Page 69 of How to Capture a Duke

His blue eyes lit when they spotted her. “Good afternoon, Olivia.” A light breeze blew his fair hair away from his forehead.

“Spencer! How lovely to see you.”

Just then, Higgins rushed into the vestibule with a handful of papers. With a jaunty wave at Olivia, the odd man hurried past Spencer to rush down the stairs and wave for his waiting hackney.

“Who was that?” Spencer asked.

“A friend visiting from the country. A squire.” The lie came smoothly to her lips, and she was careful to keep a serene expression. Her promise to Tristan not to tell anyone of his sessions with Higgins weighed heavily upon her mind.

Thankfully, her explanation seemed to appease Spencer. He tilted his head to the side, his blue eyes studying her. “You appear happy.”

“I suppose I am.”

“Things between you and my cousin have improved?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yes, they have. For the first time, I have hope for our future.”

He watched her, and Olivia had the distinct impression he was studying her for a crack in her facade—the slightest inkling that she was lying. She must have passed inspection, because he nodded then grinned. “Good news, indeed. Tristan deserves happiness.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Olivia knocked softly on the study door. She’d sat by the window seat in her bedchamber for a large part of the evening, overlooking the gardens below and gathering her courage, before finding herself here.

“Enter.”

She opened the door, and Tristan looked up from his desk.

“Mr. Higgins mentioned it would be helpful if we practiced.” She held her breath, her stomach in knots, wondering if he would turn her away when the corners of his lips kicked into a smile.

He pushed back his chair and stood. “I’d like that.”

She shut the door, and he motioned for her to sit on the settee against the wall.

Without a coat, waistcoat, or cravat, he looked striking. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the corded muscles of his neck and a sprinkling of hair on his chest. She spotted his coat tossed over a chair before his desk. He had not expected her, and it was clear he’d discarded his formal attire to work alone in his study for the remainder of the evening.

He leaned against his desk, the outline of his shoulders visible through the broadcloth. Memories returned in a rush—of when he’d slipped his shirt over his head and she’d seen his naked chest for the first time. Her heart hammered, and she pushed the images aside. She was here to help him, nothing more.

She swallowed and focused her attention on his desk rather than at him. “Am I disturbing your work?”

“It can wait.”

“What is it you do here every evening?”

“The ducal estates require attention. Rosehill is just one of many properties.”

“Don’t you have stewards to handle the tasks?” Her father always had, and on more than one occasion, he’d pronounced the work boring and beneath him.

“Stewards are only as honest as their supervision.”

“You do not trust them?” she asked.

“I have a problem trusting others.”

She knew this only too well. His mistrust had kept them apart for most of their marriage thus far. “And Mr. Higgins? Do you trust the man?”

“I admit I was doubtful at first, but I have come to accept his methods. He has given me the confidence to believe I can speak in the House of Lords.”

She leaned forward an inch, her voice soft. “I have no doubt you will be successful.”