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Now she allowed herself to touch, to feel. With shaking fingers, Olivia lifted one of the small notebooks—the leather cover still smelled new—and turned it over. This one had no words in it, but others did. She could tell by the furling pages of some, and the pristine lines of this one.

Olivia remembered how proud she’d been to think of giving him a notebook. How it had made her feel good, to think of that all on her own.

And he’d taken it without—well, without a word. While all along he’d had dozens—perhaps hundreds!—of the things.

Of course he had notebooks to communicate with, you idiot. He’s been mute for years. You thought you were so special for coming up with a solution? He’s been humoring you all along!

She straightened, unable to stop the soft sob from escaping her lips, turning to hurry from the room. As she pulled the door shut, the tears came, and she pressed her forehead to the wood and tried to keep them silent so she wouldn’t wake Alistair.

She didn’t want him to know she’d been in his room.

Didn’t want him to realize she’d seen him.

Didn’t want to give him more reason to sneer at her.

* * *

“Have you seen Alistair?” Olivia asked hesitantly as she joined her sisters-in-law in the dining room that evening. It was a much less formal affair—more similar to dinners she’d become used to since joining the household, thank the Lord.

And of course, her husband wasn’t there.

Amelia shrugged as she speared a carrot. “Not since he left this morning.”

The bottom dropped out of Olivia’s stomach and she dropped into the chair Rocky had held out for her. “He’s gone?” she blurted, imagining all sorts of horrible reasons. “Oh, thank you,” she murmured belatedly to the footman.

“No problem, Your Majesty. You want some chicken?”

As he served her, Olivia stared blankly at the window across the way. Alistair was gone? This was two days in a row he’d left the house…so much for being a recluse. Where had he gone?

To masquerade as a workman again? Or to fetch a divorce decree from the vicar?

“Oh dear, Rocky, I have dropped a carrot,” called Amanda in a sing-song voice. “Could you fetch it?”

“Sure!” The handsome idiot grinned. “Where is it, Lady Whichever?”

As Amanda tapped her chin—as if trying to remember where she’d dropped her root vegetable—her sister used the tip of her finger to pull back the tines of her fork, then launch a carrot across the room.

The orange vegetable spear bounced off the purple velvet curtains and skittered across the dining room floor.

“Oh!” Amanda brightened, then pointed. “It is over there.”

As he dutifully trotted around the table, Olivia leaned to one side. “Lady Whichever?” she murmured from the corner of her lips.

“He cannot keep us straight, poor dear,” Amanda whispered back. “We do look alike.”

“And have matching names.”

It was the last they said about it, as all three young women pushed themselves out of their seats just slightly to get a better view of Rocky bending over.

He really did have an beautiful arse. The kind a sculptor might capture in stone.

You like Alistair’s better.

Did she? She’d never seen it.

You like everything about Alistair.

Which is how it should be; she was married to the man, wasn’t she?