How to Capture a Duke

by Tina Gabrielle

  “It’s wondrous. And when you touch me here,” she said, her hand grazing her breast, “it travels like liquid fire through my body.”

  “Where else?”

  She took his hand and placed it between her thighs. His cock grew even harder in his trousers. Never before had he desired a woman so badly. He returned his attention to her breasts, worshiping first one and then the other until she was writhing beneath him. He parted her feminine folds with infinite gentleness. She looked at him as he slowly traced her folds then dipped the tip of a finger inside her. She shivered, and her lashes fluttered.

  “Look at me.”

  She opened her eyes, her lips parting.

  “Tell me,” he demanded.

  “It feels wonderful.”

  He stroked again.

  “You know, don’t you?” she asked. “Oh, you must know.”

  “Nothing matters but you.” His finger slipped inside a bit more, and she closed her eyes again, but her moan told him. “I want to taste you here. Does that shock you?”

  “I…I do not know.”

  Another stroke. Another throaty sigh. A quivering of her hips to meet his stroking fingers.

  Beautiful. Fearless. With great force of will, he gritted his teeth and tamped down on his desire.

  Tonight would be for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Tristan’s words made Olivia quiver even more than what he was doing to her body, making her feel. She moaned at the delicious pleasure of his fingers, his wicked, skilled fingers that knew just where to stroke, just how much pressure she needed.

  Her thoughts shattered when he took a nipple between his lips, dragging his tongue and the smallest scrape of his teeth over the sensitive peak. She arched toward him, and he suckled with a groan.

  He turned his attention to the other and muttered, “Like delicious strawberries. Sweet and plump. Impossible to resist.”

  He kissed and licked a searing path down her body all the while, murmuring, “So lovely.”

  She felt beautiful. And then he reached the apex of her thighs. Sweet Heaven. It took all her effort not to thrust upward, her need was so great. He parted her slick folds, his thumb pressing, and dipped a finger inside her.

  “Here is where I want to taste you.”

  She watched as his head lowered and he kissed her there. She cried out at the sensations, the heat and stroke of his tongue licking and laving wickedly. She dropped her head to the pillow and threaded her fingers into his inky dark hair as he worked her devastatingly.

  Her heart throbbed with her building need, her breath stolen and her lips muttering incomprehensible words. He was relentless and giving, gentle and teasing, and she had never imagined such intimacy could exist between a man and a woman. This was torturous bliss, and she moaned, her hips surging forward, begging for more pleasure even as he gave it.

  Her body strained, wanting, wanting something…

  “Not yet.” His growl vibrated against her, teasing her more.

  She didn’t know what he meant. She only knew she was close to some perilous precipice, a pleasure she had never experienced but one that she knew only he could give her, a building release that she desperately needed.

  He understood. His tongue lashed out to stroke the aching bud where she needed him most. Shameless with need, she writhed beneath him, her stiffened nipples pointing to the ceiling. He was the sinful giver of pleasure with his circling and swirling tongue.

  “Now,” he said.

  His finger dipped further inside as his tongue circled her most sensitive flesh. Fire spread through her veins, and she careened over the edge, crying out his name over and over until she was boneless, her heart pounding.

  He rose to kiss her belly, cradling her until her body stilled and her heartbeat returned to some resemblance of normal. She stroked his hair.

  “That was lovely,” she whispered.

  He lifted his head, met her gaze, and grinned in an expression of pure male satisfaction. “It was magnificent.”

  Her heart flipped in her chest. He was everything she’d wanted. And everything she feared. She knew he hadn’t received his own pleasure. She tugged on his hair and opened his arms. “Come to me.”

  He froze, a look of anguish crossed his face, then he shook his head. “I received all I’ve wanted this evening.”

  Her mind was slow to register confusion. “But you haven’t…you didn’t.”

  “Giving you pleasure is all I require.”

  All he required.

  Her heart stilled. The warmth of the chamber dissipated and left a chill on her sweat-soaked skin.

  “You may remain here for the night,” he said.

  He thought to act the gentleman by permitting her to sleep in his bed? She rose on her elbows to watch him. “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll sleep elsewhere.”

  He meant to leave her, to maintain his ridiculous resolve that their marriage never be consummated. She’d foolishly thought they’d grown and come past this. The earth-shattering intimacy of moments ago blurred and changed into something cold and shameful—into a selfish act.

  “No, don’t do that. Don’t turn what happened here into something wrong.”

  “Why? My husband just did things to my body, unbidden things that made me feel wonderful and beautiful, and then when I offered him everything, he refused with an icy coldness. Why shouldn’t I feel unwanted?”

  “Because I meant every word. You are beaut…beaut…lovely. And because I c…c-annot offer more.”

  In the flickering candlelight, she saw the glimmer of anguish in his eyes, and it tore at her heart. Just like his words tripped from his lips. His silent suffering had never been more evident, and she wanted to reach out and soothe him, but she instinctively knew not to show pity. He required something else, and she was more determined than ever before to help him.

  …

  “It seems your duke is still conflicted,” Ellie said.

