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So why did he so desperately long for it now?

Olivia.

Tonight, she’d been hurt because of him. If he hadn’t run off this afternoon, perhaps he could’ve warned her what to expect. What these so-called friends of his mother were capable of.

But he’d abandoned her.

That had been the plan all along; marry her, get her with child, and leave her to accompany his mother and sisters. Let her face the world.

Now…

Ye fooking hate the idea, admit it.

Oh, aye, he could admit it.

But after tonight… He couldn’t expect her to forgive him, not ever.

Chapter 13

Olivia awoke, sore and puffy.

No, wait, her eyes were sore and puffy. The rest of her was just sore.

Last night she’d thrown on a white linen chemise as a maid—her maid!—had pulled the sticky, ruined gown from her body. In that moment, all Olivia had wanted was her favorite wool nightgown, the one with the frayed wrists and mismatched buttons. She wanted to slip into the comforting, snug embrace and crawl under the blankets with a favorite novel.

But the patched wool nightgown hadn’t been fit for a duchess, so had been given to the charity box, along with so many other reminders of her old life.

Now she was apparently the sort of person who wore expensive, practically see-through gowns to bed, and had maids to take care of her.

Who was she?

Feeling tears pricking once more at the backs of her eyes, Olivia huffed and rolled over onto her back, groaning at the pull of sore muscles.

Perhaps it hadn’t been a wonderful idea to sleep all curled up like that.

It was still dark in her chamber, with no light coming from behind the curtains, but she didn’t feel like going back to sleep. What she wanted was a hot bath and a snack, because after last night’s aborted dinner—during which she ate little—she was starved.

As she struggled out of the mound of pillows, her eyes snagged on the plate at her bedside table. It contained some hard bread, a round of brie, a wedge of cheddar, some berries which looked a bit worse for the wear, and a small vase with a single rose.

She stared at it for a while.

Perhaps there were benefits to being a duchess, after all.

Hot baths and midnight cheese delivery.

But the rose?

Who had been thoughtful enough to include that little bit of beauty? Had it been done to lift her spirits? Did everyone in the household know her shame?

Of course they did. Someone had to clean up the horrible mess you made. Your antics likely sent the dowager into a conniption. Perhaps Amelia or Amanda sent the rose?

Olivia’s fingers were shaking as she reached out to brush the softness of the petals. Had anyone ever sent her flowers? Perhaps, when he’d been alive, Papa had given her a flower here or there, but never a rose. After his death, after Olivia had struggled alone to keep the newspaper going, giving up so much of herself…

No. No one had ever sent her a rose before.

Sighing, she swung her legs off the bed, wincing at her pitifulness. She padded barefoot to the window, peeked outside, and confirmed it was still at least an hour before dawn. Perhaps duchesses weren’t supposed to know that sort of thing, but she’d spent many nights at the press, and recognized the way London’s eastern sky was lightening.

Was it too early for a hot bath? If so, she could always find a book—perhaps the one Alistair had been reading, which really was one of her favorites—and curl up with her cheese plate.