Page 12 of How to Capture a Duke

Bloody hell!

It was entirely possible. Child’s play, even. She could have bribed one of the servants to take the necklace and plant it in her trunk. The truth was he barely knew her. A ride in the country and a brief kiss wasn’t sufficient to judge her true character. And what if the kiss was contrived? After all, she had kissed him.

Had he been manipulated in the worst way?

Chapter Four

Olivia could only stare at Tristan in shock. Her mind refused to comprehend what she heard, what she was seeing. The change in him had been subtle at first, an indefinable clenching of his jaw, a sharpening of those dark eyes, a squaring of his broad shoulders. But now she recognized it for what it was: the unmistakable arrogance that made up the fabric—the very being—of the aristocracy.

Still, she had to ask aloud, “You are the duke?”

“It is rude to ask a question if the answer is known.” His tone was sharp, his gaze direct. His speech held no stutter.

Once again, the feeling that something was dreadfully wrong sank in her stomach. It was bad enough that she’d been accused of stealing Lady Samantha’s necklace. Even more incriminating was the fact that the missing jewelry had been found in her possessions.

But this was much, much worse. A stable master turned into a duke.

A rivulet of sweat trickled between her breasts in her tight corset. The scent of fresh hay and horse that had calmed her in the past now made her feel nauseous.

If Caleb—no, Tristan—was the duke, then that meant she’d spent an entire afternoon with him. Unchaperoned.

Good God. The consequences were profound.

And they hadn’t even mentioned the kiss. Looking at the man now, she couldn’t fathom how his lips had been so tantalizingly soft. His mouth was set in a deep frown, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw a lump of granite.

Olivia glanced away, hoping to get sympathy from one of the two older women in the stable. It was a mistake. Her mother’s expression was one of shock mingled with anger and—Heaven help Olivia—satisfaction. It was enough to make Olivia want to leap onto Atlas’s saddle and ride hell bent for leather into the countryside. A glimmer of interest and calculation lit the dowager duchess’s eyes.

Olivia recognized the calculation; she’d seen it often enough in her own mother’s eyes.

Oh, no!

She’d needed an alibi. Now, she desperately needed an escape.

“The ensuing scandal will travel to London before we can even return,” Olivia’s mother said. “The other guests might even suspect the truth as we speak. They have to marry. At once.”

“I agree, but a special license is necessary,” the dowager duchess said.

“You are a duke’s grandmother. Can you not petition the Bishop for one?”

“Even I have my limitations, however—” The dowager rubbed her chin with a thumb and forefinger before continuing, “I am hopeful.”

They talked as if the two people involved weren’t even present.

All during this discussion, Tristan, the Duke of Keswick—as she must now think of him—glowered at Olivia. His expression was different from when they’d sat by the stream, watched the water flow over the rocks, and talked.

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?”