Page 87 of The Duke's Daring Bride

Home.

God, he had so much he wanted to tell her. So much even he couldn’t understand. He should have taken her with him; he would’ve loved to introduce her to his uncle and have her stand beside him as they watched the happy couple.

That wedding had been similar to theirs; intimate, informal, a bit rushed. But whereas Alistair’s marriage ceremony to Olivia had been a matter of convenience, the one he’d witnessed in Scotland had held real love.

Home.

“Alistair,” she whispered again as she pulled back and clasped his cheeks with her palms. She was smiling, a smile full of joy which reminded him of the way Calderbank had looked at his new wife.

The comparison shocked him. Perhaps something showed in his eyes, because her expression immediately shuttered, cheeks pinking, and she moved to pull her hands away from his face.

Desperate to reverse her discomfort, Alistair clasped her hands to his cheeks, and offered her a smile.

Since he was currently shoving her palms against his face, he supposed said smile must have looked silly.

Olivia’s smile returned, this time a little awkward. “Thank you for coming to find me,” she said softly. “Would…would you like a look around? This is your investment, after all.”

That wasn’t why he wanted to learn about it. Alistair brushed another kiss across her lips, then gallantly offered his arm. She was blushing when she took it.

What followed was a complete and intricate tour of The Daily Movement’s printing offices. Perhaps not complete, but near enough that Alistair was at the risk of going cross-eyed from all the information his brilliant wife was spitting at him.

He saw the presses, met the editors—all very polite, very cowed men—and learned how the type was set. He saw how articles were written, edited, rewritten, and sometimes given up on altogether. He learned the inner workings of the business, and why it had struggled for so long.

“For ages, our advertisements paid for the paper. Even just the penny-a-line classifieds, like these.” She tapped an example from yesterday’s printing. “When we became known as a reformist paper, many companies pulled their advertisements, which is when we had to rely on investors like you.”

Alistair was frowning as he studied the paper. One in particular had caught his eye, and he pointed at it. It was only a few lines, written in a sort of code.

Seeing what had caught his attention, Olivia shrugged. “Oh, that is from the Earl of Bonkinbone. All he asked in return for maintaining his investiture with us was that he be allowed to print personal messages like that. Silly, aren’t they? They’re all in code.”

His head had jerked up at the name Bonkinbone. That was the third time he’d heard the Earl referenced recently. The most recent time had been in Scotland, when he learned a few things about the circumstances which had led to Uncle Ian being shot.

When had the first time been?

Oh yes, the last time he’d gone out as The Dark Knight; the barkeeper had said Bonkinbone was buying poisons from the notorious Duke of Death.

Thoughtfully, he tapped the advertisement, but Olivia was no longer listening.

“I wrote this piece.” She gestured proudly to one titled Dock Tavern A Bit Safer and he silently groaned, knowing what it would say.

“While you were gone, or perhaps right before you left, I doubt it matters, The Dark Knight was seen in a tavern by the docks! He was attacked, but won of course. I interviewed the bartender.”

Alistair frowned. She’d been to talk to Auld Gus? She’d walked into that hellhole? She’d been in the same vicinity—breathing the same air—as the kind of men who’d attacked him?

Like hell.

He was never leaving her again.

This time his kiss was hard and deep, reminding him that she was safe, and she was his.

Is she?

The whisper in the back of his mind was easy to ignore. She was his wife, of course she was his.

Is she?

Olivia was grinning when he finally released her, but when she raised her hand to tug a few strands back into her simple crowned-plait coiffure, she seemed flustered. “Well, if that’s the kind of response—oh!”

At his brow-twitch, a giggle escaped her lips. “You have…” She rubbed the pad of her thumb over his cheek. “Oh dear, I’m making it worse.”

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