Olivia did trust that he would make the best decisions — as well as he could. For what most of society failed to realize was that leaving all of the decisions to men was, in fact, not a wise choice in itself. For it was women who saw how various outcomes affected not only the man, but his wife and family. Or so she believed. She knew she was in the minority, but her opinion would not change. She considered all of this as well as her marriage while she continued down the hallway to the library, the muslin of her skirts rustling with her quick steps.

She was aware she must keep such thoughts to herself. For truly finding your power required more than force, but cunning.

Alastair, however, was slightly different than the typical man. He seemed to somehow see through her smiles and exterior facade. Not that he knew what her plans and opinions were, but rather, that he knew when something wasn’t quite right. She could see it in the calculating expression on his face when she glibly responded to something he had said, or the furrow in his brow if she too readily agreed with him. She would have to be careful.

Olivia was pleased with the contents of Alastair’s library. It was modest, but the shelves were filled with a fairly wide variety of subjects. He also had subscriptions to many of the journals and newspapers she enjoyed reading, which gladdened her. She had previously read her father’s copies, and she had been wondering how to continue to access her daily reading materials.

She picked up copies she had yet to read due to the excitement of the scandal, her wedding, and her move. She made her way over to the chaise lounge, and stretched out across the velvet surface, swinging her legs over the edge.

She tried to concentrate, however her mind kept returning to Alastair’s predicament. If only she could help him. She knew she could assist him in making some wise investments; she only wished he would trust her. Perhaps, however, if he did write P.J. Scott, she could write back and he might listen to the advice. It was silly, really, the effort to go through to counsel a person living in the same home, but she would do what she must.

As for the debts owed at the gaming establishments, well … she had plans for that as well.

A smile returned to her face as she thought of what she intended to do. If Alastair wanted to keep from discussing his life with her, that was just fine. However, so too would she.

* * *

Olivia gathered her latest column and, accompanied by her maid and a footman, set out for The Financial Register office on Bond Street. She gave the carriage driver the address for a modiste, conveniently located next door to her intended destination. When she arrived, she told Molly to wait for her in the carriage. The girl protested but Olivia insisted, and she could see the girl’s pale face watching her closely through the carriage window as she stepped out and into the brick building.

She smiled at the owner of the dress shop, with whom she had an understanding, before passing through the swirls of white, pastel, and vibrant fabrics into the back corridor of the office, finally emerging outside. She nipped through the alley, knocking on the backdoor of the journal’s offices.

“Come in, come in!” Mr. Ungar said with a friendly wave of his hand. He was used to her entrance through the back. She told him her employer was overly cautious about protecting his identity and wanted no one to see her. “I do hope you have another column ready for me, Miss. Your employer’s writings are proving to be quite in demand!”

“I am so happy to hear that, Mr. Ungar. Mr. Scott will certainly be pleased. Did he happen to receive any requests from readers this week?” she asked. Often readers wrote in asking Mr. Scott for advice. She enjoyed addressing particular questions in her columns, as she felt if one person had a particular query, perhaps others did as well.

She could not risk anyone discovering her true identity and she had learned from the incident with her mother that she certainly could not accept envelopes delivered to her home, should it be her family home or her new one with Alastair. Therefore the secretary role allowed her to correspond as she pleased without any questions asked.

“I have received requests for Mr. Scott, my dear,” the small, rotund balding man replied. “One moment.”

He returned shortly with a box of correspondence and shook out the top two papers before handing them to her.

“Here you are,” he said. “Nothing particularly interesting. Basically, where do I invest, how do I plan for the future, how do I regain a lost fortune, and so on.”

She took the papers, thanked him, and scurried out to the back alley, eager to determine if Alastair had written, already planning her response.

* * *

Dear Mr. Scott, the letter began, and Olivia felt a twinge of an emotion akin to jealousy run through her, although how she was envious of a person who did not truly exist, she wasn’t sure. She simply wished her husband would confide in her instead. The letter was not signed, but she had seen enough of Alastair’s handwriting to recognize the scrawl.

I have recently inherited a significant amount of debt. I wish to make investments that would allow me to return my estate to financial esteem, while not risk putting myself in further deficit. I would be interested to know your opinion on wise investments for a man in my circumstances.

His question was vague — one that any person with some money to invest would be inclined to ask. She wouldn’t normally respond to such a question, but this case was quite obviously different. Olivia had poured over the stocks and selected what she felt were the wisest choices for investments based on their former profit and their future potential. As he wanted to avoid risk, they were potentially profitable, and yet even the riskiest she had selected were fairly safe in her estimation. She wasn’t yet sure what amount to recommend that he invest, as she needed to learn more of his actual accounts.

She folded up the letter, determined to respond on the morrow.

That night as she tried to sleep, she tossed and turned, questioning herself and her advice, as well as the fact she was making it public. She had never before written of actual companies, but had spoken in more generic terms. It kept her awake, as she tried to pry her mind off of the intricacies of what he asked of her, and into the dream world that awaited. It proved a difficult task, however, and Olivia decided to make her way back to the library to write, hoping that by putting her thoughts down on paper immediately instead of waiting until morning, she might be able to go back to sleep.

