Olivia raised her chin. This wasn’t her fault. The man should accept responsibility. He had pretended to be a groom, for goodness sake. He’d avoided his own house party and neglected his guests. She pictured him when she’d walked into the stables that afternoon. His shirtsleeves had been rolled up to reveal thick forearms as he’d brushed Atlas. Without a cravat and jacket, he’d appeared far from a duke.
How on earth could she have known?
“Leave us.” The command was issued with all the power of a king.
The dowager duchess and her mother blinked in unison. When the dowager opened her mouth to argue, Tristan raised a hand. Without a word, the message was clear.
The damage has been done. I want a word alone with her.
Without another word, the two older women departed the stable. Olivia was left alone with the man. He folded his arms across his broad chest and watched her.
Trepidation trickled along her spine. “Why would you pose as a head groom?”
“D…d-on’t. When did you learn the truth?”
She shook her head. “You are mistaken. I never learned the truth until just now.”
“Perhaps you should have sought a career on the stage, my lady, for surely no actress performing at Drury Lane could compete with your talent.”
Her mouth sagged in shock. He thought she was lying about knowing his identity, that she’d known all along he was a duke. She didn’t care if he was far above her rank. Her temper flared, bright and hot in her chest. “You fool! I did not know. You’re the one who should receive applause for your acting ability, not me. Why would I claim I had spent the day with you unchaperoned if I had known?”
The moment the words left her lips, she knew. Sweet Lord, he couldn’t think…
He unfolded his arms and took a step closer. “Of course you knew my identity. Looking back, I now realize everything about you was c…c-ontrived. The interest in the black stallion. The desperate desire to go riding. The same afternoon Lady Samantha’s necklace went missing and was later found in your trunk. I could not have conceived such an elaborate and aggressive battle plan.”
“You cannot believe that I would—”
“I do, my lady. A duke is the ultimate prize, one step away from royalty, is it not? And this duke”—he pointed a thumb to his chest—“had told you that I was in residence but had no intention of making an appearance at the house. You had to do something to draw me out, to trap me.”
She numbly shook her head. “You are wrong. I won’t have you. Will that disprove your wrongful conclusion?”
“It isn’t just your reputation that will suffer, but my grandmother’s when the truth comes out. I do not c…c-are for myself, but I will not see her upset. We have no choice but to marry. But it will be in name only. I’ll be damned if I let a title-scheming woman into my bed.”
Fury made it difficult to speak. “I wouldn’t have you in my bed if you were the last man in England!”
His dark eyes blazed, and a shiver of alarm raced down her spine. Was she facing a powerful enemy?
“Then we agree on one thing.”
Do not let him intimidate you! She raised her chin. “Yes. You will stay far away from me!”
She turned and fled the stables. She didn’t stop running until she was in her bedchamber and the door safely closed. She threw herself on her bed, clutched her pillow, and stifled a sob. Thankfully, she hadn’t run into her mother along the way. Her parent was probably ensconced in the drawing room with the dowager duchess discussing wedding details. Now that the shock had worn off, her mother would be thrilled to have her youngest daughter betrothed to a duke.
Olivia was going to be ill.
It was bad enough she’d have to marry a man who thought her a liar, but a man who swore never to touch her left her feeling empty and desolate. What kind of marriage was in her future?
For as long as she could remember, she’d longed for the type of marriage her sister had with a loving and warm marquess who wasn’t intimidated by Ellie’s intelligence or her goals of running the notorious Raven Club. A man who cherished her. A man who was a wonderful father to their young son.
Olivia’s stomach sank, and a fat tear rolled down her cheek.
Her future husband may be a duke, but he was far from the loving man of her dreams.
…
“If you had met your guests as a proper host at your house party, this would not have occurred,” the dowager duchess said.
“As I’ve said, it was your house party. Wasn’t I clear that I did not want one at Rosehill?”
