How to Capture a Duke

by Tina Gabrielle

  Tristan was stunned. Anyone who met Higgins would believe the man’s speech beyond reproach, but upon reflection, Tristan recognized it. His speech had a certain cadence to it, a practiced rhythm like that of a well-accomplished pianist. Somehow, he’d mastered a technique. An effective one.

  Horace Higgins waved toward the empty chair across from him. “Now, please sit, and we shall begin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Where do you tense when you stutter?” Horace Higgins asked.

  “My lips, jaw, throat.” Tristan was highly conscious of Olivia sitting in the corner watching them. At first, Tristan had asked for her to stay, to see how ridiculous the sessions would be, how ineffective.

  But something had happened, something that had shocked Tristan. Horace Higgins understood him. Truly understood what he’d gone through with his mother, his years at Eton at the mercy of cruel bullies like Lord Dumfries. Understood the deep-seated shame, the helplessness.

  Olivia hadn’t been in the room then, when he’d exposed a piece of his soul like an animal exposing its belly for the slice of a hunter’s knife. He couldn’t bear it. But at his request, she’d stayed with him for the therapy.

  “All right,” Higgins said. “Once you know where you are tense, then try to concentrate on opening your mouth and easing the tension in your jaw and throat. Be especially aware of your breathing.”

  Higgins watched, his brown eyes magnified behind his thick spectacles. Tristan had come to appreciate the sharpness of the man’s mind.

  “Now ease into the words: ‘My name is Tristan Cameron, the Duke of Keswick.’”

  Tristan concentrated. He parted his lips, loosened his jaw, and focused on the rising and falling of his chest. “My name is Tristan Cameron, the Duke of Keswick.”

  The words came out slowly but clearly.

  He’d found it easier and easier over the course of the week to speak longer, and in more complicated sentences, when he used the techniques he’d learned.

  As for his wife, he’d found it harder. Olivia hadn’t snuck into his bedchamber since the night they’d attended the theater. He’d spent sleepless nights pacing his room, touching the wood of the door connecting their chambers, willing himself to go inside, to sample another taste of her intoxicating and alluring essence.

  He’d pulled back every time.

  He was in a misery of physical need and emotional torment. She was his wife. By law, by God. Why couldn’t he have what he wanted?

  Every time the question arose, he was reminded of why he was here, in this room, with Horace Higgins, a man of ordinary appearance but extraordinary knowledge. Tristan could imagine a normal life, but he could never fully live one. Even if the sessions proved successful, he would never be cured, as his mother had wanted.

  Just like a child could never be cured.

  It was one of the first questions he’d asked Higgins after they’d privately spoken. The man had told him there was a strong likelihood his child would stammer, just like him. He’d gone on to say if the child was treated early on, he would have a good outcome, but Tristan had stopped listening by then.

  A strong likelihood. It was a damning statement and had confirmed all his worst fears.

  Higgins tapped his pencil on his paper. “Go on and say: ‘My wife is the Duchess of Keswick.’”

  Tristan’s eyes met Olivia’s across the room, and a different type of tension filled his being. His skin was taut like a bow, wanting to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to experience the sizzling passion he’d experienced so fleetingly.

  Higgins was watching him. The sharpness of the man’s eyes told Tristan he knew of a different type of tension in the room, one that had nothing to do with his speech.

  Tristan took another deep breath and repeated the words perfectly. “My wife is the Duchess of Keswick.”

  His wife. How could he go on like this? How could he not?

  Higgins set down his pencil on a piece of foolscap. “It has only been a week and I see improvement, Your Grace. With hard work, you will improve more.” Higgins rose. “I shall return tomorrow promptly at one o’clock.”

  Higgins gathered his notes and coat and departed without a backward glance. He wouldn’t wait for Gordon but would open the front door himself and call for his own hackney. Tristan was growing accustomed to the man’s strange ways.

  Once they were alone, his gaze returned to Olivia. “Are you going to tell me I told you so?”

