How to Capture a Duke Read online

  “Rosehill is lovely, but—”

  The dowager waved a jeweled hand. “The London season awaits, as does your family.”

  “Yes.”

  “Circumstances may have been less than perfect, but I feel you are what my grandson needs. He is long due happiness.”

  “What precisely are you suggesting?”

  The woman’s eyes sparked as they met hers. “Defy his wishes. Go to London. You are the Duchess of Keswick. Seize what belongs to you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Even in his study, Tristan heard the noise coming from the vestibule. His staff was well aware that he disliked disturbances or any changes to his routine. So what in the world was its cause?

  He pushed his chair away from his desk and walked to the doorway. Voices traveled up the stairs to the second floor.

  What the devil?

  He approached the landing and saw her. His jaw slackened in shock. Tall and elegant, she stood proudly in his vestibule as if she belonged in his home. His entire staff was lined up with Gordon at the head of the group. Olivia nodded and smiled at something the butler said. Gordon smiled, and his chest puffed with pride.

  Tristan hastily descended the stairs.

  Gordon was first to address him. “Your Grace, the duchess has come home.”

  Home.

  The meaning was unmistakable. She intended to reside here. Permanently.

  Tristan’s gaze never left Olivia’s face. She was just as lovely as he’d remembered. It had only been a little over a week, but he found her just as compelling as the first time he’d seen her. Blond hair, wide green eyes, and full lips. A movement to his right caught his attention, and he dragged his gaze away. Two footmen carried a trunk inside and placed it beside two others that had already been delivered and now sat in the corner of the marble vestibule.

  From the look of his staff, they had assembled swiftly and now stood clutching their hands before them.

  Olivia flashed him a cool smile. “Hello, husband.”

  Husband.

  Not Your Grace. The meaning was clear. She had defied his command and come to London, to his home.

  Her smile was much warmer when she addressed his staff. “Thank you all for your hospitable and warm welcome.” She proceeded to approach each one and inquired each of their names. The housekeeper, Mrs. Ludson, bobbed a curtsy, and she appeared as if she would burst with joy at the notion of having another resident at Keswick Hall to serve. If Olivia was disturbed by Mrs. Ludson’s crossed eyes, she did not show it as she reached out to touch the housekeeper’s hand.

  Tristan stood awkwardly until his wife finished greeting every staff member, even the lowliest chambermaid. Her breeding as the sister of an earl was evident in her speech and manners.

  “You must be tired from your journey, Your Grace,” Mrs. Ludson said. “I shall see you to your rooms and have your trunks carried up.”

  “That would be wonderful.” Olivia turned to Gordon.

  Tristan watched, wondering how she would treat the crippled butler, but she gifted him with another one of those delightful smiles and thanked him as he took her cloak.

  The servants rushed to do their duties, no doubt eager to please the new mistress of Keswick Hall.

  Tristan seized the opportunity and stepped forward. “A word alone, duchess?”

  Olivia met his gaze, her expression serene, as if nothing untoward had occurred between them and her arrival at Keswick Hall was expected. “Of course. Please pardon me for a moment, Mrs. Ludson.”

  Tristan took her arm and led her out of the vestibule, away from the servants, and down the hall.

  “You are doing it again.” She tugged her arm from his grasp.

  “Doing what?”

  “Dragging me away.”

  He knew she referred to their wedding day. He didn’t respond. He opened the drawing room door, ushered her inside, then shut the door. He faced her, holding his annoyance at bay. “I told you to stay at Rosehill.”

  She raised her chin, her green eyes flashing in the first real emotion he’d seen since he spotted her in the vestibule. Even though he had every right to be angry, he found himself fascinated.

  “I know what you told me. But I am a woman who makes my own choices.”

  “How could I f…f-orget? You made your choice when you set your sights on the duchy, no matter how duplicitous your methods.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and faced him like a general. “I will not defend myself again. I did nothing wrong. If you’d been honest about your true identity rather than leading me to believe you were a groom, neither of us would be trapped in this unwanted union.”

  “And this is your solution? To live under the same roof?”

