How To Seduce A Duke

Chapter 11

Her eyes were so heavy, her limbs so weight ed, that Mary was in no hurry to rouse herself from her slumber…and this wicked, but oh-so-delicious dream.

She was rocking ever so gently, her back resting upon his chest, with his hands securely wrapped around her waist, holding her against him.

Even through the layers of petticoat and skirts, she could feel his hardness branding her. She wriggled against him, reveling in the proof of his desire for her.

Around them was a roaring sound, grating annoyingly in her head. Making her awaken.

She slowly opened her eyes and turned to face Rogan. It was completely dark inside the carriage that carried them through the night.

She blinked. This dream was different.

As she moved, he slipped his hands under her arms and drew her closer, holding her securely against him on the seat.

She couldn’t resist smiling. Since the night she and Rogan had first met, she’d had many similar dreams, wanton and willful, but never in a carriage.

Never one so visceral as this.

In the small finger of moonlight breaking through the cloaked window, she could just discern Rogan’s face. She smiled and pressed up on the seat high enough that she could nuzzle the exposed skin between the top of his starched neckcloth and the lobe of his ear.

“Mary,” he whispered, halfheartedly nudging her away. “I am bringing you home.”

“No, not yet, please.” Mary tried to sit up straight, but her head began to whirl. She reached out for Rogan, who sat straight and rigid on the carriage seat. Using his lapels as leverage, she slid her knee over his legs, straddling him. “I want you to kiss me again.”

His hands came around her waist. He seemed more than a little stunned at her boldness. He tried to lift her from him. “Mary, we can’t do this.”

Throwing her arms around his neck, Mary clung to him. “Yes we can. No one will know. Besides, it will not be the first time.”

It was true. In her dreams, they’d been together dozens of times, like this. Just like this.

She skimmed her fingers through his thick hair and kissed him deeply. He groaned against her mouth, low and deep, making her tingle all over.

His hips seemed to move of their own accord, and she felt his erection press against the crushed skirts between her legs.

Her own body heated from within, and instinctively, she arched her back and pushed down against him.

He drew back his head, just enough to see her eyes, without breaking her kiss. Even in the dimness the question in his gaze was clear.

“Rogan,” she whispered rather hoarsely as her fingers worked to unwind and remove his neckcloth.

He trailed his mouth from hers, running the tip of his tongue along the curve of her upper lip before plunging it inside her mouth.

Mary moaned and allowed him to deepen his kiss as she fumbled to open his waistcoat and wrenched his shirttails from his breeches.

She slid her hands over the ripples of his stomach muscles, then higher until she touched the hard swells of his chest. Yes, just as she’d imagined.

He lifted his mouth from hers and whispered her name, so queerly, as if her own name were a question.

And so she answered him. “Yes, Rogan. Yes.”

In a sudden move, he roughly scooped her up, turned, and settled her back against the length of the leather seat cushion.

Then he knelt beside the seat, gazing at her through those dark, smoldering eyes.

Without a word, he skimmed her face with his fingertips, down and along the line of her jaw, then rode swiftly down the center of her throat to the base of her gown’s lacy neckline.

His thumb slid to the left, over the upper mound of her breast. She arched against his hand, shivering with pleasure at the searing heat of his touch.

Now this was the rake she had dreamed about.

His hands caught her gown and her silk chemise at her shoulders, then dragged them down her arms, baring her breasts to him.

She was panting now, but he did nothing more; instead, he only watched her. She felt so wanton. So wicked. But still she wanted to feel more.

“I want you to touch me,” she murmured. “I want…to touch you.”

His gaze trailed slowly down her body, then returned to her face.

“Are you sure of this?” He bent and took her nipple inside his mouth for just an instant, making her gasp.

She tried to speak but managed only to nod.

When he lifted his mouth from her, she could feel the heat of his breath upon her skin. “This is what you want?”

“And more.” Why shouldn’t she? This was her dream, her fantasy.

Grasping his coat, she yanked the side closest to her from his shoulder.

Rogan came to his feet. He bent to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling as he shrugged his coat to the floor and tore off his waistcoat as well.

Her heart pounded as she watched his silhouette move purposefully to the end of the seat. He turned to face her, then slipped his hands beneath her knees and roughly pushed them apart.

He kissed the top of her knee, then knelt between her spread legs and eased his body over her, bracing himself on his hands on either side of her head.

The look in his eyes was primitive and all male, and it sent color rushing up past her bare breasts and into her cheeks.

Just a dream. Just a dream.

Please, don’t let me wake up this time.

“Don’t stop,” she whispered.

He glanced up at her as she spoke, then he turned his eyes to gaze at her breasts. He moved his head, and she knew what he was about to do, or at least, what she hoped he would. At once, her nipples became hard and erect.

He looked back into her eyes and smiled wickedly at her. Then he lowered his mouth and dragged his wet tongue over her nipple, swirling it in hot, agonizingly slow circles, before taking it hard into his mouth.

