Page 35 of The Duke's Daring Bride

Fawkes had pushed away from the desk, divested himself of his drink, and was now offering Alistair’s bride his hand.

“Fawkes MacMillan, miss. I’m honored to stand at yer betrothed’s side today.”

It was obvious she was flustered. “Oh. Um—it’s nice to meet you, Mr. MacMillan. I’m Olivia Wilson. At least, I still am, for now.” She glanced at Alistair, who was still staring. “I’m—I’m so sorry to burst in like this, and the dowager would be furious if she knew I’d snuck away, but really, this was my first opportunity to speak with…”

She trailed off, then seemed to realize Fawkes was still holding her hand, and pulled it from his grip with a little too much force.

Alistair smirked.

But then she turned those big, warm eyes onto him, and he saw the worry there, and the rest of the world ceased to matter.

He planted his palms atop his desk and pushed himself to his feet, determined to find out what was wrong.

But she gasped at the sight of him. “Good Lord, you’re huge.”

And he hesitated.

At least she hasnae backed away from ye yet.

She must’ve realized what she said, because Miss Wilson flopped her hand about as if to wave away her words. “Apologies, that was terribly rude. It’s just…you must be at least—what? Six-foot-four? And in all those torrid novels, the hero is always six-foot-four, but I doubt the readers ever realize exactly how tall that really is. The same as when they say the hero’s member is the size of the heroine’s forearm.” She lifted her arm to gesture, her wide-eyed gaze still flitting across Alistair’s chest. “Do you know how large my forearm—Good Lord, I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

Alistair’s grin had grown and now he shook his head, pleased to see her earlier worry seemed to have dissipated. Though now her worries appeared to be trending in quite another direction…

He knew he was a big man—all over. But Olivia was taller than the average woman, and sturdy enough he wasn’t going to have to worry about breaking her when he finally got her into bed.

They were well-matched, he realized.

Fawkes cleared his throat. “Aaand that’s my cue to go see how yer mother’s doing, Alistair. I’ll leave ye to escort yer bride to the wedding.” The look he sent over his shoulder made the unspoken if she still wants to marry ye quite clear.

Olivia, meanwhile, was flapping both hands adorably. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. I shouldn’t have—drat, I’m making a mess of this!”

She lifted her hand to her head as if prepared to run her fingers through her coiffure, but Alistair lunged forward before she could do so, grabbing her hand in his.

She gasped again, then gaped up at him.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have stood so close to her.

Had she recognized him as the man who’d come to her aid in the East End? Would it matter if she did?

And then…

And then…

Olivia’s fingers curled around his. She was holding his hand.

She was standing in his study, holding his hand, her head tipped back so she could peer up at him, and that fear was back in her eyes.

Somehow, he knew it wasn’t fear of him.

Alistair pulled her closer, hoping she could read his question, and placed his palm on her hip. Was it his imagination, or did she shudder a bit at his touch?

God help him, but he was desperate for night to come, for the welcoming darkness which would hide his scars and imperfections when he came to her.

“Your Grace, I’m so sorry for bothering you—”

He interrupted her with a shake of his head. This was their wedding day, she was allowed to interrupt his schedule.

Olivia swallowed. “I…I needed to talk to you. About this marriage. I wanted to ask you last night, after I signed your terms, but your mother kept me busy late—she doesn’t approve of me, you know. Well, I suppose not, you don’t know, but your sisters are delights, although I find Amanda’s reasons for refusing marriage suspect, and dear Lord, I’ve forgotten what I was saying.”

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