  “Yes. No one needs to know the true nature of our marriage.”

  Could he do it? He realized a large part of his motivation to leave her behind at Rosehill was not because he thought her a manipulative woman, but because she posed too much temptation.

  Her unexpected arrival upended those plans. Could he see her every day, pass her in the hallways, sit with her in the dining room, and not want to touch her? Live with her, knowing she slept a few chambers away at night, and not want to pay her a visit?

  He wasn’t a saint, dammit.

  Even now, angry at her presence in his home, he still wanted to reach out, jerk her into his arms, and show her exactly how dangerous and ludicrous her proposition was.

  “My grandmother put you up to this, didn’t she?” he asked.

  “Your grandmother is quite strong minded, but no one told me what to do. I am a duchess, and I will not be banished. Now if you will pardon me, I’m tired from traveling and wish to settle into my chamber.”

  With a swirl of skirts, she was gone.

  He stood alone, his fists clenched at his sides. He was unaccustomed to having his orders disobeyed. Never did he believe she’d leave Rosehill, let alone stand up to him. The fiery challenge was evident in the steel of her spine and the flash in her eyes. Even more unexpected was how easily she had won over his staff.

  Had he been outmaneuvered once again?

  …

  She’d done it.

  Olivia hadn’t missed the flash of fury in her husband’s steely gaze, first in the vestibule, then in the drawing room. But neither did she miss the glint of masculine interest in his dark, fathomless eyes. He felt something for her; she was certain.

  Tristan may not have wanted a duchess, but he had one. Could she turn things around? Change the future? His grandmother had encouraged her to seize what was hers. The Duke of Keswick may not be the ideal husband, but he was hers.

  Just as she was his wife.

  She stood in the center of her bedchamber and circled the room. Mrs. Ludson and the maids had rushed to prepare the chamber; it was clear they had not expected her to ever arrive. The staff had all been polite and welcoming, and Olivia hadn’t missed the butler’s limp and cane or the housekeeper’s unusual eyes. At first, she hadn’t known where to look when she’d first spoken with Mrs. Ludson and then decided to look in the woman’s right eye. After that, Olivia had hardly noticed her condition. The housekeeper’s competence was all that mattered.

  The dark, mahogany furnishings must have been covered in sheets and aired out. The bed was recently made. Candlelight did little to illuminate the dull blue paint. The darkness of the bedchamber was depressing. It must have belonged to the prior duchess, Tristan’s mother. She wondered what the woman had been like. Had she loved her son? Had it broken her heart to wait for him to speak his first words, only to discover later he had a stutter?

  Olivia sighed as she sat on the four-poster bed. She would redecorate right away. She’d have to move her trunks out of the chamber as the work was done. Golden paint and lighter oak furniture would add a cheerfulness and suit her personal tastes.

  The bed was draped in heavy curtains. It was a bed for a duchess, but would it remain cold and lonely forever? Would her dreams of a loving man, o
f heated encounters in the marriage bed, ever come true?

  She spotted an adjoining wooden door in the corner and wondered if it led to Tristan’s chamber.

  She wouldn’t think of that. At least she was in London and would see her sister soon. Maybe even pay a visit to the Raven Club and take a chance at the roulette wheel.

  Her life had turned out to be quite a wager, but unlike most of the gamblers that visited the Raven Club, she was convinced the odds were in her favor and she would end up the winner.

  Chapter Eight

  Deep in the recesses of his mind, Tristan knew he was dreaming.

  He was back at Eton and sitting in Professor Hobson’s mathematics classroom. Tristan had always loved the subject. Numbers didn’t lie, didn’t disguise themselves in false pretenses.

  Unlike his fellow classmates.

  Professor Hobson, who was into his late seventies, finished writing an equation on the blackboard then turned to face the class. “Who can tell me the answer?”

  Twenty-nine.

  Tristan knew, but he stayed quiet. No one else raised their hand. The professor’s gaze scanned the class then halted at Tristan. “Your Grace, what is your answer?”

