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The older woman looked up and saw him, her expression pinching in anger. “Alistair! There you are! We have been waiting, young man! How dare you go gallivanting out dressed like some—some”—her gloved hands flapped about as spots appeared high on her cheeks—“some blacksmith!”

Really? That was the only working-class occupation she could come up with?

She’s a dowager duchess. How would she ken any other occupations?

Alistair gave a small bow and a mocking grin, which turned into a wince as he remembered his injury.

As he straightened, Olivia gasped and flew toward him. “Alistair, you’re hurt!” she hissed, reaching up to touch his chin. Without thinking, he noted her pristine gloves and intercepted her hand before she could bloody them.

But he squeezed her fingers and offered her a more sincere smile.

His wife’s warm brown gaze flickered between his eyes, as if searching for answers. “Are you well?” she whispered, ignoring his mother who was sputtering behind her. “I was worried. I didn’t know you’d left…”

No, she wouldn’t, would she?

Alistair knew he had to leave before she asked him why he was dressed like this.

Instead of answering, he lifted her hand to his lips—away from his chin—and kissed her fingertips. He lingered and saw her shiver, although her lips were still tugged downward.

“Alistair!” his mother fussed. “Go upstairs and change immediately! I will be calling for dinner in ten minutes, and if you are not present, I will be forever shamed. Forever! Do you want to shame your mother indefinitely?”

He couldn’t help it; he grinned, and saw Olivia’s shoulders relax in reply. She wasn’t smiling, but it was close enough.

Releasing her, Alistair offered both of them a brief nod, then turned on his heel and strode toward the servants’ stairs.

He had ten minutes, or risk his mother’s histrionics for the next month and a half. It would certainly feel like forever.

Chapter 12

Dinner was a complete disaster.

Olivia supposed she shouldn’t be surprised—it was obviously what Alistair had been dreading—but it was also impossible not to take it personally.

She’d spent what seemed like hours being poked and prodded and pulled by a virtual horde of servants. Since the day after her wedding, her mother-in-law had been drilling into her the necessity of a wardrobe “befitting her new station”. Olivia thought it ridiculous; her new station was only slightly different from her old station, after all.

One couldn’t set type in a ballgown. Not without effort.

Now that the Effinghell investment was known, The Daily Movement was saved. Her other remaining investor—the Earl of Bonkinbone—had even ordered his financial broker to increase his shares, which meant they might be able to return to a daily publication schedule! Daily!

All the Earl had asked in return was the ability to occasionally post coded messages in the classified section, which he’d explained as a sort of game he played with his brother to try to outfox the other. It had seemed silly to Olivia, but harmless.

But on the other hand, Alistair had only invested in the paper because their goals had aligned.

If the paper added more printing, they’d require more staff. She would almost certainly have to hire a new manager, because no matter how much she wanted to be completely involved, a duchess really couldn’t set type, she was coming to realize…

It was right around then that the seamstress had jabbed her with a pin in her left buttock. “Ow!”

“I am so sorry, Your Grace,” she’d murmured around a handful of pins.

Olivia had exchanged chagrined glances with Amelia, who was having her hair styled into some sort of ridiculously complex coronet atop her head.

This was the duchess life, was it?

Yes, it had taken all afternoon to prepare Olivia to the dowager’s standards, and Olivia had to admit that she did rather feel like a princess as she’d descended the stairs.

Granted, she was having trouble breathing, thanks to the too-tight corset. And frankly, her breasts were pushed so high under her chin, she suspected they’d catch all the crumbs which fell from her lips…

No, duchesses don’t drop crumbs.