So she wanted a bit of adventure, a choice of her own before she had to return to the manor and perform her duties as a daughter of an earl. He could understand the need for escape, couldn’t he? She wanted a few stolen moments of her own choosing. Who could blame her?
It wouldn’t last—couldn’t. This brief kiss could only be a minor distraction, nothing more. Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “And what did it feel like?”
She tilted her head to the side and watched him, her green eyes bright. “Much more than I thought.”
His arms dropped to his sides, and he took a step back. Rather than tempt him further, her answer roused his temper. She should not be here, kissing him, only to leave and stroll Rosehill’s vast gardens with a lord.
His jaw tightened. “Time to return.”
…
Olivia did not regret the kiss. Not one bit. What she did regret was Caleb’s rejection. Despite his aloofness, it would be difficult for her to forget what had occurred. His lips appeared of marble, but they were soft and seductive. And when she’d parted her lips and his tongue had slipped inside, her knees had buckled. Who knew a man could kiss a woman like that?
She was mostly ignorant of what transpired between a man and a woman. Oh, she knew how horses mated, but this was different, so different.
“Olivia!”
She started at the urgency in the tone. Her mother stood in the doorway of her bedchamber.
Olivia reached for her silver-handled brush. “I’m almost ready to meet Lord Elton for our walk. I just returned to refresh myself and—”
“Forget your walk with Lord Elton. The dowager duchess wishes to see you in her parlor.”
Olivia blinked. “Why?”
A tiny wrinkle formed between her mother’s brows. “I do not know. She hasn’t asked to see any of the ladies privately. Perhaps you have caught her eye? Her grandson may be expected.”
Olivia wanted to shout that the duke had already been in residence but held her tongue. She had no intention of confessing she’d spent the morning in the head groom’s company talking about the duke, her social obligations with Lord Elton and Lord Edwards, or anything else. And she certainly would never confess that she’d kissed the man.
Her thoughts turned to the dowager duchess’s summons. What did the woman want with her? Did she know her grandson was in residence and she was seeking a private audience with each unmarried lady in an effort to select the most eligible one to introduce to her grandson?
Olivia experienced a premonition of warning as she followed a liveried servant to the wing where the dowager’s private parlor was located. Priceless paintings by renowned Dutch and British artists graced the walls. She passed a music conservatory, a ballroom, a library, a study, and many others. She soon lost count.
“Rosehill has two hundred rooms,” the servant said as if reading her mind.
Two hundred rooms! What would a lady do with such a grand house?
At last, he stopped in front of a door and reached for the handle. The door swung open to reveal a richly paneled room of rosewood, striped gold and blue damask furniture, and blue silk curtains. The dowager stood by the mantle with her cane, dressed in a green silk gown with Brussel’s lace at the neck and sleeves. She nodded when Olivia entered.
“Lady Olivia, please sit.”
Olivia curtsied then noticed Lady Samantha sitting on the settee.
Olivia hesitated. What on earth was Samantha doing here? Her mother had led her to believe the dowager duchess sought a private audience. Samantha met Olivia’s gaze, and one corner of her mouth lifted. Not quite a smile, closer to a smug look of satisfaction.
Olivia smoothed her skirts and perched on the settee beside her.
Leaning on her cane, the dowager left the mantle to occupy a chair across from both ladies. “It has come to my attention that Lady Samantha’s diamond necklace has gone missing.”
Olivia glanced at Samantha, who sniffled then began to cry.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Olivia said.
“It is a family heirloom.” Samantha dabbed at her tears with an embroidered handkerchief.
“That’s unfortunate. Hopefully, it will be found,” Olivia said, unsure of what sort of response was expected.
The dowager gave Olivia a pointed look. “It has. In your portmanteau.”
Olivia’s mouth gaped in shock. “Pardon?”
“Where were you this afternoon?” the dowager asked.
