Page 19 of How to Capture a Duke

Business was easy to talk about, but as for his marriage, it would not alter his own plans. “There will be no children.”

Spencer’s brow shot into his hairline. “She cannot conceive?”

“No. It is a marriage in name only.”

“In name only? You mean you won’t be sharing a bed? Is she disfigured? Unattractive?”

Tristan didn’t answer. An image crossed his mind of a cascade of golden hair, sparkling green eyes, and sun-kissed cheeks as Olivia galloped across the fields. Another memory arose, one that he feared would not fade: the feel of her full breasts and curvaceous figure as he held her for a kiss that hadn’t lasted long enough. Whatever he could say about Olivia, she was not unattractive. She was the type of woman who made a man think lustful thoughts. Even her inexperienced kiss had affected him in ways he’d found surprising. She’d been exuberant and eager and would have kept kissing him if he hadn’t pulled away. Come to think of it, he shouldn’t have. He should have taken advantage and tasted more of what she’d offered. At least he’d been blissfully ignorant of her plans then.

Spencer drew his lips in thoughtfully. “I see. She must be chicken-breasted and uncomely, and you married to please your grandmother.”

Let Spencer believe what he wanted. It was easier than explaining alibis and trickery.

“However unimportant you claim your marriage, I would still like to properly meet the lady someday,” his cousin said.

It wasn’t going to happen, not unless Spencer traveled to Rosehill.

…

He’d taken Atlas with him.

Olivia stared at the stallion’s empty stall. It had been a week since her husband had left for London, and her emotions were still a whirlwind. One minute she wanted to weep; the next she wanted to scream in outrage. The sight of the horse would have calmed her, but now she felt only anxious. She could ride another, but the stables reminded her of him.

Dammit. Her one escape and now she saw him everywhere.

She envisioned Tristan brushing Atlas, his muscles bunching beneath his cotton shirt as he worked. She recalled him helping her mount her mare the day they’d ridden, his strong hands easily spanning her waist. And she relived their kiss, the softness of his lips and the thrill of excitement as their tongues tangled.

She pushed the memories aside. They were all lies. The real man wasn’t a groom; he was a cruel, selfish duke. A man who’d wed her then abandoned her on her wedding day.

Good God. Would she ever recover from the betrayal or the humiliation?

She left Atlas’s stall and approached the stable of the mare she’d ridden that day. Reaching out, she stroked the animal’s soft muzzle. The day after the wedding, her mother had returned to Bath to live with her sister, Olivia’s aunt. Her mother had kissed Olivia on the cheek and offered words of advice. “You’re now a duchess. Do not let pride get in your way.”

That was her most valuable motherly advice? Pride was the least of Olivia’s vices; she possessed an abundance of impulsiveness and stubbornness.

It had been an agonizingly slow week. The longer Olivia roamed the two-hundred room mansion, the more her anger arose.

How dare he? What gave him the right to leave her here? To keep her from London, her former life, and her family? She didn’t care if he was a duke. Or even a duke who happened to be her husband in the eyes of the law. She did not take well to anyone forbidding her to do anything, and she refused to be any man’s property. The Duke of Keswick believed she’d deceived him. He had no idea what duplicity she was capable of.

“I’m surprised you are still in residence, my dear.”

Olivia spun around to see the dowager duchess enter the stables. She walked smoothly, and not for the first time, Olivia wondered why she used the cane. It didn’t appear as if she needed it.

“I was told by His Grace to remain at Rosehill.”

Why had the woman sought her out? Olivia had come here hoping to ease her troubles. She was not in the mood for company.

“And do you always do what you are told?” the dowager asked.

Olivia warily eyed the woman. No, she did not. As a child, Olivia had disobeyed her parents on more occasions than her brother and sister combined. She’d had a fondness for tucking her skirts into her waistband and climbing trees on the country estate. Her father, the old earl, had accused her of giving him his gray hairs, and she’d had her bottom paddled more than once. It hadn’t stopped her. She’d only grown more secretive in her activities and had snuck out of the house to spend time in the stables rather than practice the pianoforte.

“He believes I deceived him,” Olivia said.

“Did you?” The older woman’s gaze was direct.

Not for the first time, as Olivia looked into the woman’s dark eyes, she was reminded of her grandson’s. “No.”

The dowager sifted straw aside with her cane then stepped closer. “I owe you an apology, my dear.”