. “But if ye’re going to be marrying the lass, I hope ye’ll treat her the way ye should treat a wife.”

When Alistair’s lips curled wryly, before he lifted his whisky, his friend rolled his eyes.

“No’ just fooking her, ye dobber. There’s more to treating—och, never mind. I’m just saying, she’ll deserve yer respect.”

She’d be the Duchess of Effinghell. She’d deserve everyone’s respect, and Alistair would ensure she’d have it, in exchange for giving him a son or two, and blocking him from Society’s scrutiny.

Stiffly, he nodded.

The door burst open again. “Your Grace! I must speak to you!”

It was as if his thoughts had conjured her.

Slowly, Alistair lowered the glass, his gaze hungry as he took in his bride.

Across the desk, Fawkes sucked in a breath. “Och, never mind, Alistair, I ken why ye chose her,” he murmured.

Alistair was stunned by the sight of her, more or less poured into that purple gown he recalled Amelia—or was it Amanda?—wearing last year. Someone must’ve adjusted it, because Olivia was taller than either sister, and her tits…

Dear God in Heaven, her tits.

She was one good sneeze away from breaking free.