Page 50 of The Duke's Daring Bride

From that angle, she could likely see the scarring at the base of his throat.

Self-consciously, Alistair ducked his chin, which just meant he could see her better. She seemed to take this as some sort of request, because she jerked in his arms, as if suddenly remembering her purpose for being in his study.

“I—I wanted to see you this morning.”

Clearly.

“I have something for you.”

One of his brows rose in surprise, and she flushed. But instead of looking away shyly, Olivia boldly held his gaze as she pulled her arms from around his neck. She stepped back, out of his hold, and reached for her right hip.

Alistair stood there, trapped between his bookshelves and bride—between duty and shame—and clenched his fists uselessly.

“I thought…since you told me you couldn’t speak…there!”

Grinning with delight, Olivia pulled her hand from a pocket at her waist, and brandished something triumphantly.

Was that…a notepad?

“Here!” She offered it to him, spread out on her palm. “I know it’s small. I buy packs of them because they’re cheaper that way, and I always carry one with me in case I find a story. They’re ever so helpful for making notes, and I thought you could use one to communicate.” She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I mean, I know you can communicate—you communicated with me quite well. I married you four and twenty hours after meeting you. But I thought this might make your life a little easier, if you just kept this in your pocket, and—I’m blathering, aren’t I?”

Dimly, in a kind of shock, Alistair nodded.

“I tend to do that,” Olivia sighed. “I suspect this marriage is going to be a bit exhausting for you, since you don’t talk at all and I don’t seem capable of ceasing.”

She paused, watching him.

Waiting for him to answer?

How to respond, when one’s bride had just disparaged herself? Alistair deemed it safest to not respond at all, and continued to watch her carefully.

She offered the notebook again. “Well, here you are. I don’t want you to feel like I wish you could speak, but I just thought you might be more comfortable if you could share your thoughts on things.”

You might be more comfortable.

With only the slightest hesitation, he reached out and took the small notebook from her palm, careful not to allow his skin to brush against hers.

Staring down at it was easier than meeting her eyes, so he turned the thing over in his hands. It was cheaply made, the paper very thin, but he could see how such a thing could be useful to a woman who wrote for a living.

This was her own notebook.

And she gave it to ye because she thought it might help ye.

She came marching into his study, the morning after he’d disappointed her, and given him a thoughtful gift out of an effort to improve his life?

He…didn’t know what to think about that.

Curling his fingers around the notebook, Alistair lifted it to his breast pocket and slipped it in beside the notebook he regularly used. His family and staff had become used to interpreting his expressions, but if a question required a more complex answer—or he needed to issue a complex command—the notebook was invaluable.

And she’d guessed that. She’d known him—seen him.

Alistair swallowed, glad for once that he didn’t have to say anything, and met her eyes again.

She was beaming. Not the smug smile of the self-righteous woman who knows her charity will help someone less fortunate, but a smile full of joy. For him.

“I hope it’s useful, Alistair,” Olivia said, in that bold way of hers. No prevarication, no shyness.

Alistair.

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