Tristan had met his grandmother in the library, where he now stood staring out on the manicured gardens below. Rosehill was lovely this time of year. Flowering bushes bloomed in an array of colors, hedgerows were meticulously trimmed, and stone benches were placed before artful fountains of mermaids and nymphs. The vivid blooms of the flowers reminded him of his gallop across his fields with Olivia. She appeared carefree and breathtakingly lovely.
How could he have fallen for such calculated deceit?
“You know why I insisted upon the party,” Antonia pointed out.
He turned from the window to face her. “To find me a bride. You have s…s-ucceeded.”
Her expression crumpled, and he immediately felt a stab of guilt in his chest. He was reminded of her frailty. She wasn’t the robust woman he remembered as a child, nor was Antonia his cold-blooded mother. Rather, she was the one who had stayed to comfort him as a child when he fell and skinned his knees, had a cold, or was teased.
“You know why I never sought to marry,” he said.
She nodded. “You don’t want children. It is an unfounded fear.”
Rather than argue, he remained silent.
She met his eyes. “It is your ducal responsibility to produce the next heir to the dukedom.”
He shook his head. She already knew he had an heir. His first cousin, Spencer, Lord Jeffries. Their fathers had been brothers, and Spencer was Tristan’s only living male relative.
She read his mind, as she often did. “Your cousin is not your direct bloodline. You need a son.”
“He is competent,” Tristan said. That much was true. Spencer was not a spendthrift, and he was more social than Tristan would ever be. He’d make an acceptable Duke of Keswick.
“Perhaps, but there is no reason to believe your son will speak like you,” she said.
Tristan clenched his fists by his sides. “And if he does?” How could he ever forgive himself if his child inherited his traits? He could try to protect his son, but he could never entirely shield him from the cruelty of others. Or of a selfish and unloving mother, like Olivia might be.
“Are you going to marry Lady Olivia?”
He remained silent for several heartbeats. Two of the house party guests were to depart early tomorrow, and gossip would mostly likely travel to town with them.
He sighed. “I will marry her, but do not expect a grandchild.”
“Hmm. You believe you can ignore her?” She leaned on her cane.
“She has no choice.” He was a duke; she had no say. His thoughts turned back to when they spoke by the river on a pleasant morning, before he knew of her machinations. She wanted a choice.
She’d never have one now, unless this was her choice all along.
Antonia arched a fine eyebrow. “From what I have seen of Lady Olivia, she may not be as biddable as you believe.”
…
The hushed whispers at the manor told Olivia that the news of her betrothal had already reached the group. Late afternoon tea was a daily ritual that took place on the terrace overlooking Rosehill’s lovely gardens, and Olivia was hesitant to join the women.
They reached the end of the hall, and the doors leading to the terrace came into view. Her mother halted. “Hold your head high, Olivia. You have managed to ensnare a duke.”
Olivia looked at her mother incredulously. “I did not ensnare him, Mother. The word suggests I laid a trap for the man. I
most certainly did not. Don’t you believe me?”
Her mother’s silence was more crushing than a denial.
She doesn’t believe me!
Her mother tapped her hand. “None of that matters now. I admit to being quite shocked, but now that matters are resolved, I am pleased with the outcome. I’ve always expected great things for you, Olivia. Your sister is a countess. Now you will be a duchess.”
“Mother, he doesn’t want me to be his duchess.” For her part, it wasn’t the title she was opposed to, but the man.
Her mother’s gaze lacked the warmth and reassurance she desperately needed. “Men are simple creatures of habit, Olivia. The sooner you learn this, the better. The duke will go about his business, his clubs, his evenings out. After you produce an heir and a spare, you may go about yours.”
Not likely. Tristan would have to visit her bed, and they’d both agreed that would not happen.
“You will have freedom as a duchess. Freedom is happiness. Love is fanciful,” her mother added.
She refused to believe this. Not after observing her brother and sister with their spouses.
But her parents hadn’t had a loving relationship. Theirs had been cold and distrustful—the type of marriage Olivia did not want. Her father, the former Earl of Castleton, had been a disciplinarian. Her older brother, Ian, had never gotten along with their father and had departed home without a shilling and opened the Raven Club.
