Would she ever glimpse that man again?
It was difficult to believe that just two hours before, she’d stood beside him and exchanged vows in front of the local vicar. She’d been tense as she’d looked up at her groom with all the stoicism of facing a firing squad. She had no recollection of her vows. She’d spoken when necessary, smiled when required. Tristan hadn’t spoken his vows but had nodded once. It had been sufficient.
To make matters worse, her brother and sister and their spouses were not in attendance. Ian’s and Grace’s little girl had a cold, and they could not travel. Hugh and Ellie now ran the Raven Club and could not leave. Both of her siblings had written to wish her well and were excited to welcome the duke into the family.
Olivia did not have the heart to write back and tell them the truth behind the marriage. What would she have said?
It’s a fraud. The duke dislikes me, distrusts me, and only agreed to marry me not to upset his grandmother. I had no choice.
Ugh.
She was exhausted, mentally and physically. She wanted to return to her chamber, have a maid help her out of her ridiculously expensive wedding gown, and remove the pins from her hair. Then she’d collapse in her feathered mattress, bury her face in her pillow, and try to forget that she was a married woman. Thankfully, she did not have to worry about a wedding night. Her groom had made that clear. But which room would be hers? Would her chamber be connected to the duke’s? There were two hundred rooms in this blasted manor.
She was now mistress of this place.
Another fear pierced her chest.
She had no idea how to be a duchess. She was raised the youngest daughter of an earl, but a duchess meant much, much more. Rosehill would be only one of his many estates. And what of his London home? She struggled to recall passing by the Duke of Keswick’s Berkeley Square mansion. It was a large and lavish pile of stone. Panic set in, a different kind this time. As a duchess, she would be watched by the society matrons. Everywhere she went and everything she wore would be under scrutiny by the gossips of the ton and printed in the scandal sheets.
Good heavens. She was not up to the challenge.
Tristan opened a door and ushered her inside the library. Rows of mahogany bookshelves full of leather-bound books eased her nerves. Armchairs were situated before a fireplace. A large desk and tall windows overlooking the vast gardens made for a pleasing place to sit and read. If only she could shut herself in the library, curl up in one of the leather chairs, read a book, and pretend she hadn’t wed and her life hadn’t changed.
Instead, she forced herself to turn and meet his gaze. “Pray tell me, what is so important as to leave our own wedding breakfast?”
“It’s done.”
“Yes?” That was an odd way of saying they had exchanged vows and were now bound to each other for all eternity.
He leveled a flat stare at her. “I did my duty.”
Duty. What a fool she’d been to think she’d ever find love. What made her think she was deserving of such a man?
Unsure how to respond, she asked the question that had been on her mind. “Which chamber will be mine?”
He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Whichever you want. Rosehill is yours.”
“Mine?” He was giving her the manor as a wedding gift?
“I’m leaving straightway for London.”
She blinked in surprise. “Already? I must pack.”
“You misunderstand. I never said you are to accompany me.”
She blinked. “You mean to leave me here? At Rosehill?”
“You wanted to be a duchess. You may have Rosehill forever.”
Forever. He wasn’t just gifting her Rosehill. He meant to banish her here, to have her rusticate in the country.
Bile rose up her throat. He had the power of a dukedom, and as her husband, he could carry out the threat. She’d never again set foot in London or be able to frequently visit her siblings. If Olivia was in the country, she would see her family only when they visited her, which was much less often than she preferred.
And what of the Raven Club? The casino had been a part of her life ever since her brother had confessed to owning the place. Olivia loved donning a mask and walking the casino floor or watching one of the fights in the boxing room. It was exciting and adventurous.
Tristan could not take all of that away from her. “Once again, you are wrong, Your Grace. I never wanted to be a duchess, and I certainly never sought to be your duchess. You cannot banish me.”
“I can and I will.” His mouth thinned into a hard line.
For the first time, she was the one without words. She was aware of her wedding finery—the layers of silk and lace and seeded pearls that seemed to weigh as heavily as an anvil upon her shoulders. The tightness of her corset made it difficult to draw breath. The impossibility of her situation struck her like a blow, and her lip quivered. She held back tears. She refused to cry, refused to give him the satisfaction.
Meanwhile, his stutter was gone. Why was his speech clear when he spoke to her? Was he comfortable treating her in a highhanded manner or did he truly despise her and not care?
Either answer meant her doom.
Chapter Six
A low knock on the study door interrupted Tristan from his correspondence. “Enter.”
His butler, Gordon, stood in the doorway. “You have a letter, Your Grace.”
Tristan nodded, and his trusted butler shuffled forward, a crutch in his right hand, and extended a silver salver bearing a letter.
Tristan removed the letter from the salver and added it to the neat pile on his desk. “You also have a visitor, Your Grace. Your cousin, Lord Jeffries. Shall I send him to the drawing room or see him here?”
No doubt his cousin, Spencer, otherwise known as Lord Jeffries, had heard the news that Tristan had married.
Tristan was aware of Gordon waiting. He motioned to the chair before his desk to let the butler know he’d see his guest in this room.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Gordon said.
