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Alistair was still fully dressed.

Nay, not fully. He wore no jacket, nor waistcoat or necktie or shoes…his braces still held up his trousers and his shirt was buttoned up to his chin. But that was all.

He posed there in his stocking feet in the doorway—was he doing it on purpose?—before he moved toward the light switch. Electricity, in a house!

When the duke pressed it, the room was suddenly lit only by the lamp on the table beside her bed…the one which stood sentinel over her uneaten Roquefort.

Funny, she wasn’t even thinking of it right now.

As he stalked slowly across the room, Olivia found herself straightening, breathless. By the time he reached the bed she was standing beside it, her bare toes cushioned by the plush rug beneath her bed.

He was here.

He was here for her.

“Hello,” she blurted.

Alistair stopped and stared down at her as she winced. Way to start off sounding like a nincompoop.

This was her wedding night, and despite the unconventional beginning, despite the fact she knew nothing about her husband, she wanted it to be perfect.

With that in mind, Olivia reached for his hand and took it in both of hers. His expression hadn’t changed—if pressed to describe it, she’d have to say cautiously reserved—but surprise flickered in his gray eyes.

Yes. That’s right; she wanted this…

What was she supposed to call him? Surely, now that they were married, he didn’t expect her to call him Your Grace, even in bed?

What if he did?

Her heart began to thump harder. She really knew nothing about this man, other than what everyone knew; he didn’t go out in public, he wielded an acerbic pen that championed the poor, and he ruled his household with stern control.

Would he expect to rule her as well?

Had she made a terrible mistake?

“What do I call you?” Olivia blurted out.

Slowly, his left eyebrow raised in what she was coming to know was a request for elaboration. So she twined her fingers through his—more to assure herself he couldn’t run off than anything—and took a deep breath.

“I mean… Everyone calls you Your Grace. But I’m—I’m your wife now. Right?” The last part was said in an embarrassingly meek tone.

But when he grinned, an arrogant sort of prideful grin, it made the silly butterflies in her stomach even more excited.

“I don’t want to call you Your Grace. Not in bed.”

This time both brows went up, and she flushed in embarrassment.

“I mean…if we’re going to bed. That’s why you’re here, right? Because you want—you want to sleep with me? Not sleep.” What had The Book called it? Fooking. “You want an heir. That means—we have to…”

Olivia swallowed.

Slowly, holding her gaze, his grin turned downright wicked, her new husband nodded.

“Oh,” she breathed.

Well…

She lifted Alistair’s hand until it was clutched between them, but then she was at a loss for what to do next. “Um…and if we’re going to be-be making love, I want to know what name I should call out.”