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Alistair pulled her hand—the one he held—to his chest, and flattened it, wondering if she could feel the way his heart pounded. Was she having second thoughts?

Why did the possibility scare him so much?

Her eyes had widened. They really were the most beautiful shade of caramel, and he suspected he could stare at them forever.

“I…” She swallowed. “My terms, Your Grace.”

He raised a brow. She was…a nobody. She’d admitted it. And now she had marriage terms for him?

Her chin raised, in that bold way of hers. He liked how she could become flustered, but didn’t back down from a challenge.

Her ill-advised sortie into the East End had proven that.

“I want your word that, after our marriage, I can continue to publish The Daily Movement. We no longer publish daily, of course, but it’s still quite a lot of work to oversee. It’s mine, and I understand I’ll have new duties and responsibilities—your mother has just spent a bazillion hours enumerating them—but I refuse to give up what I’ve worked so hard to keep alive.”

Even as his lips twitched at her hyperbole, he shrugged. Her demand seemed reasonable, and he wouldn’t want to give up his work, either.

“I want to keep writing, as well. I’ll keep using my maiden name, so there’s no shame brought on you, but please understand—”

Alistair lifted her palm to his lips, and her words trailed off in an adorable little “florp?”

How could he not grin, even as he kissed her palm?

Aye, she could keep her newspaper, and keep writing, and keep her dream. He had no intention of changing his life once he was married, so why should he expect that of her?

With narrowed eyes, Olivia studied his expression. “Is that a yes? You don’t mind if I keep publishing, or writing?”

Slowly, he shook his head, then kissed her palm again.

“This…marriage,” she whispered. “It’s merely a-a thing of convenience, yes? We both get what we want, without having to give up our life?”

Her life would change significantly more than his, he suspected, but he wouldn’t force her to do anything. So he nodded once more.

Then, without warning, she surged up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down. He almost stumbled as she caught his lips with hers.

It was… Completely audacious.

It was untrained, awkward, and hotter than he could’ve guessed.

It was a hell of a kiss.

With a silent growl, Alistair wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her closer as he cupped her cheek. Her tits pressed against the immaculate wool of his jacket, and his fingers itched to free them, to see those magnificent nipples pebble in the cold as his tongue teased her.

Nay, ye’re going to fook her in the dark, remember?

Well, for now he could feel her, and that was worth it. God Almighty, she was splendid. Taller than any of the other women he’d kissed—he’d rarely gone further than kissing, refusing to open himself to more mockery by baring his scars—with enough curves he wouldn’t feel as if he could break her. Although it was obvious she was a novice when it came to kissing, she responded to his tutelage with enthusiasm.

Her arms tightened around his neck when he nipped at her bottom lip, remembering her nervous habit and how much he’d wanted to taste her.

Her tongue met his, hesitant at first, then excited enough to make him smile against her mouth. When he moved his kiss to her jaw, she whimpered and dropped her head back, as if offering herself to him.

And when her hips began to rock forward against him?

Jesu Christo! His cock throbbed against the front of his trousers, pressed against her belly. Desperate to be ensconced in her welcoming warmth.

Until this moment, he hadn’t been certain if this marriage would be a hardship for her. The fear he’d seen in her eyes yesterday—he’d thought it had been because of him. But no woman could be afraid of him and still react this way to his touch.

Would she?