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Mother was mortified, but Alistair was too angry to care.

After Olivia’s heart-breakingly brave exit, Alistair remained standing. His gaze followed her out—as did everyone else’s—but he was the one to swing back and glare at the rest of them.

The gossip-mongers, the mockers, the ones who delighted in finding—and sometimes creating—weaknesses in others.

He had no doubt this story—the story of how unworthy the Duchess of Effinghell was—would soon be all over Town.

Even faster than if she’d published it in her paper.

“How unfortunate,” sneered the Viscountess into the silence, her lips pulled off her teeth in a way which very much resembled a horse, a semblance which was furthered by her long face and the way she shook her mane—her head.

Mother tried her best, she really did. “It was an accident,” she quavered, even as Amelia offered—her own voice thick with sorrow— “It was my fault, asking to see the egg.”

Who the fook put an egg in a dinner centerpiece?

Alistair glared at his family.

He never ate with them. He refused to sit at the head of the table, listening to the conversation swirling around him, being reminded of his refusal—his inability—to participate. But here and now? In front of these people?

He wasn’t certain if he’d prefer to snarl or stomp out, Mother’s nerves be damned.

Behind Olivia’s abandoned chair, Rocky and another footman had begun to clean up the mess. Alistair couldn’t fault the dunce; it had no more been his fault than it had been Olivia’s. A simple accident, one which could have happened to anyone…which had come at the worst time.

Hiro slipped in from the front hall and began to quietly murmur instructions to the two men, sending the occasional gesture to the remaining footman who was nervously watching Alistair, as if wondering what the Duke would do.

Something the Duke was also wondering.

“Well, Effinghell, it seems you’ve chosen a very different young lady for your wife.” The Viscount sat back in his chair and locked his hands over his stomach. His tone was jovial but his eyes were sharp. “And to think, the Viscountess and I had once hoped you’d offer for our Millicent.”

His wife sniffed quietly, and Alistair couldn’t help but notice the disgust in the woman’s eyes before she looked away.

Apparently, any hope of welcoming the Duke of Effinghell into the family had been only on Eatfude’s part.

What had he called Olivia? Different? Alistair doubted that was supposed to be a compliment, even if he considered it the highest honor.

His hands balled into fists and he leaned his knuckles against the table. He knew he was looming, he just didn’t give a fook.

Let them be scared.

Perhaps there was something in his expression, because Eatfude immediately sat straighter. “No offense intended, Your Grace. I imagine you’re in love with her?”

“Of course he’s in love with her,” the man’s cousin—Lady Tuckinroll—announced shrilly from the other end of the table. “Why else would he marry his business associate?”

The way she sneered it, and the way the Reverend Whatshisface smirked, told Alistair what they thought of that.

Christ Almighty, he wished he could talk. He wished he could yell. He wished he could knock their smirks from their faces, bloodying all of their noses and teaching them respect.

If ye punch a viscountess, ye’d never be able to salvage yer reputation. I hope ye ken that.

Aye, he did, which is why he hadn’t hit the bitch yet.

“Of course,” murmured the Earl of Tuckinroll, who was calmly twirling his wineglass beside Mother, “I suppose it was to be expected.” When he knew he had everyone’s attention, he grinned evilly. “The Duke of Effinghell is known to be quite eccentric. He hasn’t spoken a single word to us—his guests!—all evening. Why, Your Grace?” His blink almost seemed innocent. “Are we not worthy of your conversation? Is it because you think you’re better than us? Or are you dumb?”

The blood in Alistair’s limbs turned to ice.

Anger, fear, humiliation—they all collided in one horrible knot in his chest as he stared at the smug bastard.