“You cannot possibly think… There must be some mistake.” She saw it then—the same glimmer of hatred in Samantha’s gaze she’d recognized before. It was gone in a flash as she continued to wipe away the tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Lady Samantha wore the necklace in the breakfast room. An hour later, it was gone,” the dowager said.
“I didn’t take her necklace. She must have misplaced it there. Maybe the clasp broke and—”
Samantha shot to her feet. “That’s absurd! Now she is making excuses. She has coveted my necklace. Everyone heard her praise it last night. She took it and hid it in her portmanteau!”
Olivia felt a nauseous sinking in her gut. Samantha had warned her, but she hadn’t believed her. Had she fallen into a well-laid trap? Olivia had complimented Samantha on the necklace in an attempt to effect a truce between them. Had a simple act of kindness now made her a suspect?
The dowager leveled her gaze at Olivia. “I shall only ask you one more time. Where were you this morning? Your mother has no account of your whereabouts.”
The memory of the kiss with the groom returned in a heated rush, and Olivia felt her cheeks redden.
The dowager must have mistaken her blush for a flush of guilt, for she said, “Lady Samantha makes a believable argument. I must ask you to leave Rosehill at once.”
Panic pierced Olivia’s chest. If she was banished from the duke’s house party, the consequences would be profound. Gossip traveled like wildfire, and all would hear of her humiliation. Her mother would be furious.
Olivia’s mind was a whirlwind. “Wait! I went riding immediately after leaving the breakfast room. I was not in the manor. I could not have taken the necklace or hidden it in my baggage.”
The dowager gave her a pointed look. “Do you have a witness? Another lady or a groom?”
“Yes! The head groom. A man named Caleb.”
The dowager paused. “Caleb, you say?” A flicker of emotion flashed across her face, but it was gone so swiftly Olivia thought it a quirk of the sunlight flashing through the windows.
“You were alone? With the groom during your ride?” the dowager asked.
“Yes.” It was perfectly acceptable to ride with a groom. Why did she still feel like she’d done something horribly wrong?
The dowager stood and smoothed her skirts with ringed fingers. “We must immediately go to the stables, young lady. I’m anxious to confirm your story.”
…
Tristan had just returned from visiting his tenants. He’d discussed which crops the farmers would add and which fields would lay fallow for the upcoming season and how best to improve the production of the land. Over the years, he’d sought out former soldiers to farm his land—men whose pitiful army pensions were insufficient to support their families. Men who needed work and a purpose in life after seeing the horrors of war. Tristan had never battled Napoleon on the continent, but he knew about battling his own demons. These men did not judge him if he stuttered. They cared about survival and the meaning behind his words, no matter how broken they sounded.
He unsaddled Atlas and had begun brushing the stallion when his grandmother stormed into the stables.
“Tristan!”
He turned and smiled. “Hello, Antonia.” He’d called her by her first name for years. Their relationship was one of love and quarrel. Based on her fierce expression and her hand resting on her hip, it looked like they would be quarreling.
“How long have you been back at Rosehill?” Antonia asked.
She stomped her cane, but it made no sound on the straw-covered stable floor. Her dark eyes sniped at him. “Three days and you have yet to make an appearance at your own house party?”
“No. Your house party.”
Her lips thinned, and she glared at him. “Things have gone too far this time.”
“I hardly think m…m-issing a country party and avoiding a few debutantes and their overzealous mamas constitutes going too far.”
“You have much explaining to do, Your Grace,” Antonia said.
The use of his title did not bode well. Her expression remained fierce, and he inwardly groaned. He understood she was distressed that he had not told her that he’d returned to Rosehill days ago, but if he had, she would have insisted that he make an appearance, and that wasn’t something he was willing to do. He’d rather face a firing squad.
But he loved his grandmother and hadn’t sought to upset her. She was his father’s mother, and she shared the former duke’s temper. Tristan had no recollection of his father since the duke had died when Tristan was only three years old. Since then, Antonia was the one constant in his life. God only knew his mother, the former duchess, had never approved of her son up until her death a decade ago.
