He held a copy of A Legend of Montrose, one of Sir Walter Scott’s more recent works. He’d read the same line over and over. Usually, he could lose himself in the written word but Olivia, with her antics that day, had managed to weave her way into his thoughts. First there had been the snowball fight, then the chopping of the yew tree, and supper. The old duke had insisted that Marcus join him and Olivia for the evening meal. Marcus had tried his best, citing a breach in propriety, but that had only fueled the duke’s insistence. Danby answered to no one. No, Society’s strictures didn’t apply to Danby or any of his off-spring, it seemed. Marcus had been forced to labor through the partridge soup, baked egg Florentine, roast beef, and rout drop cakes. Olivia had sat across from him, her gaze cast down upon her plate. She’d shoved her fork around her barely touched food. All the while, Danby had filled the silence.
