How to Capture a Duke

by Tina Gabrielle

  It would be difficult for Olivia to forget what both Tristan and Lord Jeffries had told her about the former duchess. The tutors. The duchess’s inexcusable behavior when her son had not been “cured” of his affliction.

  “He said as much. Why?” Olivia asked.

  “She kept trying to fix him. I do believe there were ways to help him as a boy, are ways to help him now, but she destroyed his confidence with a string of tutors who did not know their arse from their heads. They were academics and had no experience with Tristan’s speech impediment.”

  “The tutors were cruel.”

  “At one point, the duchess thought her son suffered from a physical ailment. She summoned a physician who insisted upon bloodletting. I helplessly watched as Tristan was tied down. He was only eight years old.”

  My God. He’d failed to mention that incident.

  “I wept for the boy. Soon after, his mother shipped him off to Eton. I thought things would get better if he was away from her.”

  “Did things improve?” Olivia asked, a tinge of hope in her voice.

  “No. Something must have happened when he was away at school. Children can be cruel.”

  Ellie had told her that Tristan and Dumfries had attended Eton together, but they were not old school friends. Spencer had told her that Tristan was bullied at school. It was not difficult to make the connection now. “Lord Dumfries was one of the cruel boys, wasn’t he?” The two men were the same age, and Tristan’s jaw would tighten at the mention of Dumfries. Instinct told her there was much more to their dislike of each other than one schoolyard skirmish.

  “Lord Dumfries was a bully, one of the meanest. I only know because Tristan began having nightmares when he’d returned home for holiday. He’d talk in his sleep, you see. I’d open his door and comfort him.”

  Olivia swallowed as an image of Tristan as a tormented young boy formed in her mind. She hated to see any child suffer, and she was grateful for the woman sitting before her. “Thank you for that.”

  Antonia leaned across the table to clutch her hand. For an elderly woman, her grip was surprisingly strong. “The best way to thank me is to not give up on my grandson. Remember this: fortune favors those bold enough to seize what they desire.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “You look lov…lov…b-beautiful tonight.”

  Tristan’s gaze swept over Olivia as they stepped inside the vestibule of the Covent Garden Theatre. She looked fetching in a light-green gown and a deeper green opera cloak lined in black. A maid had artfully upswept her hair in curls with a loose curl that framed her heart-shaped face.

  Her lovely eyes twinkled beneath the light of the chandeliers. “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”

  He’d taken care with his appearance and had tolerated his valet’s fussing over the intricate knot of his cravat and the sheen of his boots. He’d wanted everything to be special for her this evening.

  Tristan tucked her arm in his and escorted her toward the theater. Men and women, dressed in evening finery, watched them with curiosity. He knew the appearance of a duke and duchess was noteworthy, but the sight of the elusive Duke of Keswick with his new duchess would make the gossip sheets tomorrow. Knowing his grandmother, Antonia would hand-deliver the paper to his study with pride.

  Rather than worrying that one of the gentlemen would approach to engage him in conversation, he felt a sense of masculine arrogance and pride that Olivia was on his arm.

  He made his way to the stairs, and they ascended then made their way down a hall. He opened the curtains that led to his private box.

  “Do you attend the theater often?” Olivia asked.

  “Never.”

  “Then why do you have your own private box?”

  “My father owned it. My grandfather before him. It is a family tradition of sorts.” Tristan disliked unnecessary expenses, and he spent enough time in his study with his steward going over ledgers to identify and eliminate them. But something about the private box had been different. Perhaps it reminded him of his father—a man he’d never known—and he’d kept it.

  Seeing the pleased look on Olivia’s face, he was glad he had.

  He held a chair for her to sit, and his fingers grazed her shoulders. His touch lingered, longing to caress the smooth skin of her nape. She must have sensed his battle for restraint, and she turned to look up at him.

  “Tristan.”

  As always of late, the sound of his Christian name on her lips unleashed a rush of desire. He grew rock hard in his tailored trousers.