  Panic pierced his gut. He opened his mouth then shut it. His sickening fear had nothing to do with calculating the correct answer. He knew the correct number, and he knew the professor knew he knew. But he’d have to voice it out loud.

  The elderly professor arched a shaggy brow. “Well?”

  Tristan heard the snickers behind him.

  “T…t-wenty n…n-ine.”

  The laughter was bolder this time. He could picture the boys seated behind him. Aiden Middleson. Mark Engleson. Harry Ardmore. Their titles didn’t matter to him.

  “And the second calculation?” Professor Hobson asked.

  The numbers were thick on his tongue, like honey that had hardened in the jar over time. “S…s-eventy t…t-wo.”

  More laughter behind him.

  The professor nodded as if he hadn’t heard Tristan’s stuttering, turned his back to the classroom, and moved on to write the next calculation on the blackboard. The rest of the lesson was a blur. Tristan wanted to sink low in his chair, disappear into nothingness.

  At last, class was over. Quickly gathering his books, Tristan tucked his head into his cloak and hurried outside.

  A sharp pain in his lower back caught him by surprise. Stunned, he whirled and ducked in time to avoid the second stone aimed for the back of his head.

  “Look who it is. The Stuttering Duke.” Aiden was the son of Viscount Dumfries, short and stocky, and the leader of the malicious group who’d taunted him from the first time he’d spoken at Eton. Two other boys, Mark and Harry, always stood by his side.

  Tristan refused to be baited. Again. He turned his back on the group and kept walking, more swiftly this time.

  “W…w-hat is w…w-rong w…with you t…t-day?” Mark spoke this time. Of average height with pale hair that looked like straw, he had the perpetual look of a boy sucking on a lemon.

  “He’s an e…e-mbarassment. S…s-tupid s…s-tuttering duke,” Harry said. Heavy-set, he was failing Professor Hobson’s class.

  Bursts of laughter.

  Tristan felt his face burn hot with anger. His fists clenched at his sides as he whirled to face his attackers. He hated them. All of them. He wanted to scream but knew it would come out sounding like a wounded animal. Just like he felt. Wounded and hurting.

  They would only laugh more.

  So he did the only thing he could. He charged at Aiden. His first punch caught Aiden off guard. The second made a satisfying crunch.

  “You bastard!” Aiden shouted as he clutched his bloody nose.

  Tristan’s satisfaction was short-lived when the other two boys joined the fight. He was fiercely determined and angry, but at twelve years old, he didn’t have the strength to fight all three of them.

  Tristan fell to the ground and shielded his face as best as he could, but pain radiated throughout his body from the vicious kicks to his stomach and legs. A fierce jab in his ribs made him shout out, a garbled sound, and he’d later learn that he’d broken three ribs.

  “Stop! Stop at once!” Professor Hobson’s voice.

  The boys fled, but Tristan remained on the ground. The humiliation was worse than the physical bruising and broken bones. He’d hated his enemies, but he’d hated himself even more.

  Stupid Stuttering Duke.

  Tristan woke in a sweat. Gasping for breath, he threw aside the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Taking deep breaths, he tried to keep the nausea at bay that threatened and roiled in his stomach. With a shaking hand, he reached for a glass of water on his nightstand.

  Oh God.

  He hadn’t experienced the nightmare in a long, long time. Why now?

  He knew the answer and the reason behind it.

  Olivia.

  She was sleeping in the adjoining chamber. Mrs. Ludson had prepared the room for Olivia. As his new bride, she’d assumed that was where he’d desired his wife.

  He wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. He was a grown man, a duke. No one dared to taunt him to his face now. But he’d learned the hard way that bad experiences from one’s youth were terribly difficult to forget. They were like old scars, permanently etched in one’s memories, that could unexpectedly arise and haunt a person at any time.

  He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. The nightmare had occurred for a reason. A warning. He would never wish a similar childhood on anyone.

  Especially his own child.

