"War? What war are you talking about?" Olivia snapped, her voice rising with an edge of frantic energy.
Matthias reached out, caught the edge of her cloak that had slipped from her shoulder, and adjusted it with a mocking half-smile.
"Firstly, it's the middle of the night—lower your voice. Secondly," he added, his eyes searching hers with a dry irony, "one might look at your reaction and think you're actually worried about me."
Olivia let out a sharp, indignant breath. "I have been in an insufferable mood since this day began, and you are treading on my last nerve!"
"This is my house, I shall shout as I please—I am the Duchess, have you forgotten? And secondly, why wouldn't I worry? War is a monstrous thing. You could die out there. Do you want me to become a widow?"
Matthias chuckled, a dark, velvet sound. "Fine, you're right, it's your house. And I suppose black would suit you quite well. You'd make a very elegant widow."
"Shut up! This isn't a laughing matter!"
