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His name on her tongue was a powerful force, making him ache for something he couldn’t identify.

She’d called out his name last night.

The reminder sobered him.

“Well, I’ll…” She glanced at his desk. “I’ll leave you to your work. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

His brow rose in question, although he wasn’t exactly certain which question.

“I’m going to pop back over to the pressroom.” She huffed and rolled her eyes. “Your mother told me there was absolutely no way a duchess could be engaging in trade—her words, not mine, mind you—but since I was going to be doing it anyhow, I was to take two burly footmen.”

Yes, he could imagine Mother saying exactly that, including the emphasis. He felt his lips curling into the first smile of the day.

“She suggested Rocky, but after meeting him yesterday, I decided to leave him here for your sisters to admire. Do you know they deliberately drop things, just to watch him bend over and pick them up?”

He wasn’t entirely surprised. But right now, with the cheerful way she was beaming up at him, the laughing lilt to her voice, the playful sparkle in her caramel eyes, Alistair was willing to listen to her talk about another man’s arse forever.

Fooking hell, she’s perfect.

What was she talking about?

“So I’ll manage without him. Tomorrow is print day, and I need to ensure my editors have everything in line. I—uh…”

Her tongue darted across her lips and her gaze dropped to his chin. The awkwardness made his brow twitch.

“I hesitate to bring this up, but they will be expecting payment tomorrow…”

He nodded once, firmly.

Luckily she understood, her expression melting into relief. “Do I have funds of my own? Should I continue to pay them from the paper’s income? Or do you have men of business to handle this sort of thing?”

Alistair hesitated. If he were an investor, the bills could go through his financial broker. If he was a part owner, same. But since she was still the full owner—thanks to the new Married Women’s Property Act—she should pay her employees’ salaries…if she had enough.

She’s married to ye. She has enough.

So he tapped a finger to his chest. He would instruct his broker to handle it.

Her face broke into another grin, a grateful one that made him feel like a fooking hero. For the first time, Alistair wondered what she would do if she discovered his nighttime habits. A duke skulking about London’s East End, doing his best to make the world a better place…that was delicious gossip in itself.

But when said duke was actually the Duke of Effinghell, one of Britain’s richest and most secretive dukes?

The papers would have a field day, hers included.

“I’ll get you the names and addresses of my editors, if that would be helpful?”

He nodded, and she grinned again.

Then, in what seemed like an almost impulsive action, Olivia stepped forward, lifted herself on her toes, and kissed him on the jaw—likely because it was the only skin she could reach, and because he’d frozen in shock.

“Thank you, Alistair. I certainly am glad I agreed to become your bride.” The last was said almost bashfully, her palms on his chest.

Heat climbed his neck and up his cheeks, shame and anger at himself. She was glad she’d married him? She was trying to do nice things for him? But he’d failed her.

Still smiling, Olivia stepped back once more. “I hope you have a productive day, husband. I’ll tell you all about my day this evening at dinner?” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I’m looking forward to spending time with you this evening, and…and after.”

His eyes widened as he realized what she meant. If the eager sparkle in her eyes hadn’t indicated her intent, her blush would have.

She expected him in her bed.