Page 17 of How to Capture a Duke

She was exhausted, mentally and physically. She wanted to return to her chamber, have a maid help her out of her ridiculously expensive wedding gown, and remove the pins from her hair. Then she’d collapse in her feathered mattress, bury her face in her pillow, and try to forget that she was a married woman. Thankfully, she did not have to worry about a wedding night. Her groom had made that clear. But which room would be hers? Would her chamber be connected to the duke’s? There were two hundred rooms in this blasted manor.

She was now mistress of this place.

Another fear pierced her chest.

She had no idea how to be a duchess. She was raised the youngest daughter of an earl, but a duchess meant much, much more. Rosehill would be only one of his many estates. And what of his London home? She struggled to recall passing by the Duke of Keswick’s Berkeley Square mansion. It was a large and lavish pile of stone. Panic set in, a different kind this time. As a duchess, she would be watched by the society matrons. Everywhere she went and everything she wore would be under scrutiny by the gossips of the ton and printed in the scandal sheets.

Good heavens. She was not up to the challenge.

Tristan opened a door and ushered her inside the library. Rows of mahogany bookshelves full of leather-bound books eased her nerves. Armchairs were situated before a fireplace. A large desk and tall windows overlooking the vast gardens made for a pleasing place to sit and read. If only she could shut herself in the library, curl up in one of the leather chairs, read a book, and pretend she hadn’t wed and her life hadn’t changed.

Instead, she forced herself to turn and meet his gaze. “Pray tell me, what is so important as to leave our own wedding breakfast?”

“It’s done.”

“Yes?” That was an odd way of saying they had exchanged vows and were now bound to each other for all eternity.

He leveled a flat stare at her. “I did my duty.”

Duty. What a fool she’d been to think she’d ever find love. What made her think she was deserving of such a man?

Unsure how to respond, she asked the question that had been on her mind. “Which chamber will be mine?”

He shrugged a broad shoulder. “Whichever you want. Rosehill is yours.”

“Mine?” He was giving her the manor as a wedding gift?

“I’m leaving straightway for London.”

She blinked in surprise. “Already? I must pack.”

“You misunderstand. I never said you are to accompany me.”

She blinked. “You mean to leave me here? At Rosehill?”

“You wanted to be a duchess. You may have Rosehill forever.”

Forever. He wasn’t just gifting her Rosehill. He meant to banish her here, to have her rusticate in the country.

Bile rose up her throat. He had the power of a dukedom, and as her husband, he could carry out the threat. She’d never again set foot in London or be able to frequently visit her siblings. If Olivia was in the country, she would see her family only when they visited her, which was much less often than she preferred.

And what of the Raven Club? The casino had been a part of her life ever since her brother had confessed to owning the place. Olivia loved donning a mask and walking the casino floor or watching one of the fights in the boxing room. It was exciting and adventurous.

Tristan could not take all of that away from her. “Once again, you are wrong, Your Grace. I never wanted to be a duchess, and I certainly never sought to be your duchess. You cannot banish me.”

“I can and I will.” His mouth thinned into a hard line.

For the first time, she was the one without words. She was aware of her wedding finery—the layers of silk and lace and seeded pearls that seemed to weigh as heavily as an anvil upon her shoulders. The tightness of her corset made it difficult to draw breath. The impossibility of her situation struck her like a blow, and her lip quivered. She held back tears. She refused to cry, refused to give him the satisfaction.

Meanwhile, his stutter was gone. Why was his speech clear when he spoke to her? Was he comfortable treating her in a highhanded manner or did he truly despise her and not care?

Either answer meant her doom.

Chapter Six

A low knock on the study door interrupted Tristan from his correspondence. “Enter.”

His butler, Gordon, stood in the doorway. “You have a letter, Your Grace.”