Would she end up like her parents? Would she also become cynical over time? Her stomach sank at the thought.
How can this be my fate?
A servant opened the doors, and they stepped onto the terrace. The women sat at tables enjoying tea, cucumber sandwiches, and scones. All eyes turned to her, and conversation ceased. The thrum of silence sounded as loud as a trumpet blast in Olivia’s ears. She was highly conscious of each look, most filled with curiosity, others laced with jealousy. Olivia’s eyes clashed with Lady Samantha’s, and gooseflesh rose on her arms at the lady’s disdainful glower. Word, it seemed, had traveled as swiftly as the wind.
For a heart-stopping moment, Olivia halted, uncertain what to do, then the dowager duchess stood, smiled in welcome, and extended a hand. Olivia approached with wooden legs.
“Come, Lady Olivia. Let us share the good news with Rosehill’s guests.” The dowager duchess faced the women and clapped her hands twice. “I have joyous news. My grandson, the Duke of Keswick, has proposed marriage to the lovely Lady Olivia, and she has accepted. I am thrilled.”
All the ladies clapped. Olivia’s face felt as if it might crack beneath her smile. Olivia, along with her mother, joined the dowager’s table. She drank tea, nibbled on a scone, and continued to smile. A headache began to form in her temple. At last, the afternoon passed, and the women rose to return to the manor.
Lady Samantha was waiting for Olivia by the entrance to one of the empty drawing rooms. “I would admire your tactics if I didn’t envy your outcome.”
Olivia faced her, the pounding in her temple increased. “I never stole your necklace.”
“I know.”
She met Samantha’s glower with her own as the truth struck her. “You hid the necklace in my portmanteau, didn’t you?” Samantha had warned her, hadn’t she?
A corner of Samantha’s lips twisted in a smile. “I will deny it to anyone who asks.”
“Why? Why would you go to such ridiculous lengths?” Olivia suspected the truth the moment she spoke the question, but she wanted to hear it from Samantha’s lips.
“I warned you to stay away from Lord Elton and his earldom. After all, he was the highest-titled gentleman in attendance at this blasted house party. My only regret was not knowing that I would help you entrap the duke instead.”
“For Heaven’s sake, I did not entrap him!” Olivia’s voice shook with fury and frustration, but she knew both were lost on the devious girl. The duke, his grandmother, and her own mother did not believe her. What chance did Olivia have with Lady Samantha—or any other member of the beau mode—once she returned to town?
Chapter Five
They were married a week later.
Tristan took a glass of champagne from a liveried servant’s tray and stood in the corner of Rosehill’s ballroom. Despite his grandmother’s initial hesitation, she’d been quite resourceful and had obtained a coveted special license from the Bishop.
Tristan scanned the guests present at the wedding breakfast until his gaze landed on Olivia.
His wife.
He’d been careful to avoid Olivia until today, and his eyes kept returning to her. She wore a white gown of satin and lace with a heart-shaped bodice that was designed to draw a man’s gaze to her full breasts. The satin hugged her figure and enhanced her long legs. Her upswept golden hair revealed the graceful curve of her neck. He remembered what she’d felt like when he’d briefly held her against him. Soft, full curves that invited a man to tighten his hold, to explore all her dips and valleys.
Yes, she was a beautiful woman, but beauty could be deceiving, and he suspected his wife was the worst sort.
He’d instructed his grandmother to spare no expense for the wedding, no matter how little time they’d had to plan the event or how intimate the guest list. If he was going through with this godforsaken ceremony, then he wanted only the best. An abundance of flowers graced the ballroom, and their French chef had outdone himself with pastries, pies, and a four-tiered wedding cake. As for his bride, a London dressmaker had arrived at Rosehill soon after the betrothal was announced, and she’d been worth her exorbitant price.
