Page 58 of How to Capture a Duke

Antonia grimaced. “Our relationship was not amicable.”

It would be difficult for Olivia to forget what both Tristan and Lord Jeffries had told her about the former duchess. The tutors. The duchess’s inexcusable behavior when her son had not been “cured” of his affliction.

“He said as much. Why?” Olivia asked.

“She kept trying to fix him. I do believe there were ways to help him as a boy, are ways to help him now, but she destroyed his confidence with a string of tutors who did not know their arse from their heads. They were academics and had no experience with Tristan’s speech impediment.”

“The tutors were cruel.”

“At one point, the duchess thought her son suffered from a physical ailment. She summoned a physician who insisted upon bloodletting. I helplessly watched as Tristan was tied down. He was only eight years old.”

My God. He’d failed to mention that incident.

“I wept for the boy. Soon after, his mother shipped him off to Eton. I thought things would get better if he was away from her.”

“Did things improve?” Olivia asked, a tinge of hope in her voice.

“No. Something must have happened when he was away at school. Children can be cruel.”

Ellie had told her that Tristan and Dumfries had attended Eton together, but they were not old school friends. Spencer had told her that Tristan was bullied at school. It was not difficult to make the connection now. “Lord Dumfries was one of the cruel boys, wasn’t he?” The two men were the same age, and Tristan’s jaw would tighten at the mention of Dumfries. Instinct told her there was much more to their dislike of each other than one schoolyard skirmish.

“Lord Dumfries was a bully, one of the meanest. I only know because Tristan began having nightmares when he’d returned home for holiday. He’d talk in his sleep, you see. I’d open his door and comfort him.”

Olivia swallowed as an image of Tristan as a tormented young boy formed in her mind. She hated to see any child suffer, and she was grateful for the woman sitting before her. “Thank you for that.”

Antonia leaned across the table to clutch her hand. For an elderly woman, her grip was surprisingly strong. “The best way to thank me is to not give up on my grandson. Remember this: fortune favors those bold enough to seize what they desire.”

Chapter Twenty

“You look lov…lov…b-beautiful tonight.”

Tristan’s gaze swept over Olivia as they stepped inside the vestibule of the Covent Garden Theatre. She looked fetching in a light-green gown and a deeper green opera cloak lined in black. A maid had artfully upswept her hair in curls with a loose curl that framed her heart-shaped face.

Her lovely eyes twinkled beneath the light of the chandeliers. “Thank you. You look quite handsome yourself.”

He’d taken care with his appearance and had tolerated his valet’s fussing over the intricate knot of his cravat and the sheen of his boots. He’d wanted everything to be special for her this evening.

Tristan tucked her arm in his and escorted her toward the theater. Men and women, dressed in evening finery, watched them with curiosity. He knew the appearance of a duke and duchess was noteworthy, but the sight of the elusive Duke of Keswick with his new duchess would make the gossip sheets tomorrow. Knowing his grandmother, Antonia would hand-deliver the paper to his study with pride.

Rather than worrying that one of the gentlemen would approach to engage him in conversation, he felt a sense of masculine arrogance and pride that Olivia was on his arm.

He made his way to the stairs, and they ascended then made their way down a hall. He opened the curtains that led to his private box.

“Do you attend the theater often?” Olivia asked.

“Never.”

“Then why do you have your own private box?”

“My father owned it. My grandfather before him. It is a family tradition of sorts.” Tristan disliked unnecessary expenses, and he spent enough time in his study with his steward going over ledgers to identify and eliminate them. But something about the private box had been different. Perhaps it reminded him of his father—a man he’d never known—and he’d kept it.

Seeing the pleased look on Olivia’s face, he was glad he had.

He held a chair for her to sit, and his fingers grazed her shoulders. His touch lingered, longing to caress the smooth skin of her nape. She must have sensed his battle for restraint, and she turned to look up at him.

“Tristan.”

As always of late, the sound of his Christian name on her lips unleashed a rush of desire. He grew rock hard in his tailored trousers.