Page 23 of How to Capture a Duke

The professor nodded as if he hadn’t heard Tristan’s stuttering, turned his back to the classroom, and moved on to write the next calculation on the blackboard. The rest of the lesson was a blur. Tristan wanted to sink low in his chair, disappear into nothingness.

At last, class was over. Quickly gathering his books, Tristan tucked his head into his cloak and hurried outside.

A sharp pain in his lower back caught him by surprise. Stunned, he whirled and ducked in time to avoid the second stone aimed for the back of his head.

“Look who it is. The Stuttering Duke.” Aiden was the son of Viscount Dumfries, short and stocky, and the leader of the malicious group who’d taunted him from the first time he’d spoken at Eton. Two other boys, Mark and Harry, always stood by his side.

Tristan refused to be baited. Again. He turned his back on the group and kept walking, more swiftly this time.

“W…w-hat is w…w-rong w…with you t…t-day?” Mark spoke this time. Of average height with pale hair that looked like straw, he had the perpetual look of a boy sucking on a lemon.

“He’s an e…e-mbarassment. S…s-tupid s…s-tuttering duke,” Harry said. Heavy-set, he was failing Professor Hobson’s class.

Bursts of laughter.

Tristan felt his face burn hot with anger. His fists clenched at his sides as he whirled to face his attackers. He hated them. All of them. He wanted to scream but knew it would come out sounding like a wounded animal. Just like he felt. Wounded and hurting.

They would only laugh more.

So he did the only thing he could. He charged at Aiden. His first punch caught Aiden off guard. The second made a satisfying crunch.

“You bastard!” Aiden shouted as he clutched his bloody nose.

Tristan’s satisfaction was short-lived when the other two boys joined the fight. He was fiercely determined and angry, but at twelve years old, he didn’t have the strength to fight all three of them.

Tristan fell to the ground and shielded his face as best as he could, but pain radiated throughout his body from the vicious kicks to his stomach and legs. A fierce jab in his ribs made him shout out, a garbled sound, and he’d later learn that he’d broken three ribs.

“Stop! Stop at once!” Professor Hobson’s voice.

The boys fled, but Tristan remained on the ground. The humiliation was worse than the physical bruising and broken bones. He’d hated his enemies, but he’d hated himself even more.

Stupid Stuttering Duke.

Tristan woke in a sweat. Gasping for breath, he threw aside the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. Taking deep breaths, he tried to keep the nausea at bay that threatened and roiled in his stomach. With a shaking hand, he reached for a glass of water on his nightstand.

Oh God.

He hadn’t experienced the nightmare in a long, long time. Why now?

He knew the answer and the reason behind it.

Olivia.

She was sleeping in the adjoining chamber. Mrs. Ludson had prepared the room for Olivia. As his new bride, she’d assumed that was where he’d desired his wife.

He wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. He was a grown man, a duke. No one dared to taunt him to his face now. But he’d learned the hard way that bad experiences from one’s youth were terribly difficult to forget. They were like old scars, permanently etched in one’s memories, that could unexpectedly arise and haunt a person at any time.

He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart. The nightmare had occurred for a reason. A warning. He would never wish a similar childhood on anyone.

Especially his own child.

Chapter Nine

Olivia was alone in the breakfast room. A footman had promptly delivered tea as soon as she seated herself at the long, mahogany table, and a sideboard held an assortment of eggs, buttered toast, and ham. Sunlight streamed through the windows and warmed her cheeks. It would have been a lovely morning in a lovely room. She had fond memories of sitting in the dining room with her family each morning. They’d laugh, share bits of gossip, and discuss their daily plans.

But things were different now that she was married.

Was this how she would spend the rest of her days? Alone in a large, cold mansion devoid of laughter and love?