Page 68 of The Duke's Daring Bride

And I do not go into Society, Olivia. That was one of the reasons I chose you to be my wife. I did not want to enter Society to find another woman, and I do not want a wife who would expect me to join her on outings.

So he was saying…he’d chosen her because she wasn’t a lady? Because she wasn’t his equal, and wouldn’t make social demands on him?

It was true, but…galling.

The realization made her sad.

She was married to a man who the world saw as above her. Worse, he saw himself that way. And who could blame him? He was a duke—had been born to this world.

But he’s kind. He treats you well.

And he stayed away from her chamber.

What was she supposed to think? To keep herself from having to answer, she smashed a piece of the Dunlop into the pile of crumbs, picking up as many as possible, and popped it into her mouth.

She knew she was his social inferior; but she was also his wife. His marital partner.

That should count for something.

Alistair was watching her, brows drawn in, and she tried to avoid his gaze by pretending interest in spreading the stilton.

But he pushed the pad of paper forward, and she couldn’t help but see it.

I am sorry if I offended you.

The words were precise. Definitive. Like him.

“I’m not offended,” Olivia mumbled, studiously avoiding looking up at him. Perhaps then he wouldn’t see the lie.

He flipped the page and wrote, “Are you upset I do not wish to enter Society? Perhaps we should have discussed this before we married.”

Olivia snorted.

An actual, indelicate, un-duchessy snort.

Only, it was you doing it, so it was by definition, duchessy.

She snorted again and reached for her beer.

When she looked up, it was to see a rueful grin on his face, and she froze, tankard in front of her mouth.

Good Heavens, he really was gorgeous, wasn’t he?

I presume, by your response, you think we should have discussed rather a lot of things before we married?

Unable to hide her own rueful grin, she lowered the beer. “Yes, Your Grace. But then, this is the most conversation we’ve had.”

I am sorry.

Olivia watched him. He hadn’t looked at the paper when he’d written that; his blue gaze hadn’t left hers.

“I’m not,” she admitted softly. “I’m glad we’re finally talking.” She winced. “Discussing. Whatever.”

He made that silent chuckle thing again.

Olivia took a deep breath, not wanting this to end, but also not wanting to dwell on their possible mistake in this marriage of convenience. The less said about that, the better, surely? “I shall do my best not to shame the Effinghell name during tomorrow’s dinner.”

Alistair’s lips twitched as he wrote, “The name Effinghell is difficult to sha—” His letters broke off as his pencil skittered across the paper and his gaze jerked up to hers. Without looking down, he scribbled, “What dinner?” across his previous words.

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