Page 69

Reacting to the panic in his eyes, Olivia sat forward. “Tomorrow’s dinner. Here. Your mother—”

His hastily scribbled, “WHO?” interrupted her, and she frowned briefly at the notebook before lifting her eyes to his.

Who?

“Your mother?” She could see that wasn’t what he was asking. “She planned it yesterday, when I asked her why you hadn’t joined us for dinner. She said she invited a few friends…”

I do not join my family for dinner because it is impossible to carry on a conversation with a notebook!

He punctuated his words with enough anger that the pencil lead snapped.

“We’re having a conversation with a notebook,” Olivia pointed out, a little hurt, as he pulled a small knife from his pocket.

While he sharpened the pencil, Alistair’s breathing slowed, his gaze looking nowhere but the slicing blade. Finally, with a calmness she suspected might be a façade, he placed the pencil to the notebook once more.

You are my wife. Of course we should be able to converse while dining. Who did my mother invite? And am I obliged

“To be there?” she finished for him in a wry tone. “I imagine so, yes. She said it would be but a small gathering. A few of her friends and their husbands.”

She saw the distaste flicker across Alistair’s expression, moments before he wrote, “And will I get anyone on MY side?”

Chuckling, Olivia cut another slice of apple. “Why are you complaining, Alistair? You’re a duke. I’m a newspaper editor who suddenly has to remember how to chew with my mouth closed and limit my conversation to respectable subjects, like the weather and the state of public housing these days.”

Though perhaps the latter wasn’t entirely appropriate for a lady. A Lady. Oh, goodness.

Alistair’s lips curled up on one side, even as he shook his head. “Trust me,” he wrote, “these people will not care to hear about anyone less fortunate than themselves.”

The words were scratched with graphite on paper; they shouldn’t have a tone.

But they did.

Olivia could hear—well, obviously not hear; maybe see?—their bitterness.

“You…you are a strong advocate for those less fortunate.” When the Duke’s gaze jerked up to meet hers questioningly, she shrugged ruefully. “I’ve read plenty of your impassioned letters on the subject. I’ve even published a few, remember?”

To her surprise, Alistair squirmed in his seat, and for the first time picked up his own beer. He’d said he was hungry, but he hadn’t eaten…until now, when he was clearly uncomfortable about something.

So she hurried to set him at ease. “I think it’s remarkable, I really do. Your call for better housing conditions for the poor was powerfully emotional. Your descriptions of the slums and the way thousands of families live in one room—” She bit off her words with a shake of her head as her throat grew tight. “You painted a horrible, gut-wrenching picture, one which sounded like you’d actually been there, seen those conditions!”

He sputtered into his beer.

Oh, what was she saying?

Of course Alistair hadn’t seen the horrible slums in person. He was a duke! Dukes didn’t trot about through the slums!

Not only that, he was the Duke of Effinghell; he was reclusive and protective of his privacy. Oh, Olivia understood; a man as powerful as he would be mocked by those lesser, once it became known he couldn’t speak.

No, he rarely ventured out of this house, much less into the East End of London. He hadn’t seen a slum in person. The very idea!

But he was in a position of power, and could actually change the world.

And she admired that about him. Always had, even before she’d stepped into his study and seen the man behind the pen.

So now she offered him a soft smile. She was the one, this time, to reach across the table and touch her fingertips to the back of his hand. “You’re doing good work for the people of London, Alistair. Would you tell me about it?”

He slowly lowered his tankard, his expression…wary.

And her heart melted, just a smidge.