How to Capture a Duke

by Tina Gabrielle

  His laughter was contagious, and she found herself smiling. “You may visit soon. My husband will most likely be home next time.”

  “I shall visit you both.” He leaned forward, a flash of mischief lighting his blue eyes. “Pray tell me, where do you go outside your home for an evening of pleasure? The theater? A certain ball during the season?”

  She knew what he was asking. Where did she plan to spend her evenings without the Duke of Keswick? She contemplated Lord Jeffries’s forwardness. Did he know her marriage to his cousin was in name only? Was he interested in more than friendship? He was handsome enough to attract attention from many women. He didn’t need attention from his cousin’s new wife.

  But Lord Jeffries, or Spencer as he wanted to be called, was so different from her husband. Friendly. Sociable. Easy to talk to, to confide in. She saw no harm in his friendship.

  “Do you enjoy roulette, my lord?”

  His brow furrowed. “Roulette? Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “You inquired where I go for an evening outside my home. I was planning on attending the Raven Club to play games of chance. Have you heard of the club?”

  “I don’t know of a gentleman who hasn’t. I’m surprised you know of the establishment.”

  “As I said, my upbringing was a bit different. I’m also quite good at vingt-et-un. Are you shocked?”

  The look he gave her was full of interest and humor. “Only in a good way. Please tell me when you will attend.”

  “Tomorrow night. I shall wear a blue mask.”

  She didn’t tell him her family owned the establishment. It was quite bold of her to tell him she planned to attend in the first place, but she had the feeling Lord Jeffries—Spencer—would not judge her.

  Unlike her husband.

  Chapter Twelve

  “The duchess is in the drawing room with your cousin, Your Grace.”

  Tristan had returned from a morning ride in the park with Atlas when his butler, Gordon, told him the news of his cousin’s visit.

  He took off his hat and greatcoat and handed them to his butler. “How long has Spencer been here?”

  “Close to a half hour now.”

  Damnation.

  He didn’t want her speaking with his cousin. He knew Spencer’s inquisitive nature had drawn him here, and Tristan was not pleased. He halted at the entrance to the drawing room and took in the sight before him.

  Spencer was seated beside his wife on the settee, too close in his opinion. She smiled up at him and laughed at something he’d said.

  “You must tell me. How skilled are you at vingt-et-un?” Spencer asked.

  “Very. It vexes my brother every time I best him,” Olivia said.

  Why on earth were they discussing games of chance? It was an entirely inappropriate conversation in Tristan’s opinion. And why was there so little distance between them?

  A shaft of sunlight highlighted Spencer’s fair hair. “We must play together.”

  Olivia’s lips tilted in a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

  His chest tightened. Her pleasure? Not if he had any say in the matter.

  Tristan strode into the room, and Spencer and Olivia jumped apart, startled expressions on their faces.

  “I see you’ve met my c…c-ous—Lord Jeffries,” Tristan spat out.

  Spencer stood. Olivia was slower to come to her feet.

  “I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the duchess, Your Grace,” Spencer said.

  If there was guilt in his cousin’s gaze, Tristan didn’t spot it. “I can clearly see you have made my wife’s acquaintance.”

  “She is lovely and quite charming.” Spencer’s gaze returned to Olivia.

  “You flatter me, Lord Jeffries,” Olivia said, then her attention returned to Tristan. “It’s wonderful to meet another member of your family. Is it not, husband?”

  His jaw hardened, a condition that kept occurring in her presence. “If you would excuse us, my wife, I’d like a word alone with my cousin.”

  “Of course.” She turned to Spencer. “It was a pleasure to meet you.” She curtsied, and with a flounce of skirts, she came close enough for Tristan to catch a breeze of her perfume, then she turned and left the room.

  Spencer eyed him suspiciously. “I thought she’d be unattractive. You had me fooled.”

  Tristan tried not to scowl. His cousin should not be noticing Olivia in such a manner. “Brandy?”