  Olivia stayed silent. She’d arrived at her sister’s home early the following morning. Ellie was the only person in the world she could trust to tell her secrets, all of them, including the events of the prior evening. She hadn’t described everything in detail, but her sister had an uncanny way of reading her thoughts.

  “How can a man be so giving and so withdrawn at the same time?” Olivia’s voice cracked with strain.

  A maid knocked then opened the door to wheel a tea tray and plate of scones inside before departing. The sisters remained silent until the maid quietly shut the door behind her, leaving them alone once more. Ellie poured tea into two teacups and handed one to Olivia.

  “From what you have told me, I agree that the duke cannot move forward with his life with you until he overcomes his demons,” Ellie said.

  “By his demons, you mean his stammering?” Olivia asked.

  “Not just that, but who he has become because of it.”

  Tales of his past would be hard to forget. “His mother, the duchess, hired a string of cruel and ineffective tutors. When they failed, she retained a physician who’d used leeches. And when that did not work, she sent him to Eton where boys like Lord Dumfries had mercilessly tormented him.”

  Now she fully understood why he’d mistrusted her from the beginning. Why he’d thought she’d stolen the necklace and had planted it in her own baggage so that she’d have an alibi.

  If it wasn’t for her interference, Tristan would have remained in Rosehill’s stables, safe with animals who would never judge him, and never make an appearance at his own house party.

  Ellie touched her hand. “I hate to see a look of sadness on your face, Olivia.”

  “I cannot help it. I wonder if our marriage truly is doomed. I had hope…had hoped for much more and—”

  “I’ve told you before, the Raven Club has many resources,” Ellie said.

  “Yes, and I’m grateful for the information you provided regarding Lady Ware. I befriended her, and she was able to influence he
r husband’s opinion on the bill in the House of Lords.”

  “I’m glad, but that is not what I was referring to. I would not have bothered to inquire, but you are my sister, and I want nothing more than your happiness. There is a man who may be able to help Keswick.”

  Olivia eyed her sister with rapt attention. “Who?”

  “He is an unusual fellow, a man by the name of Mr. Horace Higgins. He’s treated people with speech difficulties similar to the Duke of Keswick’s. His techniques are unconventional, but he’s had success.”

  “Where can I find him?”

  “I shall tell you where he lives, but the true question is will your duke agree to see him?”

  Olivia bit her lower lip. Tristan’s distrust would be a high hurdle to overcome, but she had no choice. “If Mr. Higgins can help, then I will use every means at my disposal to try to convince my husband.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Olivia stood outside a brick town house. A flicker of apprehension coursed through her, gnawing away at her confidence, as she climbed the front steps to the door.

  Tristan would not approve. He’d be angry at her interference.

  She stiffened her spine and her resolve. If they had any hope for their marriage, she needed to overcome the one obstacle in the way.

  There is hope. There has to be hope.

  After experiencing the intimacy of last night, she could never survive the long, lonely nights in her room without him. She was convinced, more than before, that she needed to take matters into her own hands. In her mind, there was no reason they couldn’t have children. Never one to back down from a fight or a challenge, she refused to do so now.

  Taking a breath and filling her lungs with afternoon air, she lifted the lion-faced doorknocker and rapped twice.

  A scuffling sounded behind the door before it swung open to reveal an ordinary-looking man of average height, receding brown hair, brown eyes, and thick spectacles. He blinked then gave her a questioning glance.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Higgins. I had sent a note in advance.”

  His bushy brows drew downward as he thought, then his face lit. “Oh, yes. You must be the Duchess of Keswick. I am Horace Higgins. Please come in.”

  He held the door wide, and she stepped into a small vestibule. No butler came forth, and Higgins did not offer to take her pelisse. Without so much as a word, he turned and headed down a hall. She hurried after him.

  She was led not into a parlor or sitting room, but into what she could only assume was his study. The room was in complete disarray. Books and papers littered the desk. A bookshelf, crammed with volumes, appeared as if it would topple over from the weight at a moment’s notice. More books were on the floor, some open and used to hold papers in place. The casement was cracked open, and a slight breeze blew into the room.

  She was momentarily taken aback. Horace Higgins may be ordinary of appearance, but he certainly was not ordinary in behavior.

  He waved a hand at the room. “Pardon the disarray. It is my day off from seeing patients, and I was studying my notes.”

  He moved papers from a chair and placed them on top of a stack on his desk and motioned for her to sit. He did the same for another chair and sat across from her.

  “Tell me about your duke,” he said.

  “I never said I was here because of the duke.”

  “Ah, you didn’t need to. Why else would you come see me if it were not for a loved one who stutters?”

  He made a valid argument. Still, it could be her brother or sister or close friend. Her thoughts swirled, and she decided she’d best be honest. She needed his expertise.

  “His Grace will need to be convinced you can help him.” Her hands twisted in her lap as she thought of what Tristan would say if he even knew she was here. “He’s had horrific experiences in his youth. His mother retained tutors and even a physician.”

  “Let me guess. They were incompetent to help him, mistreated him, maybe even used leeches to bleed him.”

  She blinked. “How did you know?”

  “He is not the first to be subjected to such ineffective methods.”

