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“Oh Gertrude, leave the new duchess alone,” he sighed as he cut his fish, not looking their way. “You always were nosy, even as a girl.”

Beside Olivia, Countess Gertrude huffed, “Willy, just because we are cousins—”

“It’s Viscount Eatfude, Gertrude,” corrected the long-faced woman across from him.

Olivia remembered she was the Viscount’s wife, but could recall nothing else except the woman had dominated the initial conversation with a report of her dog’s leg injury.

Amelia, at least, had seemed interested.

“Now, now.” The clergyman seated near Alistair attempted to calm the irritation. “We should be congratulating the Duke on his marriage, not bickering.” He turned and offered Alistair a smile. “Congratulations, Your Grace. However your marriage came about, I wish you many blessings.”

Alistair stared at the man, his bland expression not just bordering on rudeness, but striding gleefully into rudeness.

Olivia wondered if she was the only one holding her breath.

Finally—finally—Alistair inclined his head slightly, just the faintest little acknowledgement of the man’s words…and proof he wasn’t deaf.

Olivia exhaled.

And the clergyman, not seeming to understand his peril, blundered on. “However, I see marriage has been a bit fraught, eh?” He tapped his own chin. “Unless you cut yourself shaving, Your Grace?”

Alistair’s fingertips had went to his chin in what seemed an unconscious movement, but now he scowled at the man.

“Shaving, yes!” blurted his mother. “Shall we call for the next course?” She sounded desperate to pretend everything was normal. “I’ll do it, son, no need to trouble yourself.”

As if he could.

But Viscount Eatfude waved her away words. “Nonsense! We are taking our time, enjoying the wonderful fare.”

His wife snorted through a nose which rather resembled the prow of a ship. “Some of us are, at least. The rest of us are delighted to finally be in the presence of the Duke of Effinghell. Quite the coup, you know, since you are never seen in public.”

Someone saw him in public today. But the way he’d been dressed, Olivia doubted they knew who he was…

Alistair’s carefully blank expression turned to the viscount’s wife…and he stared.

Merely stared. The moment stretched.

The dowager, clearly desperate to distract her guests—and perhaps finally realizing what a bad idea this dinner had been—was nearly distraught. “My son prefers to spend his time focusing on estate business here at home, working from his study. He is—is very dedicated to his responsibilities. Alistair is always—always working!”

“And championing the poor,” chuckled the clergyman. “We’ve all read his words in that dreadfully emotional newspaper—the ridiculous one, what’s it called? The Daily Constitutional?”

“Daily Movement,” chuckled the Earl. “Preposterous bit of reformist journalism, if that’s what it can be called. Imagine being so naive as to believe the Crown should take care of the poor! The poor! If the poor don’t want to be poor, they should work harder!”

Olivia wasn’t the only one staring in horror, but she was the one flushing at the insults to her paper.

Amanda, thank goodness, found a distraction. “What stunning centerpieces, Mother,” she said loudly, trying to drown out whatever hate Tuckinroll was spouting. “Did you design them?”

Before the dowager could answer, Amelia chimed in with a shake of her head. “I do not care for them. The feathers are clearly meant to complement the flowers, but I dislike anything which causes pain to an animal.”

Beside Olivia, the Countess sniffed. “Birds are not animals. And they do not feel pain when their feathers are plucked.”

Amelia’s eyes widened, but Oliva admired the way she managed to keep her tone calm when she announced, “They most certainly do, my lady. Some species of birds are at risk of going extinct—or have already—because we ladies insist on having large feathers for our bonnets!”

“Preposterous,” sniffed the countess. “Extinct! For a few hats?”

Olivia, not really thinking, just trying to distract from Amelia’s anger and her rage and the dowager’s shame and Alistair’s embarrassment, reached for the arrangement which stood in front of her. “Is this an egg?” she asked as she scooped up what was, yes, quite obviously, an egg.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Amelia. “Hopefully a chicken egg?”