  Christ. She must never know how strongly he reacted to her.

  Thankfully, the curtain rose, and he took his seat.

  Moments later, her attention was riveted on the theatrical scene. “I’ve heard the backdrop was inspired by Joshua Reynolds and other artists from the Royal Academy of Rome. It’s quite breathtaking.”

  Breathtaking. It was an apt description for her tonight. He wanted to tell her so, but then the actors stepped on stage and drew her interest. Meanwhile, he watched her. Her facial bones were delicately carved, her cheeks a dusty rose. Her generously curved parted lips captured his attention every time he looked at her mouth. She was made to be kissed, and he imagined her licking and teasing a path on his naked chest. Lower, even. His skin grew warm and tight. He shifted in his seat to ease his hardened cock.

  He’d ended up in this blasted position, not because she’d won at hoops. She hadn’t. But because the Soldiers Bill would never have progressed without her help.

  He wasn’t completely unaware of her reasons for asking him to the theater. They would be amidst society, but he would not have to speak to anyone should he not desire to do so. He knew her machinations.

  And he was grateful.

  Until now, he hadn’t realized just how much he’d begun to enjoy her presence. She was easy to be with—easy to converse with. She wasn’t like other society women. She’d never looked at him in disgust or pity when he’d made a mistake and tripped over his words.

  He understood that his past had made him wary of trusting anyone. His own mother had destroyed the hopes of a young boy, and his experiences at school had reaffirmed this belief. It was best to protect himself from disappointment.

  But maybe Olivia was worth the risk.

  Antonia seemed to think so.

  The singing on stage reached a fevered pitch as Caesar was repeatedly stabbed by his senate then Brutus. Olivia reached out to clutch Tristan’s hand on the balustrade. “Oh, Tristan. Isn’t the performance exceptional?”

  His eyes dropped to where she touched him. Her satin glove appeared stark white in the dim theater. It felt right, her touching him, holding him, and he turned his palm to squeeze her hand.

  “Wonderful, indeed.”

  …

  “I enjoyed our evening,” Tristan said.

  “So did I. Thank you for taking me even though I lost our game of hoops and you had no obligation to do so.”

  They had returned to Keswick Hall, and Gordon had taken her opera cloak and Tristan’s hat and coat.

  They stood awkwardly, looking around the marble vestibule, at the priceless George Stubbs paintings on the wall, a gilded mirror, and a vase resting on an end table nestled in the corner. Anywhere but in each other’s eyes.

  What else could she say to keep him engaged? She had enjoyed the play, and she’d been right to pick the theater. No one had barged into their private box or bothered the duke with unwanted questions. The evening had been a success.

  She hadn’t been ignorant of his attentions. She’d watched the play. He’d spent much of the time watching her. She’d been secretly thrilled.

  Had they come to an understanding? Had he realized they could have much more than a marriage in name only?

  “Shall we?” He offered his arm to escort her up the stairs. Her heart slammed against her rib cage. Did he intend to join her in her bedchamber or invite her to his? To finally consummate their marriage? The thought took hold and
sent a shiver of anticipation down her spine.

  They climbed the winding staircase side-by-side then walked down the hall. All the while, her mind raced and her limbs heated. Halting outside her bedchamber door, she turned to meet his gaze. Would he come inside?

  “Thank you again for aiding with Lord Ware.”

  “I wanted to help.”

  “You did. And it means much. I could not have swayed his opinion and held influence over others. There is a strong likelihood the bill will pass now.”

  “I’m happy to hear this. I know you care about the matter.”

  He reached for her hand. Turning back the silk glove, he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.

  Her skin tingled from the kiss, and her lips parted. Raising his eyes, he held her gaze.

  “Good night, Olivia.” Then he turned and went to his own bedchamber door and disappeared within the room.