  Chapter Nine

  Olivia was alone in the breakfast room. A footman had promptly delivered tea as soon as she seated herself at the long, mahogany table, and a sideboard held an assortment of eggs, buttered toast, and ham. Sunlight streamed through the windows and warmed her cheeks. It would have been a lovely morning in a lovely room. She had fond memories of sitting in the dining room with her family each morning. They’d laugh, share bits of gossip, and discuss their daily plans.

  But things were different now that she was married.

  Was this how she would spend the rest of her days? Alone in a large, cold mansion devoid of laughter and love?

  The door opened, and Mrs. Ludson entered. “Good morning, Your Grace.”

  “Good morning. Will His Grace be joining me?” She inwardly cringed at the hope in her voice.

  A flash of pity crossed the housekeeper’s face. “I’m sorry, but the duke rose earlier and is in his study.”

  Of course he was. From what she surmised over the past two days that she’d been at Keswick Hall, the duke spent his days ensconced in his study. His stewards would come and go. She couldn’t fathom how much time Tristan spent working on his ducal estates. Her brother, Ian, was responsible and managed the earldom’s estates, and even he did not spend that much time in his study.

  One thing was certain: her husband had been avoiding her.

  Olivia rested her fork on the edge of her plate. “I’ve noticed the ballroom is lovely. Does His Grace entertain often?”

  The housekeeper’s face paled a shade. “Oh no. It is forbidden.”

  “Forbidden?”

  “There hasn’t been a ball at Keswick Hall in over a decade. His Grace dislikes them.”

  Shocked, she stared at the housekeeper. Over a decade? Had she married a complete hermit?

  At her obvious shock, Mrs. Ludson shifted from foot to foot. “Pardon my saying, Your Grace, but the duke is a good man.”

  A good man. The more she learned about him, the more she was unsure. He may treat his servants well, but his other actions made little sense. Why avoid all society functions?

  Olivia picked up her cup. “Perhaps you’re right, but His Grace must soon accept that things shall change. Keswick Hall has a new mistress.”

  …

  Olivia spotted her sister on the casino floor. She ran the distance from the Raven Club’s front door t
o where Ellie stood by the hazard table talking with a servant. “Ellie!”

  Ellie whirled. “Olivia! When did you return to town?”

  “Recently. I’m sorry I had no time to write to tell you. Are you upset?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m thrilled.”

  Ellie opened her arms, and Olivia ran into her embrace. Olivia’s heart squeezed in her chest, and tears blurred her vision.

  Her older sister looked as lovely as ever with red hair, blue eyes, a porcelain complexion, and a sprinkling of freckles on her pert nose. Ellie had always hated her freckles and had tried numerous cosmetics, but Olivia had always thought they added to her beauty.

  Ellie pulled back and looked into her eyes. Her delicate brows drew together. “What is it, love?”

  The concern written on her sister’s features made the tears come faster. Olivia choked back a sob. “Everything.”

  Ellie rubbed her back soothingly. “There, there, now. Come upstairs to the office, and I’ll order tea. We can talk.”

  “Is Ian here?” Olivia rubbed her eyes as she scanned the casino floor for their oldest sibling.

  “No. Ian enjoys early mornings with Catherine before her tutors arrive. Hugh is with our little Alexander. I come early to see to the staff and balance the ledgers. We will have time to ourselves.”

  Olivia walked beside her sister. They passed roulette, whist, and vingt-et-un tables on the casino floor. Hours later, the tables would be full of gamblers, most betting heavily. She spotted the back door that led to the boxing room where pugilist matches took place twice a week.

  They walked by doorways hidden in the paneling that gave entry into private rooms for high stakes gamblers and a secluded women-only gambling room.

  Continuing on, they ascended a flight of stairs and were soon ensconced in an opulent office with a large oak desk, matching leather chairs, and a thick Oriental carpet. Numerous leather-bound ledgers were open on the surface of the desk beside a pen and inkwell. Olivia knew Ellie was skilled with the ledgers. A shilling didn’t pass through the place without Ellie’s knowledge. It was a skill that their sister-in-law, Grace, had taught her. A blue velvet sofa was in the corner flanked by a side table filled with crystal decanters of amber-colored liquors.