  “No. Are you disappointed?”

  “Hardly. Meanwhile, I will continue my sessions with Higgins.” At the pleased look on her face, he raised a hand. “There is a condition. You must promise never to tell anyone.”

  “Why would I?”

  “You haven’t promised.”

  “Fine. I promise. But your grandmother knows. I wrote her a note, and she was thrilled to learn of it.”

  “Good. I trust Antonia.”

  “And my sister.”

  “You told Lady Vere?” Her sister had never hidden her distrust of him. The memory of the time when she’d cornered him in an alcove the very first time he’d met her was still vivid in his mind.

  If I learn of any harm or misery befalling my sister, then it is not Lord Castleton or Lord Vere you should be wary of.

  In hindsight, he couldn’t blame Lady Vere for her fierce protection and loyalty toward her young sister. His marriage to Olivia had started out badly, and he’d planned to abandon his bride in the country within hours of their wedding vows.

  “You should know that Ellie is the one who found Mr. Higgins,” Olivia said.

  He was surprised, but he suspected Lady Vere did it to aid her sister, not him. She had no love for him.

  Olivia stepped forward. “You said you trust Antonia. Do you trust me as well?”

  He wasn’t one to trust anyone, but this was different. Her sister may have found Higgins, but he knew, without a doubt, Olivia had a hand in it. If it were not for his wife, he wouldn’t have met Higgins, wouldn’t have learned of his unique and helpful methods.

  “In this I do.” He stood and walked to her. “To show my gratitude, I have something special planned.”

  “I adore surprises.” Her lovely green eyes flared with anticipation.

  His stomach tightened in response. Her eyes had that same look as when he’d first touched her naked breast, stroked a finger between her thighs. He’d never forget her throaty moans, the tremors of her body as she reached her pleasure, the taste of her…

  God, he’d thought just a sampling of her charms would have been enough. How very wrong he’d been. He wanted her now more than ever before.

  He took a deep breath, this time not to prepare to speak as he’d been taught, but to calm the thudding of his heart. “Would you like to ride Atlas today?”

  …

  Olivia was still stunned when they came to a stop outside Atlas’s stable. Her heart danced with delight when Tristan offered the reins of the black stallion to her. A groom had already prepared the horse with her sidesaddle.

  “I thought only you rode him.” The horse watched her, his large, dark eyes taking in her every movement as she stroked his mane.

  “I’m feeling generous today,” he said.

  “Why? Because of your success working with Mr. Higgins?” She was still secretly thrilled that Tristan had agreed to continue to see the man and had given him a chance.

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply want to make my wife happy.”

  Her eyes flew to his, and her heart skipped a beat. Something had changed between them over the course of the week. She still ate breakfast alone, and they hadn’t been intimate since that one time, but he treated her differently. With respect and gratitude, rather than distrust.

  He lifted her onto the sidesaddle, his eyes never leaving hers for an instant. Then he mounted a brown gelding. Together, they crossed the street and made their way to the park.

  Once they were on the dirt track, he turned to her. “You must move slowl
y,” he said, “but hold the reins firmly. Atlas can get skittish in the park. He is not accustomed to others riding him.”

  The stallion’s size and strength thrilled her. Oh, how she longed to ride astride the animal, ride hell-bent-for-leather through the countryside. Instead, she enjoyed the walk beneath the shade of the trees on the track.

  “He likes me,” she said as she patted his neck.

  Tristan chuckled. “He likes the sugar cubes in your skirt pocket.”

  “Hmm. I daresay I can’t help but remember the first time I saw Atlas in Rosehill’s stables. It was the first time I saw you. You were quite frightening.”

  One dark eyebrow shot up. “And now?”

  “Not so frightening.” Not physically, but emotionally. She was still pleasantly surprised he’d allowed her to ride his horse. It was more than just sharing the animal; it was a sign that he was growing to trust her.

