Page 67 of How to Capture a Duke

“All right,” Higgins said. “Once you know where you are tense, then try to concentrate on opening your mouth and easing the tension in your jaw and throat. Be especially aware of your breathing.”

Higgins watched, his brown eyes magnified behind his thick spectacles. Tristan had come to appreciate the sharpness of the man’s mind.

“Now ease into the words: ‘My name is Tristan Cameron, the Duke of Keswick.’”

Tristan concentrated. He parted his lips, loosened his jaw, and focused on the rising and falling of his chest. “My name is Tristan Cameron, the Duke of Keswick.”

The words came out slowly but clearly.

He’d found it easier and easier over the course of the week to speak longer, and in more complicated sentences, when he used the techniques he’d learned.

As for his wife, he’d found it harder. Olivia hadn’t snuck into his bedchamber since the night they’d attended the theater. He’d spent sleepless nights pacing his room, touching the wood of the door connecting their chambers, willing himself to go inside, to sample another taste of her intoxicating and alluring essence.

He’d pulled back every time.

He was in a misery of physical need and emotional torment. She was his wife. By law, by God. Why couldn’t he have what he wanted?

Every time the question arose, he was reminded of why he was here, in this room, with Horace Higgins, a man of ordinary appearance but extraordinary knowledge. Tristan could imagine a normal life, but he could never fully live one. Even if the sessions proved successful, he would never be cured, as his mother had wanted.

Just like a child could never be cured.

It was one of the first questions he’d asked Higgins after they’d privately spoken. The man had told him there was a strong likelihood his child would stammer, just like him. He’d gone on to say if the child was treated early on, he would have a good outcome, but Tristan had stopped listening by then.

A strong likelihood. It was a damning statement and had confirmed all his worst fears.

Higgins tapped his pencil on his paper. “Go on and say: ‘My wife is the Duchess of Keswick.’”

Tristan’s eyes met Olivia’s across the room, and a different type of tension filled his being. His skin was taut like a bow, wanting to pull her into his arms and kiss her, to experience the sizzling passion he’d experienced so fleetingly.

Higgins was watching him. The sharpness of the man’s eyes told Tristan he knew of a different type of tension in the room, one that had nothing to do with his speech.

Tristan took another deep breath and repeated the words perfectly. “My wife is the Duchess of Keswick.”

His wife. How could he go on like this? How could he not?

Higgins set down his pencil on a piece of foolscap. “It has only been a week and I see improvement, Your Grace. With hard work, you will improve more.” Higgins rose. “I shall return tomorrow promptly at one o’clock.”

Higgins gathered his notes and coat and departed without a backward glance. He wouldn’t wait for Gordon but would open the front door himself and call for his own hackney. Tristan was growing accustomed to the man’s strange ways.

Once they were alone, his gaze returned to Olivia. “Are you going to tell me I told you so?”

“No. Are you disappointed?”

“Hardly. Meanwhile, I will continue my sessions with Higgins.” At the pleased look on her face, he raised a hand. “There is a condition. You must promise never to tell anyone.”

“Why would I?”

“You haven’t promised.”

“Fine. I promise. But your grandmother knows. I wrote her a note, and she was thrilled to learn of it.”

“Good. I trust Antonia.”

“And my sister.”

“You told Lady Vere?” Her sister had never hidden her distrust of him. The memory of the time when she’d cornered him in an alcove the very first time he’d met her was still vivid in his mind.

If I learn of any harm or misery befalling my sister, then it is not Lord Castleton or Lord Vere you should be wary of.