  Her heart sank as she opened her own door. She stood in the center of the lovely room and stared at the large four-poster bed. How could she have misinterpreted so badly? His touch had caressed her shoulders when he’d pulled out her chair. His heated gaze had watched her in the theater. His hand had clutched hers on the balcony railing. She cupped her hand as if she could capture his kiss.

  She wasn’t wrong. He desired her.

  But he resisted her still.

  Antonia’s words returned. Don’t give up on him. Fortune favors those bold enough to seize what they desire. She was no longer a fresh-faced debutante. She was twenty-one years old and a married virgin. She was bold and desirable, and now more than ever before, she needed her reckless and stubborn nature to come to her aid.

  If her husband feared to come to her bed, then she would go to his.

  She rang for her maid and chose her prettiest nightgown, a silk so fine it was nearly transparent. Removing the pins in her hair, she brushed the blond locks until they shimmered like a pale halo around her shoulders.

  She paced the thick Oriental carpet to gain her confidence. She took a single candle then walked to the corner of the room and pressed her free palm against the connecting door that led from her chamber to his. The same door that on her first day here he had sworn would remain permanently closed. Taking a deep breath, she leaned an ear to the cool wood. She didn’t hear anything and assumed he was already in bed.

  Insecurities arose. She had no idea how to seduce a man, let alone a reluctant husband.

  But he’s not reluctant. You’ve seen the desire in his eyes.

  Chin held high, she reached for the handle and opened the door. The room was dimly lit. Coals burned low in the brazier from the fireplace. Her candle cast a faint glow around her. She crept closer, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room. She could not make out the shape of a figure on the bed.

  “Tristan?” she whispered.

  No answer.

  She stepped closer and realized he wasn’t in the bed. Her stomach tilted, and she bit her lip in disappointment. All her bravery was for naught. Her husband was probably in his study keeping company with boring ledgers.

  She dreaded returning to her room, her big empty bed. She’d arise alone, eat breakfast alone, and ride in the park alone. Her sigh filled the room, and her eyes fell upon an end table and the liquor decanter resting upon it. If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she could use a drink of his fine whisky.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Tristan stared down at his wife as she slept in his bed.

  Olivia stirred, pulling the coverlet closer, and sighed. He still couldn’t believe she was here. He spotted the crystal decanter and empty glass on his bedside table. She’d indulged in a drink before bed.

  He’d had a drink in his study. He’d removed his coat, cravat, and boots and sat in the leather chair, sipped his drink, and tried to forget his lovely wife upstairs in her bedchamber. Now, he’d found her in his.

  “Olivia.”

  She yawned, then her eyelids fluttered open and she stretched languorously on his sheets. Her green gaze widened as she recognized him. She lay upon his coverlet, not beneath it, and he wondered if she’d planned to sleep here or had just fallen asleep after drinking his whisky.

  “What are you doing in my room?” she asked.

  “I’m not. You are in mine.”

  Fully alert, she sat up. “You’re right. I remember now.”

  Dressed in a silk nightgown that was made to seduce a man, he was helpless not to stare. He’d carried a candelabra, and the candlelight made the gossamer fabric appear almost sheer. He could make out the shape of her breasts, almost see the dusky nipples.

  “I opened the door from my chamber to yours,” she said.

  His mouth was dry, and his gaze darted to the decanter. He could use another drink himself. “Why?”

  She rose on her knees, her shift tugging to reveal a good amount of silken skin at her neck. Her golden hair was loose and cascaded across her shoulders and down her back. Her green eyes were earnest. “You should know I longed to marry for love.”

  What could he say to that? He initially thought she’d trapped him, but he hadn’t believed that in a long time. Still, if she wanted love, he was woefully inadequate to give it to her. His own mother hadn’t loved him. What did he know of the useless emotion?

  “I’ve also longed to share a bed with my husband, to experience what the poets write about and what I’ve heard whispered in the ladies’ retiring room at the Raven Club.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To feel seduction.”

