Page 22 of How to Capture a Duke

With a swirl of skirts, she was gone.

He stood alone, his fists clenched at his sides. He was unaccustomed to having his orders disobeyed. Never did he believe she’d leave Rosehill, let alone stand up to him. The fiery challenge was evident in the steel of her spine and the flash in her eyes. Even more unexpected was how easily she had won over his staff.

Had he been outmaneuvered once again?

…

She’d done it.

Olivia hadn’t missed the flash of fury in her husband’s steely gaze, first in the vestibule, then in the drawing room. But neither did she miss the glint of masculine interest in his dark, fathomless eyes. He felt something for her; she was certain.

Tristan may not have wanted a duchess, but he had one. Could she turn things around? Change the future? His grandmother had encouraged her to seize what was hers. The Duke of Keswick may not be the ideal husband, but he was hers.

Just as she was his wife.

She stood in the center of her bedchamber and circled the room. Mrs. Ludson and the maids had rushed to prepare the chamber; it was clear they had not expected her to ever arrive. The staff had all been polite and welcoming, and Olivia hadn’t missed the butler’s limp and cane or the housekeeper’s unusual eyes. At first, she hadn’t known where to look when she’d first spoken with Mrs. Ludson and then decided to look in the woman’s right eye. After that, Olivia had hardly noticed her condition. The housekeeper’s competence was all that mattered.

The dark, mahogany furnishings must have been covered in sheets and aired out. The bed was recently made. Candlelight did little to illuminate the dull blue paint. The darkness of the bedchamber was depressing. It must have belonged to the prior duchess, Tristan’s mother. She wondered what the woman had been like. Had she loved her son? Had it broken her heart to wait for him to speak his first words, only to discover later he had a stutter?

Olivia sighed as she sat on the four-poster bed. She would redecorate right away. She’d have to move her trunks out of the chamber as the work was done. Golden paint and lighter oak furniture would add a cheerfulness and suit her personal tastes.

The bed was draped in heavy curtains. It was a bed for a duchess, but would it remain cold and lonely forever? Would her dreams of a loving man, of heated encounters in the marriage bed, ever come true?

She spotted an adjoining wooden door in the corner and wondered if it led to Tristan’s chamber.

She wouldn’t think of that. At least she was in London and would see her sister soon. Maybe even pay a visit to the Raven Club and take a chance at the roulette wheel.

Her life had turned out to be quite a wager, but unlike most of the gamblers that visited the Raven Club, she was convinced the odds were in her favor and she would end up the winner.

Chapter Eight

Deep in the recesses of his mind, Tristan knew he was dreaming.

He was back at Eton and sitting in Professor Hobson’s mathematics classroom. Tristan had always loved the subject. Numbers didn’t lie, didn’t disguise themselves in false pretenses.

Unlike his fellow classmates.

Professor Hobson, who was into his late seventies, finished writing an equation on the blackboard then turned to face the class. “Who can tell me the answer?”

Twenty-nine.

Tristan knew, but he stayed quiet. No one else raised their hand. The professor’s gaze scanned the class then halted at Tristan. “Your Grace, what is your answer?”

Panic pierced his gut. He opened his mouth then shut it. His sickening fear had nothing to do with calculating the correct answer. He knew the correct number, and he knew the professor knew he knew. But he’d have to voice it out loud.

The elderly professor arched a shaggy brow. “Well?”

Tristan heard the snickers behind him.

“T…t-wenty n…n-ine.”

The laughter was bolder this time. He could picture the boys seated behind him. Aiden Middleson. Mark Engleson. Harry Ardmore. Their titles didn’t matter to him.

“And the second calculation?” Professor Hobson asked.

The numbers were thick on his tongue, like honey that had hardened in the jar over time. “S…s-eventy t…t-wo.”

More laughter behind him.