Antonia shook her head. “How did I not notice?”
She didn’t ask the question of him, but more to herself, and he imagined she was pondering the last few days.
He could have told her the truth but kept quiet. He’d slipped into the manor at night and slept in his own bed. The servants who knew of his presence were entirely loyal to him and never asked questions.
“I would have visited you,” he said, hoping to appease her.
“When? After everyone has departed?”
He figured his silence was a sufficient answer.
“As I said, things have gone too far this time,” Antonia said.
He watched her curiously as she walked to the stable door aided by her cane. Rather than leave, she raised it to wave at someone outside.
A moment later, Lady Olivia burst into the stables. Her golden hair was slightly disheveled, and her breasts rose and fell beneath her bodice like she’d run the entire distance from the house. Her appearance was like a punch to his gut, and images of their heated kiss flashed through his mind.
Christ! Why was she here? And with his grandmother?
Before his mind could comprehend, Olivia’s green eyes met his, and she pointed at his chest.
“Him! I was with him all afternoon. He is the head groom I had mentioned. His name is Caleb.”
Antonia stiffened. “Are you certain?”
“I swear my life on it!”
Antonia turned from Olivia to arch a brow at him. “I see.”
“Please tell her,” Olivia addressed him, her eyes imploring. “They think I stole Lady Samantha’s diamond necklace because it was found in my belongings, but I could not have because I was out riding. With you.”
Before he could answer, another woman entered the stables. She was older, but the resemblance to Olivia was unmistakable. By the disapproval stamped on the lady’s stern face, he guessed it was Olivia’s mother.
“See, Mother,” Olivia said, a tinge of panic in her tone, “I was telling the truth. Just ask the head groom.” Olivia turned back to him.
With startling clarity, Tristan understood. He was Olivia’s alibi for a stolen jewel. Heart thundering, he took in the trio of women standing expectantly before him. Olivia’s panicked expression. Her mother’s relief that her daughter wasn’t a thief yet censure that she was riding rather than encouraging the eligible bachelors in attendance. His grandmother’s cunning behind her shrewd gaze.
He understood only too well. Lady Olivia and her mother had no idea of his true identity.
Antonia, on the other hand, posed a problem.
Olivia watched him. “Kindly tell them that you took me riding this morning.”
He stayed silent as he contemplated the unexpected turn of events. He could do one of two things. One, deny that they had been alone together and have Olivia take the blame for a theft that she did not commit. His grandmother would be forced to give her the cut direct at a ball or at Almack’s, and young Olivia would be ostracized by the ton.
Or two, he could admit the truth that he had indeed spent a morning unchaperoned riding with her. It wouldn’t matter that it was under the guise of him acting as the head groom. He was the duke, and scandal would ensue.
If he told the truth, he would have to do the honorable thing. And he knew what that meant.
God, no.
He never wanted to marry. He’d been dead set against it and had already decided his cousin would inherit the dukedom.
His mind scrambled. There had to be another way out, an escape. He could admit to riding with Olivia, admit to his true position, and still refuse to marry the girl. Scandal would ruin Lady Olivia, destroy her chances of marriage and taint his reputation, but he cared naught what they thought of him. He was a duke, one step below royalty, and along with the power of the position, he knew he would continue to be accepted by the beau monde. He would still be viewed as a favorable match to all the eager mamas when it came to their unmarried daughters.
But Antonia would be devastated. She was the one constant in his life. His mother may have abandoned her imperfect son, but his grandmother had stayed by his side, and he would do everything he could to protect her.
Olivia continued to stare at him, waiting. “Tell them. Please.”
It was the plea in her voice that made him speak. The words left his lips without thought to his own position. It was never much of a choice.
“S…s-he was r…r-id…she was with me.”
