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She’d be herself.

“Tea sandwiches sound lovely.” She smiled at her new sisters, who were really quite brilliant. “And perhaps some Emmental or Gruyere?”

Chapter 9

With a sigh, Alistair flipped back a page in the book he held open on his lap after realizing he’d read the words, but hadn’t understood them.

It was late. He’d dined alone, despite his mother’s nagging for him to join the family, then answered letters for a few hours. Now he’d retired to his chamber, but only made it as far as removing his jacket, shoes, and waistcoat before settling into one of the comfortable chairs beside the hearth with a book.

Which he couldn’t seem to concentrate on.

He so rarely had time to read for pleasure, and when he did, his secret pleasure was the florid romantic novels his sisters read. They thought he was such a kind brother for stocking a section of the library with them, but…

But it wasn’t purely kindness. They’d been important to him as well.

Mainly as instruction manuals.

Alistair had long ago accepted he wouldn’t be able to convince a woman to be intimate with him, so these books—along with a few more graphic books like his copy of A Harlot’s Guide—had taught a much younger Alistair what was expected of him.

And then, when ye finally had the chance to prove ye were a good student, ye failed yer first test.

He frowned and pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing he’d read the same words again and still hadn’t been paying attention.

How many times was he going to berate himself for this?

As often as it takes.

Fooking hell, he should just go to sleep. He hadn’t returned home until the wee hours of the morning—the glare Hiro had given him when his butler-turned-friend had met him at the kitchen door had been enough to remind Alistair of the time—and had a meeting well before noon.

He was tired, aye, but still restless.

And the book wasn’t helping.

With another sigh, he reached for the bookmark he’d been using and slipped it into the novel. With the book still on his lap, he reached for the small glass of port his valet had left him.

He’d just finished taking a healthy sip when the door opened.

Not the door to the corridor—his valet had long ago retired—but the connecting door to the duchess’s chambers.

Olivia’s chambers.

Alistair paused, glass suspended in front of his lips and the strong liqueur burning his tongue.

When she stepped into his room, he hastily swallowed, pleased he didn’t choke.

He wanted to choke.

She looked…

Damnation. She looked delectable.

Olivia was wrapped head-to-toe in some sort of silken dressing gown. She held the neckline closed and her dark hair cascaded down her back.

He swallowed again and slowly returned the glass to the table beside him, not paying attention to what he was doing. He couldn’t take his eyes from her.

“May I come in?” she asked softly.

But not shyly. Never shyly.