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Thorne had been present—why? Alistair never knew why Thorne did anything, honestly—and had explained a bit. Apparently Griffin Calderbank’s children had set up an elaborate scheme in which he needed to pretend to be married to his own next-door neighbor in order to wrangle an invitation to Peasgoode. Or something.

But Calderbank was now the new Duke, and happily married. Alistair had watched the way the man’s expression had lit with joy after seeing his wife and had marveled at the happiness the children had brought to the room.

Alistair hadn’t expected that.

Children bringing happiness?

Aye, Mother hovered over his life, that was for certain. Did he—did his sisters—bring her happiness? Had Father felt that way too?

Will ye?

If Alistair was to become a father, would that same joy come into his life?

Calderbank’s joy was caused by his new wife. He was in love.

Alistair swallowed, and turned away from his reflection in the train window.

Love.

The concept was…foreign. Frightening.

A person in love… They no longer controlled themselves, not really. Someone else did, and that was scary as hell.

The idea of giving up control…he frowned and reached for the book he’d been reading before he’d been called away to Scotland. The book she’d already read. The book he’d been reading the night Olivia had come to him and shown him what she liked.

He’d thought of that often in the last week, usually when stroking himself to completion. He needed to taste her again, and soon.

Would she want that as well?

His return home was met with all the proper pomp and circumstance. Mother met him in the foyer, as did Amelia and Amanda. The latter must have noticed him glancing around, because the minx smirked.

“She is at her newspaper office, brother.”

Mother sniffed. “She does not belong there. She is a duchess.”

She was a duchess who was trying to make the world a little better. Just as he was a duke trying to do the same thing.

The unbidden realization had his eyes widening.

Running a newspaper might not be something a typical duchess did, but Olivia did it. And if Olivia did it—as the Duchess of Effinghell—then it was something a duchess did.

Abruptly, Alistair turned on his heel, pulled his hat from Hiro’s hands, and marched back out to the carriage.

Luckily, his driver knew the way to Olivia’s newspaper office and they made good time. The area of town wasn’t the best, but not as bad as the East End where he’d met her for the first time. Not that she knew that.

The idea of Olivia living and working here made him clench his jaw as he climbed the brick steps. The rest of the publishing houses were located near Fleet Street, whereas this one was in a worse part of town. She was likely safe here, but she deserved better.

Not because she was a duchess, or because she was his wife…but because of who she was.

And because she was his wife, he could afford to act on these sorts of impulses.

Speaking of impulses…

“Alistair!” Olivia shrieked his name when she turned from one of the large presses—the hulking things looked like some sort of temple to an old god, filling most of the warehouse floor—and saw him. “You’re home!”

Home.

And then she was flying to him. Her arms were around his neck, her lips were on his. He wrapped his arms around her waist and returned the kiss gladly.