Master and servant exchanged few words, but their method of communication was well-established and highly efficient. Their relationship was stronger than any typical English household. Gordon had returned from Waterloo with only one leg; his other had been blown off by a faulty English cannon. Gordon now used a wooden leg and a crutch. A well-experienced butler before he’d enlisted, he’d been turned away from every household for employment, save one. The man’s pension, which was distributed by the Royal Hospital of Chelsea, was a pitiful one shilling per day and insufficient to live upon.
Tristan had hired Gordon soon after he’d crossed the threshold of Keswick Hall seeking employment. He recognized competence when he saw it. A war injury would not prevent a butler from adequately performing his duties, and Tristan had been right. Gordon was an invaluable part of his London household.
Soon after, Tristan had need of a new housekeeper, and he’d retained Mrs. Ludson, a woman who was cross-eyed and who’d also had difficulty finding employment because of her “condition.” He hadn’t cared about their disabilities, and it hadn’t affected their performance. He knew firsthand society’s cruelties, and if he’d bothered to have visitors, he still would not be concerned with their opinions of his staff.
Gordon, Mrs. Ludson, and a few other servants had been with Tristan for years, and they were loyal. None expected visitors to the Berkeley Square mansion. No balls or parties would be held in his London home. The ballroom remained dusted but never used. The drawing room rarely received guests. The gardens were well-maintained, but there would never be a garden party, and the maze would never see a couple enter the hedgerows to carry out a secret rendezvous. The Duke of Keswick Hall had other demands.
Tristan shuffled the papers on his desk in an orderly pile. His correspondence was orderly. His ledgers were precise, the numbers neatly lined up in columns and the math double and triple checked for accuracy. He expected perfection, and his steward knew to account for eve
ry shilling.
His grandmother, Antonia, didn’t fully understand Tristan’s need for isolation and wanted him to host something in town, but as far as he was concerned, his reputation as the aloof duke suited him just fine. His exposure to society, however, could not be entirely avoided. He took his duties in the House of Lords just as seriously as his correspondence. Being unable to speak in the House was his main obstacle, and he’d been frustrated that he could not argue for the benefit of one of the proposed bills to aid the soldiers who’d returned from war. Lord Ware falsely believed the bill too costly and staunchly opposed it. But it was Ware’s close confident, Lord Dumfries—Tristian’s long-time nemesis—who truly stood in the way.
Gordon cleared his throat, and Tristan realized the man was still in the room.
“Pardon my asking, Your Grace, but the dowager wrote and informed the staff that you have married.”
Of course, Antonia had. His grandmother had hopes, but she would eventually have to accept it was a marriage in name only.
Gordon appeared hopeful. “Shall the staff expect your bride?”
Tristan shook his head.
“I see. The dowager mentioned Her Grace is at Rosehill.”
“She will r…r-emain there.”
A flicker of emotion crossed Gordon’s face—distress? disapproval?—but it was gone in a flash and quickly replaced with the butler’s normally impassive features. “I shall inform the staff not to expect her. I shall see Lord Jeffries here.”
Gordon leaned on his crutch as he left the room. Tristan experienced a stab of remorse. He shouldn’t care what his staff thought. They didn’t know the full truth behind his marriage. It was a farce, nothing more.
He wanted to shout the words but stayed silent.
Moments later, Spencer stood in the doorway. “Congratulations are in order. When were you going to inform me of the good news?”
Handsome and charming, with light blond hair and hazel eyes, Tristan’s cousin was a few years his junior. Today, his exuberance only seemed to irk Tristan. “My marriage is n…n-ot of importance.”
“Not of importance! Where is she? I doubt she would agree with your assessment.”
He didn’t want to get into the details. Not with Spencer, who was always cheerful. “She prefers the country.”
“I see.”
“You have nothing to fear. The title will fall to you one day.”
Spencer’s face fell. “Do you think me a complete cad? I don’t need your money. I told you before that I’ve invested in a profitable shipping venture and even acquired a warehouse at the docks.”
“Your shipping venture sounds like a solid business enterprise,” Tristan said.
“Good. Because it’s not the title I’m asking about, but your well-being. You should not be alone. A bride is good news.”
Business was easy to talk about, but as for his marriage, it would not alter his own plans. “There will be no children.”
Spencer’s brow shot into his hairline. “She cannot conceive?”
“No. It is a marriage in name only.”
“In name only? You mean you won’t be sharing a bed? Is she disfigured? Unattractive?”
Tristan didn’t answer. An image crossed his mind of a cascade of golden hair, sparkling green eyes, and sun-kissed cheeks as Olivia galloped across the fields. Another memory arose, one that he feared would not fade: the feel of her full breasts and curvaceous figure as he held her for a kiss that hadn’t lasted long enough. Whatever he could say about Olivia, she was not unattractive. She was the type of woman who made a man think lustful thoughts. Even her inexperienced kiss had affected him in ways he’d found surprising. She’d been exuberant and eager and would have kept kissing him if he hadn’t pulled away. Come to think of it, he shouldn’t have. He should have taken advantage and tasted more of what she’d offered. At least he’d been blissfully ignorant of her plans then.
