Page 38 of How to Capture a Duke

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.”