Page 65 of How to Capture a Duke

He waved a hand at the room. “Pardon the disarray. It is my day off from seeing patients, and I was studying my notes.”

He moved papers from a chair and placed them on top of a stack on his desk and motioned for her to sit. He did the same for another chair and sat across from her.

“Tell me about your duke,” he said.

“I never said I was here because of the duke.”

“Ah, you didn’t need to. Why else would you come see me if it were not for a loved one who stutters?”

He made a valid argument. Still, it could be her brother or sister or close friend. Her thoughts swirled, and she decided she’d best be honest. She needed his expertise.

“His Grace will need to be convinced you can help him.” Her hands twisted in her lap as she thought of what Tristan would say if he even knew she was here. “He’s had horrific experiences in his youth. His mother retained tutors and even a physician.”

“Let me guess. They were incompetent to help him, mistreated him, maybe even used leeches to bleed him.”

She blinked. “How did you know?”

“He is not the first to be subjected to such ineffective methods.”

“My husband avoids social functions.”

“Understandable. People view those who stammer as less intelligent or mentally ill. My patients are aware of this, and it causes their emotions to well up and makes it even more difficult to speak. It’s frustrating, embarrassing, and whittles away at their confidence. Stressful circumstances make it worse.”

This must be how Tristan felt. Her stomach tilted in dismay as she settled on the chair. “What makes your methods different?”

“I encourage my patients to stutter and then work on modifying their speech. I also encourage them to become aware of where they tense when they stutter—whether it is their mouth, their lips, or their throat. And then we work on breathing techniques. It takes time for each patient to master an effective technique.”

One might think his techniques bizarre, but as Olivia listened, they gave her hope. “And then?”

“Then we practice doing what we fear most: mingling with the public, whether it is ordering a meal at an inn, touring a museum with a guide, or attending a ball.”

Tristan feared speaking in the House of Lords, arguing before his peers, and voicing his vote for the Soldiers Bill.

“The duke must be reassured everything will remain private,” she said.

“My sessions with my patients are private. I will never violate that rule. If I did, I would be a beggar in St. Giles.”

Another question came to mind, one that had been nagging her ever since she knocked on Horace Higgins’s door. Her fingers twisted in her skirts. “One more question. If we are to have a child, will he or she—”

“Stammer as well?” he finished for her.

“Yes.” It was a main point of contention between them. The reason he’d left her in his bed after she’d wanted him to stay and make love to her.

Higgins pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and regarded her. “Many have asked me the same question. I assume his difficulty speaking is not the only problem in your marriage.”

She had never said they had marital problems. She should be offended, but she couldn’t muster the will to concoct a lie. Why bother? She suspected his success was not only from his techniques, but his ability to read his patients’ mental anguish. “You have assumed correctly.”

He leveled his gaze at her. “The answer is yes, there is a likelihood that it can be passed down to your children.”

Her stomach nearly bottomed out, and her fingers curled around the armrests of the chair.

“However,” he said, “there is no guarantee your child will suffer, and if he does stammer, it can be corrected early on with proper treatment. No academic tutors or leeches will be required.”

She let out a held-in breath. There is hope. Mind made up, she struggled with a different problem. “How do I get the duke to come to you?”

“You won’t. I shall come to him.”

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