Page 75 of The Duke's Daring Bride

Perhaps it would be better not to actually eat anything at this dinner.

She’d been looking forward to seeing Alistair’s reaction to her gown—in particular her breasts, plumped up on display…but he hadn’t been waiting. The dowager was in a tizzy and Olivia had done her best to comfort the woman, only to have Alistair appear in the back corridor as if by magic.

Why was he bleeding? Why was he dressed as a tradesman?

And why had he left his home?

She was distracted by these strange mysteries, but had to admit that a part of her was sad he hadn’t made a fuss over her new gown and ridiculous hair.

So yes, the dinner had started poorly—rushed, hurt, anxious.

And it pretty much got worse from there.

Olivia soon realized her plan not to eat wasn’t going to work for a few reasons:

The dowager’s glare—switching between Olivia’s spoon and her soup—made her opinion obvious.

Amanda was oblivious to ask if Olivia didn’t care for fish.

And frankly, she was quite hungry, after a day spent with her stomach in knots.

She did her best to eat quietly and politely, but as the dinner conversation imploded, she realized she could no longer try to remain hidden.

For one thing, Alistair was doing his best to ignore them all; he sat at the opposite end of the table looking magnificent in his formalwear, attention on his food and not the stilted conversation around him. For her to do the same thing would make the entire meal even more awkward.

Olivia’s mother-in-law was becoming increasingly frantic and anxious, trying to keep the discussions going with forced cheer and brittle smiles, while shooting angry looks at both Olivia and Alistair.

Finally, with a sigh, Olivia admitted she would have to converse with these people.

She just prayed she wouldn’t make too much of a fool of herself.

“Lady Gertrude, was it?” she asked of the matron beside her. “How are you finding the fish?”

The round woman sniffed haughtily. “I find it right here on my plate. Flat, dead, and unappetizing. And it’s Lady Tuckinroll, as my husband is an Earl.” She sniffed again and turned to Amelia, who was sitting on her other side. “Imagine, thinking one can ignore basic protocol, just because one was unexpectedly made a duchess.”

Olivia felt her cheeks flush as she caught Amelia’s pitying glance. She had never cared to keep track of ranks or peerage or how to address the wife of an earl, because it hadn’t been relevant in her life after finishing school.

She’d opened her mouth, and the first words out had embarrassed her. Embarrassed her new family.

She glanced up the table—almost comically long, really—to see Alistair staring at her, his expression unreadable but his knuckles white around his wineglass.

Olivia was just about ready to vow to never speak again—well, at the dinner party, at least—when the Earl himself, Tuckinroll, addressed her.

“So how did you meet the Duke, Your Grace?” He didn’t quite sneer, but the older man’s tone was so bland she imagined she could hear his disapproval. “We were quite surprised to receive the dowager’s note.”

“Oh, come now, Henry!” tittered Olivia’s mother-in-law. “There is no need to be so formal! We are all friends here, remember!”

“Indeed,” Henry rumbled, “and I was merely asking—as a friend.”

Well, this had been the point of the dinner party, had it not? To introduce her to a few select people, who would then spread word of the Duke of Effinghell’s marriage.

So Olivia forced a smile.

“The Duke and I had a business arrangement.” At the dowager’s horrified expression, Olivia ran over that statement again in her head and realized how it must have sounded. Ah. “I mean, we were business associates. I run a-a—” What sounded duchessy enough? What would wipe the smirk from the Earl of Tuckinroll’s face? “I have several enterprises left to me by my father, and His Grace was an investor.”

“Yes, an investor!” Alistair’s mother interrupted gratefully. “All perfectly normal and charitable. It was a business venture which brought them together!”

“But which—” the Countess began, before being interrupted by the man seated at the other end of the table.

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