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As they resumed their walk toward Glenmore Manor, Olivia told herself that she had no reason to be disappointed. She had everything she had once thought impossible, a home, a family beside her, a child to love, and a title no one could take away. Yet she could not quite silence the small, foolish hope inside her that one day James might look at her and realize that she was not merely the duchess he needed, but the woman he wanted beside him.

Chapter Seventeen

Olivia was standing before her dressing table when Hannah knocked upon the door. She turned, expecting perhaps a message from the housekeeper, and found her maid waiting respectfully in the doorway.

"His Grace has decided to dine with you and Miss Louiza this evening," Hannah announced with a small curtsy. "You are both expected in the drawing room at seven o’clock."

Olivia stared at her for a moment, wondering whether Hannah had noticed how peculiar the arrangement sounded.

"Thank you, Hannah," she said finally, offering a polite smile. "That will be all."

Hannah curtsied again and withdrew, closing the door behind her.

Olivia remained where she was, staring at the closed door with growing disbelief.

His Grace has decided to dine with us. How very convenient for His Grace. He could apparently disappear into his study for hours, emerge whenever he pleased, and then send a servant to summon his wife and her sister to dinner. The nerve of him.

Olivia folded her arms and frowned at her reflection. It was absurd. She was the Duchess of Glenmore, yet she sometimes felt more like a guest waiting to be told when she might appear at the table.

"He is my husband," she muttered, though the words did little to soothe her annoyance. "Apparently that gives him the right to summon me whenever he wishes."

She immediately felt foolish for saying it aloud. There was no one there to hear her except the crystal bottles and her own reflection, and neither offered an opinion. Olivia sighed and sat upon the edge of the bed, forcing herself to consider the situation from James's perspective. Their marriage was an arrangement. He had never pretended otherwise. He needed a wife to make Felix's existence believable, and she had needed protection from Lord Boulton.

James never promised romance, companionship, or even a proper husband-wife relationship. He had been remarkably clear about that from the beginning. Why am I so bothered? I should be grateful.

She reminded herself of that repeatedly, as though gratitude could be summoned by sheer force of will. She could have been married to Lord Boulton, and the thought should have been enough to make her feel relieved. Instead, remembering the viscount's oily smile and possessive manner only made her shudder. She had escaped one dreadful marriage and entered another that was, at least, safe and respectable. James protected her, protected Louiza, cared for Felix, and had given her a beautiful home.

Why, then, do I feel disappointed? It is ridiculous, immature, and entirely my own fault.

By the time seven o'clock approached, Olivia had dressed in a pale blue evening gown with a modest neckline and delicate embroidery along the sleeves. She adjusted one final curl before leaving her room and descended the stairs, telling herself firmly that she would behave like a duchess rather than a foolish girl secretly hoping her husband might look at her twice. When she entered the drawing room, she found James standing near the fireplace, and he turned at the sound of her footsteps. Olivia's breath caught.

He looks devastatingly handsome.

His evening coat fitted his broad shoulders perfectly, emphasizing the athletic strength of his frame, while his long dark brown hair had been tied neatly behind his head. His blue eyes found hers immediately, and for one mortifying second Olivia forgot every sensible thought she had rehearsed. He was very tall, powerfully built, and entirely too handsome for a man she had decided was supposed to be emotionally irrelevant to her. She swallowed and quickly reminded herself …

Handsome men can still be infuriating men.

Her eyes travelled around the room. Louiza was nowhere to be seen. That was unfortunate. Very unfortunate.

"Good evening, Your Grace," Olivia said, offering him a small curtsy because she suddenly had no idea what else to do with herself.

James lifted one eyebrow. "We are married, Olivia. I believe you can call me James now. No need to be so formal."

She straightened, feeling warmth creep into her cheeks. "Of course," she murmured. "James."

Saying his name felt strangely intimate, as though she had crossed some invisible line simply by allowing the syllables to leave her lips. She wondered whether he noticed the effect it had on her and immediately hoped he had not.

Olivia took a seat near the sofa, smoothing her skirts as James crossed to the side table. He poured her a glass of sherry and brought it to her without ceremony.

"Thank you," she said, accepting it carefully. Their fingers touched and Olivia was absurdly aware of the small distance between them. She took a sip and looked toward the windows.

Silence settled over the room.

It was not an uncomfortable silence, precisely, but neither was it easy. Olivia could hear the faint ticking of the clock and the crackle of the fire, and she became painfully conscious of James sitting only a few feet away. She tried looking at the mantel. Then the carpet. Then the flowers arranged upon the table. Eventually, despite her best efforts, her gaze returned to him.

He was looking at her.

Olivia immediately looked away.