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How was Olivia supposed to know? She reached behind the Countess to hand it to Amelia for inspection, only to be reminded—by the large woman’s affronted sputter—how rude that was.

Ah.

“Do excuse me,” she murmured, as she jerked her hand back.

Unfortunately the egg went with her.

The back of Olivia’s hand bumped into her own wine glass and she dropped the egg—which she swiftly discovered was raw, although her ornithological studies had failed to tell her what kind of raw egg—which broke across the fine tablecloth smearing it with delightful color. As did the wine.

In her distress, Olivia pushed herself to her feet, desperate to keep the wine from ruining her dress…

…and knocked into a body, which was inconveniently positioned right behind her.

Not just any body, but Rocky the Tremendous Footman, who had proudly been carrying in the next course—a sort of jellied salad—which he now promptly dropped on her head.

Olivia knew she didn’t screech, but instead made a pitiful whimper as a jellied shrimp slid down her decolletage and wine dribbled onto her brand new slippers.

Wait, is “shrimp” singular or plural? Oh, now it doesn’t matter because a second one has joined his friend. Wonderful.

She squirmed unhappily and used both sets of fingers to push her be-celeried hair from her eyes.

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” rumbled Rocky in the shocked silence. “It was an accident.”

Yes, it was.

The whole dinner was an accident.

An unfortunate, awkward, shrimp-and-olive-flavored accident.

And there was egg all over her arm.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Olivia swept her gaze around the table. Every single person in the room—including Alistair—was staring at her, wearing expressions ranging between shock and glee and somewhere in between. Gleeful shock? Shocked glee? Shglee?

No, no—Gleesh!

Oh dear, she was getting giddy. Perhaps she should attempt to breathe?

“I think…” She began slowly, her voice much softer than usual. “P-Please excuse me. I believe I should…” When she shook her head, a glob of olive-and-pistachio gelatin hit the tablecloth beside her half-finished dinner.

She felt the tears building behind her lids, but couldn’t let them fall.

Tonight, she’d shamed the Effinghell name enough. If Alistair announced his intentions to divorce her tomorrow—surely there were grounds for Clumsy, Ill-suited Wife, although likely in Latin—she wouldn’t be surprised.

“Excuse me,” she managed to choke out once more before stepping away from the table.

Her mother-in-law looked ready to faint. Amelia and Amanda wore identical—of course—pitying looks. The Earl and Countess of Tuckinroll looked prepared to excuse themselves as well, just so they could begin to spread such a delightfully horrible story to the rest of the Society that Alistair worried so much about.

And Alistair? He stood from the table as she made it clear she was leaving—the only gentleman to do so—with another blank expression.

This sham of a marriage had lasted only a few days, but in that time she’d grown able to read his expressions. Tonight they were so bland, he might as well have been hollering his intent to not communicate with her.

It hurt more than the rest of them combined.

Ignoring him in turn, she marched stiffly from the room, everything about the night—from the delicious food to her pretty new gown she was so proud of—ruined.

Olivia wasn’t a duchess, and never could be a duchess.

Tonight had proved that.