Page 17 of The Duke's Daring Bride

Still, he stared. Glared? His gaze had turned shuttered now, as if he wasn’t sure what to expect from her.

“I know I could’ve written, and I considered it. Writing is what I do, after all. I don’t know if you’ve read any of my articles? I’m the chief editor for The Daily Movement.”

He tapped the edge of her calling card against his desk, as if to remind her she’d told him that already, and she felt heat climb her cheeks.

You’re making a fool of yourself, Olivia.

But she had to. She had to try. Last night’s adventure in the East End had been harrowing, yes, but hadn’t resulted in anything useful. She needed either a sensationalist story to sell papers, or her major funder back.

She was already sleeping in her office since she couldn’t afford rent, and was eating only twice a day. If the paper went under…

Olivia shuddered.

For now, the Duke was her only hope—and as she’d told him, she was desperate.

If only he’d stop looking at her like he wanted something from her…

“Yes, well…” This was difficult, holding a one-sided conversation. “I’m not only the editor and reporter, I also…I’m the owner.” When surprise flashed across his expression, she nodded. “My father founded the paper, and with my step-brother gone, he left it to me. I’ve done my best with it, but…”

But it was dying.

Her paper—her father’s paper… Her livelihood, her way of life, her only hope of making the world a better place…it was dying.

Suddenly, the hopelessness of the situation caught up with her, and her throat closed off with emotion.

Here she was, desperately prostrating herself in front of a duke, clutching at any hope to save the paper. And he was staring at her in what she was coming to suspect was horror.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she choked. “I just need—” A sob threatened to overwhelm her, so she swallowed as she closed her eyes and shook her head.

Come along, Olivia. You can do this. Don’t mess it up.

With her eyes still closed, she blurted, “I need investors, Your Grace. I know we’ve been showing falling profits, and each time an investor leaves, it gets worse. But—” She forced herself to open her eyes, to meet his gaze as she made her request. “But if you could possibly reconsider removing your support, I can promise you I’ll do my best to turn that around, no matter what it takes. I’ll find a story which will save the paper, I know it!”

If not about The Dark Knight, or about her brother’s disappearance, then something else.

The ringing silence after her vow was voiced was broken only by the sound of him tapping her card against the desk.

It was a thoughtful sort of motion, matched by the way he was staring at her. As if he was considering her words.

Her breath caught.

Considering? Was he actually considering her plea?

Because it most definitely had been a plea.

That morning, as Olivia had talked herself into this ill-advised adventure—she was becoming an expert on ill-advised sorties, it appeared—she’d known what would have to happen. She’d never begged for anything before in her life; Papa had raised her to just do it, to make things happen. She didn’t have to beg.

But today?

Today she’d beg.

She’d plead.

She’d do whatever it took to save the paper.

Anything.

The Duke was still watching her, and under his gaze, her breathing grew shallow. Her hands squeezed the material of her reticule on her lap, feeling the reassuring rustle of paper, but being careful not to damage her emergency cheese stashed within. Her skin felt itchy, as if his gaze necessitated a touch to cool it.

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