Antonia’s gasp reverberated in his head, sounding as good as a hangman’s noose around his neck.
His gaze met Olivia’s. Her relief was palpable.
“You are admitting to being alone with the lady?” Antonia asked.
He answered with a terse nod of his head.
Antonia pursed her lips then faced Olivia’s mother. “It is decided then. My grandson will act honorably.”
“Your grandson?” Olivia’s mother’s voice rose an octave.
“That is correct. I have the pleasure of introducing you to His Grace, my grandson, the fourth Duke of Keswick.”
“Your Grace.” Olivia’s mother swiftly curtsied.
“Despite using his father’s name Caleb, his Christian name is Tristan,” the dowager said.
Tristan’s gaze returned to Lady Olivia’s. Her complexion was as pale as old parchment. Her green eyes traveled from his to his grandmother’s then back to his. She looked like a bird flown into a stone wall. She didn’t know.
Or did she?
A nagging coiled deep in his stomach. He was cynical by nature. Distrustful. Years of isolation had taught him to protect himself. Now, after all this time, had he been fooled at his own game? Had she devised the entire scenario to ensure the ultimate prize: a duke?
Bloody hell!
It was entirely possible. Child’s play, even. She could have bribed one of the servants to take the necklace and plant it in her trunk. The truth was he barely knew her. A ride in the country and a brief kiss wasn’t sufficient to judge her true character. And what if the kiss was contrived? After all, she had kissed him.
Had he been manipulated in the worst way?
Chapter Four
Olivia could only stare at Tristan in shock. Her mind refused to comprehend what she heard, what she was seeing. The change in him had been subtle at first, an indefinable clenching of his jaw, a sharpening of those dark eyes, a squaring of his broad shoulders. But now she recognized it for what it was: the unmistakable arrogance that made up the fabric—the very being—of the aristocracy.
Still, she had to ask aloud, “You are the duke?”
“It is rude to ask a question if the answer is known.” His tone was sharp, his gaze direct. His speech held
no stutter.
Once again, the feeling that something was dreadfully wrong sank in her stomach. It was bad enough that she’d been accused of stealing Lady Samantha’s necklace. Even more incriminating was the fact that the missing jewelry had been found in her possessions.
But this was much, much worse. A stable master turned into a duke.
A rivulet of sweat trickled between her breasts in her tight corset. The scent of fresh hay and horse that had calmed her in the past now made her feel nauseous.
If Caleb—no, Tristan—was the duke, then that meant she’d spent an entire afternoon with him. Unchaperoned.
Good God. The consequences were profound.
And they hadn’t even mentioned the kiss. Looking at the man now, she couldn’t fathom how his lips had been so tantalizingly soft. His mouth was set in a deep frown, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw a lump of granite.
Olivia glanced away, hoping to get sympathy from one of the two older women in the stable. It was a mistake. Her mother’s expression was one of shock mingled with anger and—Heaven help Olivia—satisfaction. It was enough to make Olivia want to leap onto Atlas’s saddle and ride hell bent for leather into the countryside. A glimmer of interest and calculation lit the dowager duchess’s eyes.
Olivia recognized the calculation; she’d seen it often enough in her own mother’s eyes.
Oh, no!
She’d needed an alibi. Now, she desperately needed an escape.
“The ensuing scandal will travel to London before we can even return,” Olivia’s mother said. “The other guests might even suspect the truth as we speak. They have to marry. At once.”
“I agree, but a special license is necessary,” the dowager duchess said.
“You are a duke’s grandmother. Can you not petition the Bishop for one?”
“Even I have my limitations, however—” The dowager rubbed her chin with a thumb and forefinger before continuing, “I am hopeful.”
They talked as if the two people involved weren’t even present.
All during this discussion, Tristan, the Duke of Keswick—as she must now think of him—glowered at Olivia. His expression was different from when they’d sat by the stream, watched the water flow over the rocks, and talked.
How to Capture a Duke Page 3