Page 60 of How to Capture a Duke

“Good night, Olivia.” Then he turned and went to his own bedchamber door and disappeared within the room.

Her heart sank as she opened her own door. She stood in the center of the lovely room and stared at the large four-poster bed. How could she have misinterpreted so badly? His touch had caressed her shoulders when he’d pulled out her chair. His heated gaze had watched her in the theater. His hand had clutched hers on the balcony railing. She cupped her hand as if she could capture his kiss.

She wasn’t wrong. He desired her.

But he resisted her still.

Antonia’s words returned. Don’t give up on him. Fortune favors those bold enough to seize what they desire. She was no longer a fresh-faced debutante. She was twenty-one years old and a married virgin. She was bold and desirable, and now more than ever before, she needed her reckless and stubborn nature to come to her aid.

If her husband feared to come to her bed, then she would go to his.

She rang for her maid and chose her prettiest nightgown, a silk so fine it was nearly transparent. Removing the pins in her hair, she brushed the blond locks until they shimmered like a pale halo around her shoulders.

She paced the thick Oriental carpet to gain her confidence. She took a single candle then walked to the corner of the room and pressed her free palm against the connecting door that led from her chamber to his. The same door that on her first day here he had sworn would remain permanently closed. Taking a deep breath, she leaned an ear to the cool wood. She didn’t hear anything and assumed he was already in bed.

Insecurities arose. She had no idea how to seduce a man, let alone a reluctant husband.

But he’s not reluctant. You’ve seen the desire in his eyes.

Chin held high, she reached for the handle and opened the door. The room was dimly lit. Coals burned low in the brazier from the fireplace. Her candle cast a faint glow around her. She crept closer, her eyes adjusting to the dimness of the room. She could not make out the shape of a figure on the bed.

“Tristan?” she whispered.

No answer.

She stepped closer and realized he wasn’t in the bed. Her stomach tilted, and she bit her lip in disappointment. All her bravery was for naught. Her husband was probably in his study keeping company with boring ledgers.

She dreaded returning to her room, her big empty bed. She’d arise alone, eat breakfast alone, and ride in the park alone. Her sigh filled the room, and her eyes fell upon an end table and the liquor decanter resting upon it. If she was going to get any sleep tonight, she could use a drink of his fine whisky.

Chapter Twenty-One

Tristan stared down at his wife as she slept in his bed.

Olivia stirred, pulling the coverlet closer, and sighed. He still couldn’t believe she was here. He spotted the crystal decanter and empty glass on his bedside table. She’d indulged in a drink before bed.

He’d had a drink in his study. He’d removed his coat, cravat, and boots and sat in the leather chair, sipped his drink, and tried to forget his lovely wife upstairs in her bedchamber. Now, he’d found her in his.

“Olivia.”

She yawned, then her eyelids fluttered open and she stretched languorously on his sheets. Her green gaze widened as she recognized him. She lay upon his coverlet, not beneath it, and he wondered if she’d planned to sleep here or had just fallen asleep after drinking his whisky.

“What are you doing in my room?” she asked.

“I’m not. You are in mine.”

Fully alert, she sat up. “You’re right. I remember now.”

Dressed in a silk nightgown that was made to seduce a man, he was helpless not to stare. He’d carried a candelabra, and the candlelight made the gossamer fabric appear almost sheer. He could make out the shape of her breasts, almost see the dusky nipples.

“I opened the door from my chamber to yours,” she said.

His mouth was dry, and his gaze darted to the decanter. He could use another drink himself. “Why?”

She rose on her knees, her shift tugging to reveal a good amount of silken skin at her neck. Her golden hair was loose and cascaded across her shoulders and down her back. Her green eyes were earnest. “You should know I longed to marry for love.”

What could he say to that? He initially thought she’d trapped him, but he hadn’t believed that in a long time. Still, if she wanted love, he was woefully inadequate to give it to her. His own mother hadn’t loved him. What did he know of the useless emotion?

“I’ve also longed to share a bed with my husband, to experience what the poets write about and what I’ve heard whispered in the ladies’ retiring room at the Raven Club.”