Page 79 of The Duke's Daring Bride

This is what he’d been afraid of, so afraid. All these years, he’d been afraid of being mocked, being taunted, being humiliated.

And in that moment, he knew this wasn’t even the worst of it.

The worst of it—the absolute, shite-eating worst of it—was that Olivia must be feeling the same way too.

As the rest of the diners burst into chatter in response to the Earl’s rudeness—Amelia and Amanda arguing the semantics of dumb versus mute, and therefore inadvertently confirming his disability to the world—Alistair exhaled slowly.

Resisting the urge to leap across the table and smash the Earl of Tuckinroll’s face into what was left of his really quite excellent beef, Alistair turned to Hiro and gave a curt nod.

Thank Christ his friend understood. “Ladies and gentlemen, His Grace has called an end to this delightful evening. I will see you all out. Now.”

Now the chatter turned into an angry hubbub—Alistair knew it was beyond rude to kick out “his” guests halfway through a dinner—but he didn’t care. It couldn’t compare to their rudeness.

Mother will wring yer neck for this.

Mother couldn’t reach his neck.

Still, he gave her a chillingly polite nod—she was sitting in apparent shock—and turned on his heel. The slam of the door was satisfying, to say the least, but not nearly enough.

He stalked up the main stairs to his chambers, already wrenching at his necktie. He wanted a drink. He wanted a hot soak.

He wanted Olivia.

But by the time he changed and pushed open the connecting door to her room, the hinges silent, Alistair could hear her crying. There was a lump on the bed, under the covers, and her sobs were audible from where he stood.

His gaze traveled about the room, landing on the evidence she’d undressed in a hurry. Likely her maid had removed the gown from the room to clean it as quickly as possible, but had Olivia had the time to clean herself?

Why did he care?

Why did he care at all?

Because she deserves better. She deserves better than ye.

He was a duke!

Aye, a duke who willnae talk to her. A duke who willnae admit his feelings or secrets.

He hadn’t planned on doing any of that with a mere wife. That’s why he’d chosen someone like her; someone who was desperate, who needed him far more than he needed her.

Someone who had no experience, no training, to be a duchess.

Someone who was ripe for humiliation.

And he’d been so focused on his own fears, he hadn’t even realized that.

Slowly, silently, Alistair backed into his own chamber and pulled shut the door. There. A door between them, a door between their worlds. That’s how it should be.

With a sigh, he jotted off a note to his valet, requesting a servant arrange for a platter of some of Olivia’s favorite cheeses to be sent up for her. And perhaps some wine. She likely needed some wine, after the evening—the torture—she’d just been through.

He flopped back onto his bed and stared up at the canopy. His throat was tight—not in the way he’d become used to over the years… Something else.

He felt as if he needed to speak, and it hurt not to.

Alistair swallowed and threw his forearm across his eyes.

Speaking…

If he spoke, it would be even worse than the world thinking he couldn’t speak. No duke could command respect if he rasped and whispered his way through a conversation, each hoarse syllable causing pain.

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