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Mind made up, Olivia tiptoed toward the door to his chamber.

It made no sound as it swung open, and she was surprised to discover Alistair was still abed.

Well, what did you expect? Him to be hard at work, at this hour? He’s a duke!

There was a small fire in the hearth, despite the summer month, making the room cozy. The figure on the bed had kicked off most of his blankets.

Curious now, she edged nearer.

Alistair was stretched out on his back, one arm tucked beneath the pillow and the other flung wide. He looked utterly at ease, his expression soft, loose.

And naked.

The sheet was tucked around one thigh and across the opposite knee, but everything from there up was bared to the world—to her gaze. And oh yes, Olivia was looking.

By the light of the embers from the fire, her gaze greedily devoured him after being so long denied the opportunity. His—his cock was nestled in a thatch of dark hair, resting limp against his thigh.

She’d felt that inside her. And the night before last, she’d watched him stroke himself as white strings of thick liquid had burst from that member. It had seemed mightier then, half-hidden by his hand.

Now it looked soft.

Pettable.

Do not pet the cock.

Why not? She was married to Alistair, was she not? The memory of their wedding night and how he’d put that cock to use, made her cheeks warm, had her pressing her thighs together.

She was married to him…but for how long? After the disaster of last night, would Alistair cast her aside? No, not Alistair, but the Duke of Effinghell.

One of those men she liked very much. The other…he had an image to maintain.

He’d married far beneath his status, taking advantage of her desperation to save himself the bother of going into Society.

How easy would it be for him to divorce her, after she humiliated him?

Perhaps she’d never again get the chance to touch him there.

Her fingers itched but she resisted the urge, dragging her gaze back toward his face. And she had to stifle her gasp, seeing what she missed during her first cursory inspection.

His chest…

His upper chest was a mass of scar tissue. Old scars crisscrossed his collarbones, up to the base of his throat, surrounding one large one which reached from one shoulder down to his breastbone. Judging from the lack of delineation, these scars were from years ago and had grown with him.

Was this why Alistair didn’t speak?

Olivia had to curl her fingers into fists to keep from reaching for him, to prevent her from touching those scars. Now she understood why Alistair insisted on wearing a necktie at all hours, keeping himself buttoned up tight. Now she understood why he had come to her still clothed on their wedding night.

You’re not supposed to see him like this. He doesn’t want you here.

The realization brought back the tears, and instead of touching him, Olivia pressed her fingertips to her lips and backed away.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

But she wouldn’t be Olivia if she could make a silent escape, and sure enough, she backed into a table. It was a small table, and she was able to whirl about and grab it before it tipped over, or anything fell, or it made a noise.

But it meant she was face-to-face with the contents of the table.

There, laid out haphazardly—although perhaps it hadn’t been haphazard before her buttock-knocking—were a dozen notebooks. Small notebooks, almost identical in size to the one she’d given him after their wedding night, though much better quality.