  They rode for the rest of the afternoon, until more pedestrians and riders began to arrive for the promenade hour.

  “We should return before the track crowds with riders,” he said.

  As they returned to Keswick Hall, two grooms took their horses and headed for the mews. A hackney was in the drive, and the door opened and Horace Higgins stepped out. “I was all the way home when I realized that I forgot some of my notes in your study, Your Grace.”

  Tristan waved him forward. “Come. We will fetch them.” Tristan made his way up the stairs and disappeared inside with Higgins on his heels.

  Olivia was in the process of removing her riding gloves and handing them to Gordon when there was a knock on the door. Gordon opened the door, and Spencer stepped into the vestibule.

  His blue eyes lit when they spotted her. “Good afternoon, Olivia.” A light breeze blew his fair hair away from his forehead.

  “Spencer! How lovely to see you.”

  Just then, Higgins rushed into the vestibule with a handful of papers. With a jaunty wave at Olivia, the odd man hurried past Spencer to rush down the stairs and wave for his waiting hackney.

  “Who was that?” Spencer asked.

  “A friend visiting from the country. A squire.” The lie came smoothly to her lips, and she was careful to keep a serene expression. Her promise to Tristan not to tell anyone of his sessions with Higgins weighed heavily upon her mind.

  Thankfully, her explanation seemed to appease Spencer. He tilted his head to the side, his blue eyes studying her. “You appear happy.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Things between you and my cousin have improved?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Yes, they have. For the first time, I have hope for our future.”

  He watched her, and Olivia had the distinct impression he was studying her for a crack in her facade—the slightest inkling that she was lying. She must have passed inspection, because he nodded then grinned. “Good news, indeed. Tristan deserves happiness.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Olivia knocked softly on the study door. She’d sat by the window seat in her bedchamber for a large part of the evening, overlooking the gardens below and gathering her courage, before finding herself here.

  “Enter.”

  She opened the door, and Tristan looked up from his desk.

  “Mr. Higgins mentioned it would be helpful if we practiced.” She held her breath, her stomach in knots, wondering if he would turn her away when the corners of his lips kicked into a smile.

  He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’d like that.”

  She shut the door, and he motioned for her to sit on the settee against the wall.

  Without a coat, waistcoat, or cravat, he looked striking. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the corded muscles of his neck and a sprinkling of hair on his chest. She spotted his coat tossed over a chair before his desk. He had not expected her, and it was clear he’d discarded his formal attire to work alone in his study for the remainder of the evening.

  He leaned against his desk, the outline of his shoulders visible through the broadcloth. Memories returned in a rush—of when he’d slipped his shirt over his head and she’d seen his naked chest for the first time. Her heart hammered, and she pushed the images aside. She was here to help him, nothing more.

  She swallowed and focused her attention on his desk rather than at him. “Am I disturbing your work?”

  “It can wait.”

  “What is it you do here every evening?”

  “The ducal estates require attention. Rosehill is just one of many properties.”

  “Don’t you have stewards to handle the tasks?” Her father always had, and on more than one occasion, he’d pronounced the work boring and beneath him.

  “Stewards are only as honest as their supervision.”

  “You do not trust them?” she asked.

  “I have a problem trusting others.”

  She knew this only too well. His mistrust had kept them apart for most of their marriage thus far. “And Mr. Higgins? Do you trust the man?”

  “I admit I was doubtful at first, but I have come to accept his methods. He has given me the confidence to believe I can speak in the House of Lords.”

  She leaned forward an inch, her voice soft. “I have no doubt you will be successful.”

  His face grew serious, and he pushed away from the desk and walked over. Sitting beside her on the settee, he cradled her hands in his. “Shall we practice then?”

  The heat of his hands comforted her. He may not trust her in everything, but the admiring look in his eyes made her hopes soar.

  “You mentioned speaking in the House of Lords. Is it for the Soldiers Bill?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why is the bill so important to you?”