She lit the candle in the holder and slipped out of her room, pulling the door shut quietly behind her. She tiptoed down the stairs and into the library, where she slowly eased the door open.

Light from the fire still smoldering in the grate cast a shadowy glow about the room, which was otherwise seemingly empty. Olivia found paper and a quill pen from the writing table in the corner, and took it over to the window seat where she could look out over the street below.

She started scratching her thoughts on the paper, which she had placed on top of a book as a writing surface.

“Trouble sleeping?” The voice intruded as she was mid-sentence in her writing, and she jumped with a shriek.

“Shhh,” Alastair said with a finger to her lips. “You’ll wake Mother and Anne.”

“My goodness, Alastair, what in the … why would you sneak up on me like that? Do you mean to scare out my soul?”

He chuckled, his laugh a deep, throaty vibration in her ear.

“My apologies, love, I did not mean to startle you,” he said, squeezing her shoulder and sending tingles down her spine before going to sit in the leather wingback chair across from her. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing of any consequence,” she said with a smile. “Simply a list of items I require from my family’s home.”

He nodded. “Do you miss it?”

“No,” she said swiftly. “Not the house, anyway. It is horrid, as you noted. I thought I could never miss my mother and her constant nagging, although I feel as if something is now missing in my life without it.” She gave a quick laugh. “My sister and I have never been very close, she a quiet mouse and me … well not as much. My father, however — my father I do miss. He treats me with more respect than most would a daughter. I have always so appreciated that about him.” She smiled wistfully.

“You should visit him.”

“I shall,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

She actually did have plans to return home tomorrow, though not, she thought guiltily, to visit her father but rather to gather some items she required to carry out her plans. She did, however, hope he would be home.

“And you?” she asked, “What activities keep you awake at such an hour?”

“I’ve just returned home,” he said, his face flitting between a somewhat rueful grin and a grimace.

“Oh,” she said, her own smile faltering. “I suppose I should have gathered that.”

“Simply an evening at White’s with a few gentlemen,” he said, sweeping his hands out as if it were nothing of consequence. “I am sorry, Olivia.” Alastair’s voice cut through her musings. His tone was quiet, subdued, unlike his usual cheery self.

“Whatever for?” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“For this. For all of this,” he said spanning his hands out in front of him. “For taking advantage of you in a moment of weakness, forcing you into marriage. I know you did not want this.”

“Nor did you,” she responded with a small, wry smile. “And I believe we both know the role my mother played in orchestrating this match.”

He nodded but remained silent, though he raised his eyes from his hands, and the jade green orbs looked into hers with an intensity she had not seen since Lady Sybille’s come-out ball. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Alastair…”

He reached out a hand and trailed a finger down her cheek, coming to rest on her lips before he caught her chin between his fingers. He stood as if mesmerized, and reached down to her, cupping her face between his hands.

She couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe as his face inched closer to hers, until he was only an inch away, and she was filled with the scent of sandalwood on his skin and brandy on his breath.

“I am also sorry,” he whispered, “for being unable to resist again.”

His eyes caught hers, as if waiting for her to draw back, but instead she swiftly closed the distance between them, pressing her lips firmly to his. His mouth moved over hers softly at first, but swiftly growing with a passion unleashed, and she responded by clutching at him as if she were drowning and he was her lifeline to land.

No, she told herself. No, no, no. This man was a rake, a charmer who could — and did — seduce any woman he wanted. She was his wife, yes, but she refused to be one of his many conquests. Except … except the feel of his lips on hers, of the way his tongue plundered her mouth, of his hard body pressed up against her, made it far too difficult to push him away. She wanted more of this — wanted more of him and the feelings he stirred up within her.

His hands slid down her side, one cupping her bottom as he pulled her closer towards him, so she could feel his desire press into her stomach. She moaned, kneading her fingers into the strong biceps that held her close. She had been kissed before, and she had certainly enjoyed her kiss with Alastair at the ball, but she had never been made love to in this way before. She could feel every ounce of passion flowing through to her, and it was intoxicating.

He bent her backward over the window seat she had been lying upon while writing, stretching himself overtop of her as he trailed his fingers lightly from where they cupped her face down her body, over her breasts, to her hip.

As she reached up, moving her hand to run her fingers through his silky blond locks, she heard a crinkle and realized she was rolling over the paper she had been writing on earlier. The paper containing her investment ideas for Alastair — for her husband, the man who didn’t trust her, but would take her advice as the financial columnist P.J. Scott.

Her thoughts refocusing, she realized what she was allowing, what she was asking for, and reached up once more, but this time not to pull her husband closer. Instead, she put her hands on his chest and pushed him away. Caught off balance, he fell off of her, landing on the floor with an “oomph”.

“Oh, Alastair!”

She slid off the window seat to kneel beside him on the hard wooden floor. “My apologies! I did not mean to … well, I did mean to push you off, but I didn’t wish for you to fall.”

He gave a slight groan and put his hand to the back of his head, which had bounced off the floor in his surprise.

“I suppose it’s my own fault,” he said with a slight grimace. “You were fairly clear you didn’t want … this. I pushed this on you, Olivia, but damn, why must you be so irresistible to me?”