  Seduction. Just the word on her lips made his skin grow tight. One little tug on her shift and he’d see her breast. He’d felt the lush fullness through her clothing and he longed, more than air to breathe, to caress the naked flesh. Take her nipple in his mouth and suckle until she begged for more.

  Sweat beaded on his brow. “Olivia.”

  “I know what Lord Jeffries said. That you do not want children. But I want to be with you.”

  He wanted to be with her, too. God, how he wanted her. He glanced at the decanter and glass. “How much did you drink?”

  “One whisky. I am not foxed.”

  She wasn’t. Her eyes were clear in the candlelight. Still, was she aware of the affect she had on him?

  “You may not be drunk, but you still don’t know what you’re saying. You’d regret it tomorrow.”

  Rather than be dissuaded, she reached out and ran a finger down his chest. “No. I won’t.”

  The simple touch was like a brand on his skin beneath his clothes. It was as if what he’d sworn not to touch had become what he must have.

  Madness.

  She licked her lips, and they glistened in the candlelight. “I’m not leaving here tonight. Or the next night. I don’t think you want me to leave, either.”

  She was bold and sassy and oh, so beautiful. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a gift, but she was a gift. A treasure.

  “Take care, duchess. You play with fire.”

  She slipped a finger between the buttons on his shirt and gave a slight tug. It was akin to lighting a match to dry tinder. He lowered his head, hesitating for the briefest moment before swooping down to capture her mouth.

  She kissed him back just as fiercely, an equal match. It fueled his desire, and any attempts to resist her vanished along with his stark need.

  This was desire. Nothing more. He could do this, give her what she needed and greedily take what he wanted without changing anything.

  One hand sank into her silken hair, holding her captive for his kiss, while the other slid down her back and cupped her pert bottom. She filled his hand perfectly, and a low growl sounded from deep in his throat.

  “Olivia.”

  “Yes,” she said then released a breathy sigh. “Yes, Tristan.”

  He pulled her flush against him. Through her thin nightgown, the softness of her body molded perfectly to his hardness.

  He tore his mouth from hers to trail kisses down her neck to the
sensitive lobe of her ear. He’d wanted her for so long. If he were honest with himself, he’d wanted her since she’d kissed him by the stream that very first time.

  A need burned hot within him and threatened his iron control. “I want to see you. All of you.”

  “I want to see you, too.”

  His fingers reached for her, but she pushed him away and moved to the silk tie that closed the top of her gown. He watched, fascinated, as the knot loosened, and the fabric gaped to reveal inches of smooth, satiny skin. Then he nearly moaned as she reached down to pull the entire gown over her head, and the silk slipped from her fingers to slither on the bed.

  The candlelight cast a lovely glow over her nakedness—her lush breasts with dusky nipples, the flat stomach, the flare of her hips, to the golden curls at the juncture of her thighs.

  His voice was gruff. “I’m thankful you came.”

  “You are?”

  “I’m thankful you are here in my chamber because I’m finally going to touch you everywhere, to kiss you everywhere, at last.”

  She parted her lips in a gasp of surprise. He took possession of her mouth, sucked and licked, and she tasted him with an equal need that matched his own.

  “Take off your shirt,” she demanded.

  He gladly obliged and tugged the shirt over his head and tossed it to the carpet. He reveled in the way her gaze traveled over his chest, his arms, and lower still—to the bulge in his trousers. With fearlessness, she reached for the placket of his trousers.

  His hand covered hers. “Not yet.”

  He gathered her in his arms, lowered her onto the bed, then spread her golden tresses across his pillow.

  Mine.

  This was where she belonged. In his bed. In his life. He inwardly shook his head. No, he mustn’t think that way. He could only think of tonight. Of giving and receiving pleasure. His greedy gaze watched her. “You are breathtakingly lovely.”

  He suckled one breast, taking the nipple deep into his mouth.

  Her gasp fueled his desire. “Oh my.”

  “Tell me what you feel. T…t-tell me.” He wanted her to tell him everything. Her likes. Her dislikes. What drove her passion?