  “My husband avoids social functions.”

  “Understandable. People view those who stammer as less intelligent or mentally ill. My patients are aware of this, and it causes their emotions to well up and makes it even more difficult to speak. It’s frustrating, embarrassing, and whittles away at their confidence. Stressful circumstances make it worse.”

  This must be how Tristan felt. Her stomach tilted in dismay as she settled on the chair. “What makes your methods different?”

  “I encourage my patients to stutter and then work on modifying their speech. I also encourage them to become aware of where they tense when they stutter—whether it is their mouth, their lips, or their throat. And then we work on breathing techniques. It takes time for each patient to master an effective technique.”

  One might think his techniques bizarre, but as Olivia listened, they gave her hope. “And then?”

  “Then we practice doing what we fear most: mingling with the public, whether it is ordering a meal at an inn, touring a museum with a guide, or attending a ball.”

  Tristan feared speaking in the House of Lords, arguing before his peers, and voicing his vote for the Soldiers Bill.

  “The duke must be reassured everything will remain private,” she said.

  “My sessions with my patients are private. I will never violate that rule. If I did, I would be a beggar in St. Giles.”

  Another question came to mind, one that had been nagging her ever since she knocked on Horace Higgins’s door. Her fingers twisted in her skirts. “One more question. If we are to have a child, will he or she—”

  “Stammer as well?” he finished for her.

  “Yes.” It was a main point of contention between them. The reason he’d left her in his bed after she’d wanted him to stay and make love to her.

  Higgins pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and regarded her. “Many have asked me the same question. I assume his difficulty speaking is not the only problem in your marriage.”

  She had never said they had marital problems. She should be offended, but she couldn’t muster the will to concoct a lie. Why bother? She suspected his success was not only from his techniques, but his ability to read his patients’ mental anguish. “You have assumed correctly.”

  He leveled his gaze at her. “The answer is yes, there is a likelihood that it can be passed down to your children.”

  Her stomach nearly bottomed out, and her fingers curled around the armrests of the chair.

  “However,” he said, “there is no guarantee your child will suffer, and if he does stammer, it can be corrected early on with proper treatment. No academic tutors or leeches will be required.”

  She let out a held-in breath. There is hope. Mind made up, she struggled with a different problem. “How do I get the duke to come to you?”

  “You won’t. I shall come to him.”

  …

  “Absolutely not. I refuse to meet the man,” Tristan said, his voice harsh.

  “Won’t you at least give him a try?” Olivia set down her needlework and rose to brush a piece of thread from her skirt. Tristan wasn’t fooled. First, his wife had never worked on needlework. Second, her calmness was a farce. She knew exactly how he’d react to the news when she’d summoned him to the parlor to tell him about her meeting with Mr. Horace Higgins.

  He answered her question with one of his own. “What makes you b…b-elieve I would even consider it?”

  Damnation. His stammer was a clear indication of his heightened anxiety. He inhaled a deep breath to rein in his temper. He was losing control, and his wife was the cause.

  She brushed a loose lock of fair hair from her cheek. “Please give Mr. Higgins a chance. I do not wish to send him away.”

  “Send him away? You mean he is here? In my home?” he asked incredulously.

  “Our home,” she cor
rected. “And yes, he awaits in the study.”

  “My s…s-tudy? Have you lost your m…m-ind?” He couldn’t believe she’d bring the man into his home and have him escorted into his study, his private domain. Where the hell was Gordon? He’d give his butler an earful later.

  Tristan stormed out of the parlor and stalked down the hall toward his study. The thought pierced his haze that he was doing precisely what he’d insisted he would not do.

  Meet the man.

  He turned a corner, and a housemaid squeaked in surprise, jumped aside, and promptly dropped an armful of clean and folded linens.

  Bloody hell. He was not the type of man who terrorized his staff. Until Olivia. What in God’s name had his wife been thinking to bring Mr. Higgins into his house? Didn’t she know him at all?

  Fists clenched, he stormed into his study.

  “Your Grace.” Higgins rose from a leather chair before the desk to address him. Tristan was unimpressed.

  “I do not need your services,” Tristan snapped.

  “The duchess told me that—”

  “I said I d…d-don’t n…n-eed you.” Tristan’s gut tightened with the all-too-familiar feelings of disgust and dread. He’d never hated his weakness more.

  Rather than obey, the short man did the strangest thing. He returned to the leather chair and motioned for Tristan to occupy the one across from him. “I do believe you need me.” Higgins regarded him, his sharp brown eyes unnerving behind spectacles. “I will not tell you to speak slowly or to relax. I will not promise there is a cure, but I can teach you ways to improve your speech, and most importantly, I will eliminate the shame, the anxiety, the embarrassment. You are not alone.”

  Tristan was taken aback, not so much at the man’s audacity, but because of the truth behind his words. Despite his reluctance, the question escaped from his lips. “How? Others have tried.”

  “Incompetence is not treatment. Others have caused more harm than good.”

  In that, at least, they were in complete agreement.

  Still, he was wary of what Higgins promised. “What do you know of my condition?”

  Unblinking eyes held his. “I have it as well.”