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Hamish hopped inside. Backward.

The bird was staring up at something—someone—as it squawked, and Alistair found himself holding his breath, waiting to see who it was, torn between wanting to hide and wanting—

“Fooking duchess!”

He heard a feminine giggle moments before Olivia stepped into the room after the parrot. “You naughty cockatoo! You shouldn’t say—” Her scolding broke off with a gasp as she looked up and saw Alistair. “Never mind, Hamish, love. I asked you where Alistair was, and you led me right to him! You’re brilliant!”

“Fooking brilliant!” the bird agreed.

But Alistair wasn’t paying attention to his father’s parrot—the feathered prat had hopped its way up onto the chaise and from there to one of the small tables, where he settled his beak beneath his wing and gave every impression of going to sleep. Nay, he couldn’t seem to pull his attention away from her.

Olivia.

His bride.

She was beautiful this morning, of course. But what had caused his breath to catch was the way her expression had lit up—lit up like an electric light, like a bonfire, like the sunshine on a March day—when she’d seen him.

Is she no’ supposed to be angry with ye?

That’s what he’d thought.

Had he misjudged her?

Or was she so enamored with being a duchess, she was willing to overlook his failure?

She’d clasped her hands in front of her and rocked back on her heels, her cheeks pinking slightly. But she didn’t drop his gaze.

This bride of his…she wasn’t shy. She wasn’t meek. She might be blushing, but she met his eyes brazenly.

And somehow, despite the shame of last night, that bold gaze made his cock harden and his chest tight.

Damnit.

“Good morning, Alistair,” she began, then took a deep breath. “Husband.”

Warily, he nodded, not certain what to expect.

She took a step toward his desk. Then another.

Belatedly, he realized he should have risen when she’d stepped into the room, and he did that now, painfully aware of the fact his cock was stirring in his trousers.

And when he stood, Olivia smiled. Not a shy smile, not a coy one, just…

Damnation, she looked happy to see him.

He wished he could greet her in return. Instead, he inclined his head slightly. Good morning.

It was the right response, apparently, judging from the fact she all but skipped over to him. His eyes widened, and as she reached him, he tried to back away, forgetting the chair behind him. But she kept coming, and when she rounded the desk, he flexed his knees, ready for the attack.

She threw herself into his arms.

And Alistair, with no other choice, caught her.

“Good morning,” she repeated, beaming up at him. “I hope it’s all right to kiss you this morning?”

His hands were on her hips, her arms were around his neck. The feel of her curves pressed against him was doing wonders for his cockstand, yet still furthering his embarrassment.

Alistair stared down at her, warring to keep his expression neutral. Having her in his arms felt so good, so right…but he shouldn’t like it. No, she shouldn’t like it, not after last night…