  At Spencer’s nod, Tristan walked to the sideboard and poured two glasses and handed one to his cousin. “I would think you’d be preparing for our duties in Parliament later today, not visiting here.”

  “I found my curiosity needed appeasing.” Spencer cradled his glass and watched Tristan expectantly. “Well? Why on earth would you insist on a marriage in name only after marrying her? I consider you stubborn, not blind.”

  Tristan took a swallow of liquor. “My private life is none of your concern. And I already told you, you needn’t worry about an heir.”

  Spencer raised the brandy to his lips. “And I already told you, that is not my concern.” A shadow crossed his cousin’s face, but it vanished as he lowered the cut crystal. “She is as witty as she is beautiful. Many gentlemen would be thrilled at the match.”

  His words made Tristan’s gut clench, and he had an uncommon urge to punch his cousin in the mouth. He swallowed the remaining brandy instead. “There will be no c…c-ard game.”

  “Then you’d best inform Her Grace. She invited me to meet her at the Raven Club to play vingt-et-un.”

  Over his dead body. He knew exactly what took place at that club. Women donned masks to hide their identities, not just to gamble, but to seek out pleasure. Olivia’s brother and brother-in-law may own the gambling club and she may have attended in the past, but she was now his wife. His duchess. He’d be damned if he’d allow her to set one dainty foot in the place for the sole purpose of challenging his cousin to a game of chance.

  “There will be no games of chance at the Raven Club, either,” Tristan said.

  Spencer smirked. “I see. You do realize you are acting jealous.”

  Tristan whirled to face him. “That’s r…r-idiculous.”

  “The only one acting ridiculously is you. If you intend on avoiding her bed, then you should go back to your mistress. After all, how long do you think you can live with a woman like Olivia and not want to bed her?”

  …

  The door to her bedchamber swung open without so much as a knock. Olivia looked up from her escritoire where she’d been penning a note to her sister to see Tristan looming in the doorway.

  “I’d think you’d have better manners,” she said, her voice cool.

  He stalked inside and looked down at her where she was seated at her desk. “You will not entertain Lord Jeffries at the Raven Club.”

  “Pardon?”

  “You heard me quite clearly.”

  “I did, but it sounded as if you gave me an order.”

  “I’m your husband. It’s my right to give you orders.”

  She tsked. “Not entirely true. From what you made clear, we are husband and wife in name only. You are to live your life, and I am to live mine.”

  “Not exactly. Not if your behavior adversely affects the title.”

  She harrumphed. “The title? From what I’ve surmised, you do not care for the title or the ascension of the title.”

  “Just because I will not share your bed does not mean you are permitted to roam about London, attend notorious clubs, and challenge bachelors to games of chance.”

  Anger bubbled inside her, and she pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ve attended the club before, and if I choose to wager at one of the tables with your cousin, I will do so. He is amicable and cordial, and I enjoyed his company this afternoon.”

  His expression turned fierce. “Just how much did you enjoy his visit?”

  “Don’t be absurd.”

  A dark shadow crossed his features. “I saw the way he looked at you
. I saw, and I didn’t like it.”

  Her breath stalled in her throat. Could he be jealous? But why? He didn’t want her, didn’t trust her. He had no right to be jealous, to prevent her from socializing with whom she wished, only to look at her as possessively as he did now.

  He reached for a piece of hair that had escaped her pins and wrapped it around his finger. “Spencer is right. You are a beautiful woman.”

  He thought her beautiful? Her heart tripped in her chest. If he wasn’t standing so close, if the scent of his shaving soap didn’t tease her senses, and if she didn’t long to trace the breadth of his shoulders with her fingers, it would be much easier to maintain her cool facade.

  “Tristan, I—”

  “Have you thought of our kiss the day we went riding?”

  The question took her off guard. Had she thought of it? Yes, she had. Too much. The look in his dark eyes told her he was thinking of it right now. His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.

  “I want to kiss you again. Now. If you don’t want it, then tell me to leave.”

