Page 39 of How to Capture a Duke

Tristan didn’t like where the conversation was headed. Spencer could never understand his reasons for not wanting his own flesh-and-blood heir. Spencer had never had trouble attracting the fairer sex. In addition to his appearance, he was well-spoken and never tripped over simple words or had to guard his tongue.

“You are even more disagreeable than usual. I can only assume it is because you desire her but refuse to take her.”

“Sod off.”

When it became clear that Tristan wouldn’t discuss the topic any longer, Spencer sighed. “This is boring. The bill was just introduced. There will be no argument today, no vote.”

“Go then.” Tristan wanted to stay, wanted to see who else Dumfries lured to his side. Tristan may not be able to argue at the bill’s second reading, but he had other methods he could use until then. He planned on writing to those who appeared to favor Dumfries’ position.

“Fine. I’ll be at Jonathan’s coffee house where there is lively conversation should you wish to join us.”

Not bloody likely. Tristan waved a hand to dismiss him.

Spencer looked back, a twitch to his lips. “Oh, and if you insist on not sharing your wife’s bed, there is a comely maid at the coffee house who is always eager to please. Maybe then your mood will be tolerable.”

The nightmare changed.

Tristan rolled to the side and tried to escape the fog of sleep, but to no avail. The images surfaced like cobwebs from deep within his mind.

He was in class at Oxford, but the visions blurred and then resolved themselves into something else, something in the present.

The Lord’s Chamber.

The faces of the robed and bewigged lords and bishops in the room were indiscernible, save one. Lord Dumfries. Soon, other faces came into focus. Lord Ware, Dumfries’s ally. The speaker. His cousin, Lord Jeffries.

“Here, here!” the speaker cried out, and all the members quieted. “The first to argue for the second reading of the Soldiers Bill will be the Duke of Keswick.”

All eyes turned to him. A humming began in the base of his skull and grew louder and louder like the swarm of bees around a destroyed hive. Sweat beaded on his brow, and he felt the dreaded panic seize him. His horsehair wig felt itchy and hot. His limbs felt heavy and useless.

Speak!

The speaker’s face melted and reformed into that of his mother. A cold, haughty look crossed the duchess’s face as she glowered at him across the chamber. “He is useless! A mute would be a better son.”

A different type of pain sliced through him. The rejection of a boy by the woman who should love him above all else.

Speak!

His lips parted, but the words froze in his throat, seizing him in a fit of pain and fear and the all-too-familiar feelings of humiliation.

The duchess’s face blurred and changed once again. This time, the beautiful features of his wife appeared.

Olivia.

Speak, dammit!

The words left his lips in a stumbled mess. He tripped over every word like he’d never stuttered before. The resounding laughter made his gut roil. Lord Dumfries clutched his stomach in mirth then pointed at him. Soon, others joined him until the entire chamber jeered and laughed, the sound rattling in his skull. Only Olivia stood silent, her green gaze watching him, disapproval and disgust stamped on her beautiful features.

Tristan woke and sat up in bed. He kicked off the coverlet, his chest heaving and his heart pounding. His nightmares had always been of his boyhood school days, never of the world he occupied as an adult.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. Time was supposed to subdue the memories. His throat was raw with unuttered shouts, and he knew the reason behind the disturbing dream.

Olivia.

He’d suspected it before, but now he was certain. She was the only change in his regimented life. Their shared kiss must have affected him even more than he’d thought. He was convinced, more than ever before, that he had to keep his distance.

…

“Would you like more tea, Your Grace?” the footman asked.