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He had expected to feel satisfaction at seeing his plan take shape, yet what he felt was considerably more troublesome. There had been something almost painful about watching Olivia with the baby, something that had stirred an unfamiliar warmth inside him, and James disliked it intensely.

He had spent years learning not to need anyone. His father had taught him that affection could be withdrawn as quickly as it was offered, while the responsibilities of his position had taught him that people often wanted something from him. Even those who claimed to care for him could eventually become disappointed when he failed to become the man they expected.

Trust has never come easily, and kindness makes me suspicious rather than grateful. Yet Olivia has a way of accepting people without demanding anything from them, and that unsettles me more than hostility ever could.

She had trusted him with Louiza, trusted him with Felix, and now she was walking beside him as his wife, smiling as though she believed he might be worthy of the trust she had given.

James felt the old instinct rising within him, the one that told him to create distance before anyone could get close enough to hurt him. He despised the weakness of it, but despising something did not make it disappear.

By the time they reached the manor doors, he had already decided he needed to put an end to the softness that had crept into their day.

He released Olivia's arm and straightened his shoulders, allowing his expression to become cold and controlled.

"We have had a long day," he said abruptly as they entered the hall. "You should go to your rooms and see to the unpacking of your things. I will have supper sent up to you and your sister. Whether you choose to dine together is entirely up to you, but I shall not be joining you. I have work to do."

Olivia stopped beside him, looking faintly surprised by his sudden change in manner. "I understand," she replied, smoothing a hand over her skirt before adding with an awkward little smile, "although I have nothing to unpack."

James paused halfway toward the staircase and turned back. "What do you mean?"

She gave a small shrug, and something about the gesture made his stomach tighten. "I ran away with nothing but the clothes on my back. Louiza and I have been sharing the clothing in her trunk since we left home." She said it matter-of-factly, as though arriving at a duke's estate without a proper wardrobe were the most ordinary thing in the world.

James's jaw set.

Of course. I have been so consumed by the immediate crisis surrounding Boulton, the baby, the marriage, and the inheritance that I had failed to consider the most basic practical matter. My wife had arrived at Glenmore Manor with scarcely enough clothing to fill a travelling bag, and he had somehow expected her to settle into the household like any other duchess.

"Then I will see to that," he said firmly, descending one step toward her. "You are a duchess now, Olivia, and I expect you to uphold that title. I cannot have you without proper clothing, by God."

Her eyes widened slightly at his vehemence, and James realized he sounded almost angry about it. He was angry, but not with her. The thought of her having been forced to share clothing because her own family had apparently cared so little for her comfort that she chose to run away with nothing, irritated him in a way he could not explain.

"I shall have the seamstress come to Glenmore and take your measurements," he continued, his tone becoming more businesslike as he tried to regain control of himself. "She can order everything you require. Your sister may order some gowns, as she also represents this household."

Olivia's face softened into a genuine smile. "Thank you, James."

The words struck him with absurd force. He had merely ordered clothing. It was his responsibility as her husband, and yet hearing gratitude in her voice made something inside him shift dangerously. He did not want her thanking him. He did not want to enjoy making her happy. Most of all, he did not want to discover that her approval mattered to him.

"Do not thank me," he said coldly, turning away before she could see the conflict on his face. "It is simply my duty."

He walked away more quickly than necessary, ignoring the faint confusion behind him. By the time he reached the study, he was angry with himself rather than Olivia. He shut the door, crossed to the sideboard, and poured himself a generous glass of port.

The rich scent filled the room as he took the first swallow, but even the familiar warmth did little to quiet his thoughts.

Why does her gratitude affect me so? Why did the sight of her with Felix make me feel protective of something other than the inheritance? Why did I want to ensure she possesses every comfort when my original intention had been merely to fulfil the terms of my father's will?

James set the glass down harder than necessary and stared at the papers covering his desk. There was a mission to complete, and he would not allow himself to forget it. His inheritance had been divided among trustees because his father had decided that James was unfit to control it without producing an heir. The abandoned baby was the solution.

Felix would become the legitimate son of the Duke and Duchess of Glenmore, and once the necessary time had passed, James would regain control of what was rightfully his.

That is all.

He repeated the thought silently, forcing himself to believe it. Olivia was his wife because the arrangement required one. Felix was his heir because the inheritance required one. Everything had a purpose, a structure, and an end. There was no room for affection, trust, or whatever dangerous tenderness had begun creeping into his thoughts.

James picked up his port again and stared into the dark red liquid.

He would keep his eye on the mission. He had to.

The moment he allowed himself to want anything more than the restoration of his inheritance, he would be giving another person the power to hurt him, and James had spent too many years ensuring that would never happen again

Olivia followed the servant to her bedchamber and stopped just inside the doorway, utterly speechless. She had expected Glenmore Manor to be grand, but she had not anticipated the sheer magnificence of a room intended for a duchess. The bed alone was enormous, standing upon a raised platform beneath a carved tester, its ivory curtains falling in elegant folds around a mattress that looked so soft she suspected she might disappear into it.