  “I never served in the army, but since meeting Gordon and many of my tenants who’d enlisted, I realize we have some things in common. I was d…d-rawn to their plight.”

  “You employ them and give them purpose as tenants on your land.”

  His thumb traced a circular path on her hand. Her knees felt weak, and she was relieved she was sitting. Did he know what he was doing? Looking into his handsome face, she felt a surge of excitement.

  “I did little. Gordon is a superb butler. Those who turned him away, believing him incapable of service in their households, are fools. I understand a man’s need to feel wanted, no matter his physical setbacks.”

  She imagined he would. His explanation revealed another layer of his character, one she found very compelling.

  “Would you like a drink before we begin?” he asked. “I had planned on having a wine before you arrived.”

  She nodded and watched him walk to a sideboard in the corner and pour two goblets. He returned to sit beside her, handed her a glass, and raised his.

  “A toast,” he said. “To a successful evening practicing with my beautiful wife.”

  Her heart leaped in her throat. Why would he say this if he didn’t mean it? Was he being kind because he found favor with Mr. Higgins and he felt indebted to her somehow? Or was there more?

  Dare she hope? Suddenly nervous, she changed the topic. “Tell me about the proposed amendments to the bill.”

  “Many of the amendments are not needed,” he said with a frown. “Pensions are distributed by the Royal Hospital in Chelsea. Some pensioners live in the hospital and are called in-pensioners, but the majority of discharged soldiers do not reside in the hospital. They are called out-pensioners. The Lords and Commissioners of the Affairs of Chelsea Hospital oversee each soldier’s petition. They try to be efficient, but they are a small board, and they examine thousands of new applicants every year while managing the pensions of thousands they had already administered years before.”

  “I see. They cannot handle the sheer numbers.”

  “Yes, the process of being discharged from the army and recommended as a candidate for out-pension takes months. Meanwhile, soldiers, many of whom are wounded, are left to fend for their ow
n. Gordon spent twelve years in the prime of his manhood serving England, and he lost his trade and, worse, lost a limb. In exchange, he was rewarded a pitiful pension of one shilling per day.”

  She blinked. “That’s unconscionable.”

  “Gordon did not wish to spend the rest of his days in Chelsea Hospital. I now have the benefit of his service.”

  “But most would not hire a man such as Gordon as a butler. My father would not have.” She didn’t mention that her disciplinarian father, the former Earl of Castleton, had dismissed a young maid who’d stuttered like Tristan.

  He nodded as if he weren’t surprised to hear of her father’s callousness. “One amendment in particular weakens the purpose of the bill by not specifying a shorter time period to process a soldier’s petition for his pension. I want that particular amendment modified. There are other objectionable amendments as well.”

  She sat on the settee, sipping her wine, as she listened to him speak. He stood and paced before her, laying out his arguments against each amendment he found disagreeable. He had a commanding air about him, and she was fascinated by his keen intelligence and strategic political ingenuity. He faltered twice, regrouped just as Higgins had taught him by focusing on his breathing and easing the tension in his jaw, then continued. They worked together for over two hours. She offered additional arguments and was pleased with Tristan’s positive response to them.

  “You have not stammered at all,” she said.

  Admiration crossed his features. “That’s because I’m relaxed with you and not under stress, not under pressure, and not exhausted from a restless night. I’ve taken my place in the House of Lords since I turned eighteen, and never, not once, have I argued on behalf of a bill or voiced arguments toward amendments. All I’ve done is vote ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ for a final vote. Do you know how frustrating that is?”

  She could only imagine. A dominant male like the Duke of Keswick was born to take charge, not to sit aside and watch as others argued on the floor. “I consider voting an important part of participating, but it will be different from now on.”

  He refilled her wineglass, and they continued to work for another half hour. The wine heated her blood, and Tristan’s voice eased the tightly coiled knot in her stomach that had been present when she’d first knocked on his study door. They worked until he was confident that he hadn’t overlooked anything.