He leaned against the backrest and cupped her other breast, squeezing it gently as he sucked harder.

Her head swirled with the sensation, and she writhed against his hard body as he sucked, nipped, and touched her, arousing her as she had never been before.

His erection grew harder and began to throb against her.

Raising one knee, she flung one leg over his hip and pressed her body against his groin.

He raised his dark head from the paleness of her breast and pinned her with his gaze. “Are you sure?” He lifted himself up from her, and as he knelt between her thighs, he shoved the layers of skirts to her hips.

“Yes, yes.”

It was about to happen. He was about to claim her body.

But she always woke up the instant before he possessed her, and she knew she would again at any moment if she didn’t hurry this dream along.

“Rogan, don’t wait,” she begged. “Please.”

Over the crumpled mounds of skirts at her hips, she could see that he fumbled at his front fall.

“Hurry.”

He came up on his knees and moved close to her.

He grinned most wickedly as he positioned his thumb against her most private of parts and began to rub a slow circle that made her whimper and thrash about.

Please do not wake. Please.

So close.

Then she felt a hardness touching her, just there. Yes. Intimately sliding between her moist folds, separating them. Yes.

Her head was spinning, and her body throbbed.

She wanted nothing more than to push down upon him. To feel him inside of her before-

“Now, Rogan, please.”

Rogan lowered his body over hers and positioned his hands on either side of her head once more.

God, he wanted her.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, something told him to stop. Stop now.

But hadn’t she told him herself she was not the innocent? That she had done this before?

She was young, but hardly in the first blush of her youth.

And so he looked down into her wide, needful eyes, then closed his lids and thrust into her heat.

There was a scream.

His eyelids snapped open only to see her staring at him in pain and horror.

Suddenly the carriage came to an abrupt halt, bouncing slightly on its springs, sending Mary’s naked breasts quivering beneath him.

“Berkeley Square, Your Grace.”

“Bloody hell. She’s a virgin-was a virgin.”

Rogan’s hand shook as he shoved it through his hair. He paced before the large mullioned windows in his parlor.

He was such a fool.

He’d been so convinced that Quinn was the guinea-eyed wench’s target that he had not seen her greedy scheme to snare him coming.

Damn it all, but she was good.

So comely and innocent, yet so skilled in seduction that he had not been able to refuse her.

Hadn’t wanted to.

The way she’d made him feel, by God, he’d never wanted any woman so badly.

As he passed the settee, he stopped and dropped back into it.

Where the hell was Quinn? He had to tell him what happened. Had to confess.

Rogan set his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. But then, he could not tell his brother, could he?

For all he knew, Quinn might really love the chit-even if the clever country gel wasn’t even close to deserving his affections.

Rogan lifted his head from his hands and slammed his fist on the walnut tea table before him.

How could he have been so blind, so stupid?

He came to his feet and hastened to the open windows and peered out into the dark and deserted square so late at night.

It was nearly two o’clock in the morn. Quinn and Lady Tidwell had left the musicale hours ago. Just where the hell was he?

Rogan leaned back against the narrow portion of the plaster wall near the left window and banged the back of his head against it.

He’d spent the past two hours mulling over what had happened and his options.

But as far as he could reckon, he had but one course of action.

One that mightn’t break his brother’s heart.

One that might slip the notice of the on-dit columnists’ weekly smudges of ink.

One choice.

Rogan’s body slid down the wall, folding like an accordion fan. He closed his eyes, resigned to the truth of his predicament.

He had to marry Miss Royle.

Damn her.

He opened his eyes again when the clock in the passage tinged the sixth hour and he heard the click of the front door closing.

“Quinn? Is that you?”

He heard footsteps in the passage, then his brother peered into the parlor. “Rogan? What the deuce are you doing awake? Just came home yourself, did you?”

“No.” Rogan struggled to his feet. “I’ve been waiting here for you-for some time now.”

A dark red suffused the pale skin of Quinn’s cheeks. “Got me.”

Rogan was not in the mind to play fools’ games. “Where were you?”

“You’re a gentleman. Ought not ask such a question.”

“Where were you?”

“Damn it, Rogan. I am sure you know the answer.” Quinn moved his cane forward and walked stiffly into the parlor. “I was with her.”

“Lady Tidwell.”

“Yes. I am not proud of my behavior.” He clicked his way to the settee and sat down.

“Why not?” Rogan’s tone was harsher than he intended, but somehow it served him better if Quinn was already riled when he admitted his rakish deed.

“She is fragile. My God, she’s a widow.”

“Obviously, that didn’t deter you, Quinn.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes at Rogan. “Why so dark this morning? I would think, given your own proclivities, you mightn’t be so judgmental.” He exhaled slowly. “I have no doubt that you are already aware that Lady Tidwell and I left the festivities early.”

“I am. But that does not explain why you are slipping into my house like a thief before dawn.”

“She was feeling sad. The orchestra played a concerto that her husband had especially enjoyed.”

Rogan said nothing. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for Quinn to continue, lest he be set into the uncomfortable task of explaining his own base behavior this night.