Spencer drew his lips in thoughtfully. “I see. She must be chicken-breasted and uncomely, and you married to please your grandmother.”
Let Spencer believe what he wanted. It was easier than explaining alibis and trickery.
“However unimportant you claim your marriage, I would still like to properly meet the lady someday,” his cousin said.
It wasn’t going to happen, not unless Spencer traveled to Rosehill.
…
He’d taken Atlas with him.
Olivia stared at the stallion’s empty stall. It had been a week since her husband had left for London, and her emotions were still a whirlwind. One minute she wanted to weep; the next she wanted to scream in outrage. The sight of the horse would have calmed her, but now she felt only anxious. She could ride another, but the stables reminded her of him.
Dammit. Her one escape and now she saw him everywhere.
She envisioned Tristan brushing Atlas, his muscles bunching beneath his cotton shirt as he worked. She recalled him helping her mount her mare the day they’d ridden, his strong hands easily spanning her waist. And she relived their kiss, the softness of his lips and the thrill of excitement as their tongues tangled.
She pushed the memories aside. They were all lies. The real man wasn’t a groom; he was a cruel, selfish duke. A man who’d wed her then abandoned her on her wedding day.
Good God. Would she ever recover from the betrayal or the humiliation?
She left Atlas’s stall and approached the stable of the mare she’d ridden that day. Reaching out, she stroked the animal’s soft muzzle. The day after the wedding, her mother had returned to Bath to live with her sister, Olivia’s aunt. Her mother had kissed Olivia on the cheek and offered words of advice. “You’re now a duchess. Do not let pride get in your way.”
That was her most valuable motherly advice? Pride was the least of Olivia’s vices; she possessed an abundance of impulsiveness and stubbornness.
It had been an agonizingly slow week. The longer Olivia roamed the two-hundred room mansion, the more her anger arose.
How dare he? What gave him the right to leave her here? To keep her from London, her former life, and her family? She didn’t care if he was a duke. Or even a duke who happened to be her husband in the eyes of the law. She did not take well to anyone forbidding her to do anything, and she refused to be any man’s property. The Duke of Keswick believed she’d deceived him. He had no idea what duplicity she was capable of.
“I’m surprised you are still in residence, my dear.”
Olivia spun around to see the dowager duchess enter the stables. She walked smoothly, and not for the first time, Olivia wondered why she used the cane. It didn’t appear as if she needed it.
“I was told by His Grace to remain at Rosehill.”
Why had the woman sought her out? Olivia had come here hoping to ease her troubles. She was not in the mood for company.
“And do you always do what you are told?” the dowager asked.
Olivia warily eyed the woman. No, she did not. As a child, Olivia had disobeyed her parents on more occasions than her brother and sister combined. She’d had a fondness for tucking her skirts into her waistband and climbing trees on the country estate. Her father, the old earl, had accused her of giving him his gray hairs, and she’d had her bottom paddled more than once. It hadn’t stopped her. She’d only grown more secretive in her activities and had snuck out of the house to spend time in the stables rather than practice the pianoforte.
“He believes I deceived him,” Olivia said.
“Did you?” The older woman’s gaze was direct.
Not for the first time, as Olivia looked into the woman’s dark eyes, she was reminded of her grandson’s. “No.”
The dowager sifted straw aside with her cane then stepped closer. “I owe you an apology, my dear.”
“For thinking I entrapped your grandson in marriage?” Olivia asked, a hint of sarcasm in her tone.
“Heavens, no. Not that. For initially believing Lady Samantha when she claimed you stole her necklace.”
> “You believe me then?” Olivia cringed at the note of hopefulness that crept into her voice. She wanted the woman to know the truth, that she wasn’t a liar or a thief. If Antonia believed that she’d never stolen the necklace, then she must know that she would not have needed an alibi and would have to conclude that she didn’t trap her grandson to the altar.
“Lady Samantha thought herself quite clever for placing the jewelry in your belongings. But her efforts to attract the interest of the gentlemen, and even her hopes of attracting my grandson, should he have appeared at the house party, were for naught. I see that now.”
Olivia let out a sigh. “I’m grateful. I’ve longed for someone to believe me.”
“My grandson is another worry entirely. Whether you knew he was the duke or not does not matter.”
“It matters to me! I didn’t know his true identity. I would never have asked him to confirm that we were together that morning if I had known he was the duke.”
“My grandson can be stubborn. You are an intelligent young lady. I assume you know why he is a man of few words?”
She did know. But he rarely stuttered when he was with her.
“It does not justify why he neglected his guests at Rosehill, but it explains his actions,” the dowager said.
“You mean why he pretended to be a head groom?”
“No, not that. That was terribly wrong of him. I meant why he’s avoided the young ladies. And his beliefs regarding children.”
“What do you mean?” Did the man dislike children? It was entirely possible. Many men ignored their own children. Even the wives of the aristocracy retained nannies and governesses then sent their offspring packing to boarding schools when they were older. But it still did not prevent them from having children. All titled men needed heirs.
Tristan was no exception.
“It is not my place to tell you my grandson’s views. Meanwhile, you do not seem like a lady who will be content to stay here.”
How to Capture a Duke Page 5