Page 37 of How to Capture a Duke

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The door to her bedchamber swung open without so much as a knock. Olivia looked up from her escritoire where she’d been penning a note to her sister to see Tristan looming in the doorway.

“I’d think you’d have better manners,” she said, her voice cool.

He stalked inside and looked down at her where she was seated at her desk. “You will not entertain Lord Jeffries at the Raven Club.”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me quite clearly.”

“I did, but it sounded as if you gave me an order.”

“I’m your husband. It’s my right to give you orders.”

She tsked. “Not entirely true. From what you made clear, we are husband and wife in name only. You are to live your life, and I am to live mine.”

“Not exactly. Not if your behavior adversely affects the title.”

She harrumphed. “The title? From what I’ve surmised, you do not care for the title or the ascension of the title.”

“Just because I will not share your bed does not mean you are permitted to roam about London, attend notorious clubs, and challenge bachelors to games of chance.”

Anger bubbled inside her, and she pushed back her chair and stood. “I’ve attended the club before, and if I choose to wager at one of the tables with your cousin, I will do so. He is amicable and cordial, and I enjoyed his company this afternoon.”

His expression turned fierce. “Just how much did you enjoy his visit?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

A dark shadow crossed his features. “I saw the way he looked at you. I saw, and I didn’t like it.”

Her breath stalled in her throat. Could he be jealous? But why? He didn’t want her, didn’t trust her. He had no right to be jealous, to prevent her from socializing with whom she wished, only to look at her as possessively as he did now.

He reached for a piece of hair that had escaped her pins and wrapped it around his finger. “Spencer is right. You are a beautiful woman.”

He thought her beautiful? Her heart tripped in her chest. If he wasn’t standing so close, if the scent of his shaving soap didn’t tease her senses, and if she didn’t long to trace the breadth of his shoulders with her fingers, it would be much easier to maintain her cool facade.

“Tristan, I—”

“Have you thought of our kiss the day we went riding?”

The question took her off guard. Had she thought of it? Yes, she had. Too much. The look in his dark eyes told her he was thinking of it right now. His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she licked her suddenly dry lips.

“I want to kiss you again. Now. If you don’t want it, then tell me to leave.”

Tell him to leave?

Her lips parted, but no words came out. Her eyes lowered to his mouth, to the firm lips that she knew firsthand could be tantalizingly soft. Curiosity bubbled inside her. Their stolen kiss in the country had been sweet and seductive and had left her longing for more.

Would it be the same?

As if reading her thoughts, his gaze darkened, and he reached for her. She showed no resistance and met him halfway.

The kiss sparked like fire between them. Fierce. Hot. And forbidden. He was warm and enticing as his mouth moved over hers and devoured its softness. Shocked at her own response, she clung to him and made a mewling sound. He groaned in response. Parting her lips, the kiss grew urgent and exploratory. Their tongues tangled, and soon she returned his kiss with reckless abandon.

It was different from their first kiss. Better. Rather than feel kissed by the sun and sky, this was a darker need, a more urgent one, like a keen hunger that only he could assuage. But just like last time, he was the one to break the kiss and put distance between them.

She touched her lips with her fingers. “Why did you kiss me?”