He didn’t want the taint of scandal to touch his grandmother or the ducal title. If he had to grin and nod like a simpleton throughout the entire ceremony and wedding breakfast, then he would. The moment it ended, so would his participation in this farce.
It was easy enough. He was the duke, and he would go on living as he always had. His bride, no matter how lovely, would not get in his way.
He sipped his champagne as he continued to watch Olivia. She smiled as guests approached to offer their good wishes. A few courageous people approached him, most of them more curious to meet the elusive Duke of Keswick than to offer their congratulations. Tristan grinned, nodded, and spoke as little as he could. It was a technique he’d perfected over time. If others noticed, they did not comment upon it.
“You should not look at your young bride that way,” his grandmother said as she approached his side with her cane.
He frowned down at her. “What way?”
“As if you are thinking of the wedding night.”
Bloody hell. That was not something he wanted to discuss with her. “I t…t-old you. There will be no wedding night.”
Antonia shuffled closer and tapped her cane on his foot. He suspected it wasn’t accidental. “And I told you the girl will not be that easy to ignore.”
He continued to sip his glass.
“Do not think you can practice by ignoring me all evening. It won’t work.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “That’s unfortunate, indeed.”
She rolled her eyes. “I sense she has spirit. I like her.”
He stayed silent. It didn’t matter whether his grandmother liked Olivia or not. He’d made up his mind. He didn’t trust his wife, not one bit.
“I wonder what’s going on behind your brooding glare. I fear I won’t like it.”
“I did my duty. What m…m-ore do you want?”
“You haven’t come close to fulfilling your ducal responsibilities. But I am hopeful that you will come around, my boy.”
He waved a servant over, placed the empty flute on the tray, and took another.
Antonia eyed his glass. “I fear that drink will be one of many.” She shifted and tapped his foot with her cane again. He itched to snatch the weapon from her, but she turned and walked away.
His lips twitched at her departing figure. He’d always admired Antonia for her spirit. Still, he wanted to call her back and argue but knew it wouldn
’t serve any purpose. His grandmother could be quite stubborn.
Tristan returned to watching Olivia. She smiled at something one of the ladies said, and his gaze lowered to her lips. She had a lush mouth, made to be kissed by a man. He’d kissed her once, and the memory was not one he’d easily forget.
But he would forget.
A young, brown-haired gentleman came forth and raised her hand to kiss the back of her glove. Tristan moved forward before he was aware his feet were even moving. Startled, she looked up at his approach, her green eyes bright.
She swallowed, and Tristan glanced at her slender throat before returning to her face.
“May I introduce Lord Elton,” she said, making the introductions. “Lord Elton, this is my husband, His Grace.”
“You are a lucky man indeed, Your Grace,” Elton said.
Tristan nodded, his jaw tense. So this was the man who’d wanted to take Olivia for a walk in the gardens. No doubt to disappear in the maze with her and take certain liberties. Without uttering a word, Tristan took Olivia’s arm and led her away.
She struggled to keep up with his pace, her silk skirts brushing his legs, and glared up at him. “That was terribly rude. I understand you may not wish to speak, but you do not have to drag me away.”
“I’m not dragging you.”
She pulled back. “You are.”
“It’s time for them to leave.”
“You mean the guests? Or Lord Elton?”
“Both. I want a word alone with my wife.”
…
Tristan appeared very different in his wedding finery. Devastatingly handsome in black formal attire, his profile spoke of pride and masculine grace, and his dark eyes held a sheen of purpose. His coat emphasized his broad shoulders, and his cravat was meticulously tied. His dark hair was combed in the al la Brutus style favored by gentleman of the ton. But he looked far from a dandy. Rather, his muscular physique bespoke hours in the saddle rather than in the cushioned armchairs of gentlemen’s clubs.
His large hand swallowed hers as he led her out of the ballroom and down the hall. Each long finger felt like a brand on her skin. The calluses on his palm and the strength of his grip spoke of labor, certainly not the hands of a duke. He was an enigma, different from the man who’d taken her riding on a pleasant morning.
How to Capture a Duke Page 4