“I took her to her home and tried to comfort her. She was inconsolable at first, but then she softened and warmed to my presence.”

“Oh, good Lord.”

“Deuce it, Rogan, I did not intend for my relationship with Lady Tidwell to progress. I am quite fond of Miss Royle. But…” His gaze shifted to the cold hearth and remained there.

Rogan sighed, feeling some modicum of relief.

Oh, he knew he should admit all to his brother now, while Quinn swam about in his own guilt. But he was who he was, after all. And what good would hurting his brother do anyone?

Met with silence, Quinn raised his eyes to Rogan’s. “I…I think I have feelings for her.”

Rogan straightened. “For Miss Royle?”

Quinn shook his head. “No, no. I thought I might have, that is, until I came to know Lady Tidwell this evening.”

“You can’t tell Miss Royle.”

“What? Why not? I must. It is the honorable road to take.”

“It might be the proper course, but it might also break her heart.” Rogan came to stand before the settee. “Have you not considered that she may be in love with you?”

“I have. I have considered it.” Quinn’s chest seemed to puff out heroically. “Which is why I must confess.”

“Confession will only ease your own conscience. It will not help her.”

“Then what, pray, do you suggest, Rogan?”

“Let me do what I promised. Let me stand for you. Let me court Miss Royle in your stead.”

Quinn shook his head in apparent disbelief. “What possible good could that do her, or anyone?”

“Why, I might win her heart.”

“Win her-what?” Quinn sputtered. “Why would you do this?”

For a moment, Rogan actually considered telling Quinn the truth. But only a breath later, he thought better of it. Confession would only ease his own conscience. “Because perhaps it is time I set aside my bachelor’s ways and find a wife myself.”

Quinn’s mouth fell wide open. “God’s teeth. I never thought I’d hear you speak those words!”

“Well, now you have.”

And soon, Mary will hear those words as well.

When the rising sun broke through Mary’s window and fell across her face, she awoke with a start.

“Glad to see you are finally awake.” Anne was seated in the spindle chair beside Mary’s tester bed, and Elizabeth was standing before the window, sweeping her finger across a roundel of condensation.

“What is the hour?” Mary rubbed her eyes.

“Almost seven,” Elizabeth replied, then opened her mouth and blew a burst of hot breath on the window.

“So early?” Mary pulled herself into a sitting position and pulled out a pin that dangled from her hair before her eyes. “I am aware that the two of you returned home early last night, but I did not, and I could have used more sleep.”

“Oh, we know you returned late.” Anne’s lips were pursed bitterly.

“We carried you to your room.” Elizabeth pressed her finger to the window and drew a heart. “Well, the Duke of Blackstone carried you here, and Cherie set you into your nightdress and put you to bed.”

Anne skewered Mary with the sharpest of gazes. “We could not believe what was happening, and so we stood back and watched. My word, Mary. The Black Duke laid you into bed. There simply must be a logical explanation for what happened.”

“Logical…” Mary held herself very still. Her head was throbbing, and her mouth felt packed with cotton.

The wine.

Oh my word.

No.

A frenzy of images filled her mind’s eye.

No, it wasn’t real.

“Carried you in his arms from his town carriage.” Anne stood and came to sit on the edge of the bed. “Do you want to tell us what happened?”

The carriage. Oh, no. What had she done?

“H-he did not explain?” Mary swallowed hard and stared hopefully at her sisters.

“No, he did not.” Elizabeth chuckled into her hand. “But I have my own suspicions. I think Anne and I are of like minds on that point.”

Mary fashioned a glower and shot it at each of her sisters in turn. “I should think it quite evident. I simply indulged in the Harringtons’ excellent wine. You know I have no tolerance for spirits of any sort.”

“That much is obvious.” Anne leaned close, too close for Mary’s comfort. “Did you make a spectacle of yourself? Or don’t you know, and must we read about it in the on-dit columns on the morrow?”

Mary thought a moment on that question.

In truth, she did not know. “How silly you are being, the both of you. There is quite a simple explanation for everything. Lady Tidwell wasn’t feeling well, so Lord Wetherly escorted her to her home. I had no other means of transportation, so Blackstone offered his carriage.”

Anne smirked. “And when will you provide us with the ‘simple explanation’?”

“The rock of the carriage, the wine and warmth of the night air lulled me to sleep. That’s all.” Mary started to draw back the coverlet, then thought better of it. “Now, if you both will excuse me, I should like to see to my toilette.”

“Very well.” Anne narrowed her eyes but rose from the bed and led Elizabeth toward the door. “We shall speak more of this when we break our fast, for I know there is more to the story than you are sharing, Mary.”

The moment the door closed, Mary whisked back the coverlet and lifted the hem of her nightdress.

No…no. She was sure it had just been a dream.

But there was no denying the evidence before her.

There, between the jointure of her thighs, were twin smudges of blood.

Mary threw the coverlet back over her legs and slapped her palms to her eyes.

God help her.

She was ruined.