  Tell him to leave?

  Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes lowered to his mouth, to the firm lips that she knew firsthand could be tantalizingly soft. Curiosity bubbled inside her. Their stolen kiss in the country had been sweet and seductive and had left her longing for more.

  Would it be the same?

  As if reading her thoughts, his gaze darkened, and he reached for her. She showed no resistance and met him halfway.

  The kiss sparked like fire between them. Fierce. Hot. And forbidden. He was warm and enticing as his mouth moved over hers and devoured its softness. Shocked at her own response, she clung to him and made a mewling sound. He groaned in response. Parting her lips, the kiss grew urgent and exploratory. Their tongues tangled, and soon she returned his kiss with reckless abandon.

  It was different from their first kiss. Better. Rather than feel kissed by the sun and sky, this was a darker need, a more urgent one, like a keen hunger that only he could assuage. But just like last time, he was the one to break the kiss and put distance between them.

  She touched her lips with her fingers. “Why did you kiss me?”

  His fathomless gaze bore down at her. “Because I can. Just like I can forbid you to meet Lord Jeffries.”

  Rather than be intimidated, she faced him, her own glare flashing in challenge. “You should know, Your Grace, that I’ve never done well taking orders.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She was going to drive him mad.

  Once Tristian was back in his own room, he wasted no time in summoning his valet. He had an appointment to keep, and he could not afford to have his wife—his very distracting wife—make him late.

  His valet entered and brought forth Tristan’s parliamentary red robe and helped him dress. The robe lay heavy upon his shoulders, the weight of the velvet a constant reminder of his responsibility. The white powdered wig followed. Tristan disliked the itchy horsehair and often couldn’t wait to remove the wig after a session.

  A quick ride later, Tristan’s carriage stopped before the House of Parliament in Westminster. He made his way into the vestibule and entered the Prince’s Chamber. Members gathered here to discuss business, and he scanned the room for Spencer but didn’t see him. He made his way to the end of the room, where there was direct access to the Lords’ Chamber, and entered the larger room.

  A debate was going on in the House of Lords. At first glance, it appeared chaotic, robed and bewigged men arguing and gesturing to one another. All members sat on benches upholstered in rich, red leather, except for the speaker who sat on a woolsack—a tradition dating back to King Edward III to symbolize the importance of the wool trade to England. Lords gathered on one end, bishops on another. A gifted and ornate royal throne stood at the far end of the chamber on a raised platform. Based on the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey, the prince would speak from his throne at the opening of Parliament.

  All quieted down when the speaker cleared his throat. “Lord Ardmore, sponsor of the Soldiers Bill, will deliver the first reading today.”

  It was the introduction, a formality, and the first reading would take place without debate. The bill would alleviate some of the difficulties soldiers experienced when applying for out-pensions, which were distributed by the Royal Hospital of Chelsea. The process of being discharged from the army and recommended as a candidate for a pension took months. Many were injured and could not wait that long.

  When he’d first learned of the legislation, he knew it was worth championing. But when Gordon had crossed his threshold seeking employment as his butler, Tristan had been shocked to hear of his circumstances. As he investigated more over time, his support for the bill grew passionate.

  He’d visited the hospitals, spoken with discharged soldiers and sailors, many of them wounded or ill, and had seen the need firsthand. He wasn’t unrealistic and understood that he could not help them all—not individually—but he’d listened and learned.

  Governed by a committee of men known as the Lords and Commissioners of the Affairs of Chelsea Hospital, otherwise known as the Board, they were overwhelmed. They did the best they could, but like all government entities, they were understaffed, underpaid, and overworked. It was not uncommon for the Board to list three hundred applicants in every copy of their minutes. As a result, the discharged soldiers, many who were wounded, suffered as they waited.

