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rain-splattered so that she could see nothing beyond the glass but the murky grayness of late afternoon. Lifting a square satin pillow off the sofa at her right, she began twirling it absentmindedly with her fingers, engaged in deep, confusing contemplation.
    He wasn’t her husband.
    But that was nonsense. Of course he was.
    Yet in some manner he…wasn’t. Not entirely. Not like she remembered him, at the very least. Could a person change so much in a matter of months? Or had it all been an act? And he’d never mentioned that he was a duke. Good God, she’d married a man of such noble blood, and he never told her? Instead he resorted to stealing her inheritance?
    He’s not the Edmund I married…
    A knock on the drawing room door startled her. Before she summoned a reply, Lady Abethnot entered in a flurry of pale pink skirts and plump cheeks.
    â€œOlivia,” she remarked, a pleasant smile on her lips, “you have a guest. His grace, the Duke of Durham.”
    Lady Abethnot gestured with her arm, and he stepped around the woman to enter the room, tall and stately, dressed all too handsomely in a dark brown frock coat and trousers, expressionless save for his eyes, which glared at her like one who was ready to do battle with the devil.
    â€œMadam,” he murmured.
    She curtsied. “Your grace.”
    â€œWell, then,” Lady Abethnot cut in through a loud sigh. “I’ll leave you to talk alone for a bit.”
    â€œThank you,” Olivia said with a smile to her hostess.
    The lady smiled at her in return. “I’ll only be in the next room should you choose to partake of refreshments. Call if you need me.” With that she scurried out, leaving the door open a respectable crack as propriety demanded.
    He didn’t seem to notice Lady Abethnot’s departure at all. He just stared hard at her. Her husband who was not her husband. In every way.
    Olivia quashed a sudden burst of inappropriate laughter that threatened to escape from the absurdity of it all. For at that second she realized definitively that this man, identical to Edmund in every physical way, was not the man she married.
    Instinctively, she threw the pillow at him before he could speak. He caught it in one hand, then tossed it onto the leather chaise beside him.
    â€œWho are you?” she asked bitterly, breaking the silence between them.
    Without pause or prevarication he replied, “I am Samson Carlisle, Duke of Durham. Edmund is my brother.”
    She managed to hide her surprise, clasping her hands behind her back. “Your twin.”
    â€œYes.”
    That explained everything.
    His gaze traveled slowly up and down the length of her body, for no reason she could think of, and his scrutiny made her shiver inside. He was certainly more arrogant than Edmund, and for a split second she also thought perhaps a bit more devastating in appearance.
    â€œBut you’re obviously older,” she said, watching him carefully.
    He raised an eyebrow at that. “Only by three minutes, to be precise.”
    She chuckled from his distinct display of defensiveness, tipping her head to the side a fraction. “I meant no offense, your grace. However identical the two of you appear, you are the man with the title.”
    One corner of his mouth turned up snidely. “So I’ve been told by my brother, repeatedly.”
    â€œAhh…I see.” Now she understood. Jealousy on Edmund’s part lay at the core. For all she knew of her husband, she didn’t doubt it in the least.
    Silence reigned for a moment or two, and she shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. To a great degree, this man surprised her. He didn’t flirt, he didn’t sit, he didn’t even look around the well-decorated drawing room. He just stared at her, expressionless.Olivia wasn’t sure what to do.
    â€œI suppose I’m now your sister by marriage,” she remarked, attempting to break