  His compassion had extended to his hiring of more staff at Keswick Hall, and he’d retained those who could not find work elsewhere: his housekeeper, a footman and former sailor with a wounded shoulder, and a chambermaid and wife of an injured infantryman who had a young babe. He’d also retained former soldiers as tenants at Rosehill. He understood himself well enough to know why the cause struck him so strongly. His personal experiences of rejection, of being told he was unworthy, had resonated with him.

  The Soldiers Bill would alleviate many of the Board’s difficulties. It was a moment of triumph that it had made it this far, and he should be focused on the reading of the bill.

  Instead, as the speaker droned on and on, he found himself thinking of his wife. Their passionate kiss was not easy to forget. He’d been so jealous he’d burst into her bedchamber and kissed her. Now—rather than focusing on the debate—he kept reliving her mewling sounds and the sweet way she’d met his tongue then became fierce.

  Christ. What had he been thinking to touch her?

  That was just it, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking. Nothing could have stopped him from pulling her into his arms and kissing her. Perhaps Spencer was right and he needed to visit his former mistress, ease his body, and forget the woman living in his home. One woman was just as good as another. He’d never had a problem with this in the past.

  With sheer force of will, he pushed the thought of his wife aside and focused on the business at hand.

  He scanned the chamber and noted members’ reactions when the issue of increased pensions for discharged soldiers be distributed by the Royal Hospital Chelsea arose. He halted when he spotted Lord Ware two rows away. Heavy-set with sagging jowls, Ware leaned toward another lord to whisper in his ear.

  Dumfries.

  Bloody hell. The only thing Dumfries cared about was gaining favor with Lord Ware. As a result, Dumfries had wasted no time in garnering opposition to the bill himself. To make matters worse, Dumfries would be the one who would argue against the bill during the second reading. Any member could speak at the second reading, to argue for a bill or in opposition of it, or to suggest changes to it, before it was voted upon.

  Dumfries hated Tristan and could never be persuaded to change his vote. But Ware was key. In his mind, Tristan knew his own arguments were superior. But delivering them—actually speaking at the reading—was the problem, wasn’t it?

  He felt as if his stomach was hollowed out with a dull spoon. He’d have to sit and listen as his hated school enemy, the head bully who�
��d tormented him, argued against a bill that meant everything to Tristan and won. Dumfries had taunted him at Eton, and now he would be the one to stand in the way of what Tristan wanted for the needy soldiers.

  It was unfair, but he’d learned at an early age that life was unfair. He couldn’t complain. He was a wealthy duke. He was in a much better position than those who returned from the hardship of war without a shilling to their name. Soldiers who’d been promised wages from the government but who’d never received their full pay. Men who’d lost a limb, like his butler, and others who weren’t so fortunate as to have found employment.

  “You look angry, Your Grace.”

  Spencer, Lord Jeffries, appeared beside him. Normally, he’d be pleased to see his cousin, but he experienced a flash of annoyance. “I’m not angry, just concentrating.”

  “You may be the only one. Are you really focused on the members or thinking of your duchess? I admit, she intrigues me. So does your marriage in name only. From the way you spoke of her, I assumed she was a dried-up turnip, a woman you wouldn’t want to bed. Now I see that you were trying to drive me away.”

  Tristan glared at him. “My marriage is not your concern.”

  “I know. I know. I need not fear that I will be next in line for the dukedom.”

  Tristan didn’t like where the conversation was headed. Spencer could never understand his reasons for not wanting his own flesh-and-blood heir. Spencer had never had trouble attracting the fairer sex. In addition to his appearance, he was well-spoken and never tripped over simple words or had to guard his tongue.

  “You are even more disagreeable than usual. I can only assume it is because you desire her but refuse to take her.”

  “Sod off.”

  When it became clear that Tristan wouldn’t discuss the topic any longer, Spencer sighed. “This is boring. The bill was just introduced. There will be no argument today, no vote.”

  “Go then.” Tristan wanted to stay, wanted to see who else Dumfries lured to his side. Tristan may not be able to argue at the bill’s second reading, but he had other methods he could use until then. He planned on writing to those who appeared to favor Dumfries’ position.