How To Seduce A Duke

Chapter 13

Mary would never have guessed that Lady Upperton’s clever way of gaining entry into the Harrington’s gallery that evening would have involved Rogan, the Duke of Blackstone.

But it did.

Nor would she have believed that she herself would have been dangled as bait to lure the duke into unwittingly participating in their scheme.

But she was.

She had no recourse in this matter, for she had not admitted the twining of her bared body with Rogan’s to anyone. Well, except the maid, Cherie, but since Cherie could not speak, Mary knew she could be trusted to keep her silence.

So Mary just did her best to avert her eyes from the duke as Sir Joseph and Lady Harrington led their party into the gallery that evening.

“Blackstone,” Sir Joseph began, “Lady Harrington and I are honored that you remembered our hospitality and were able to extend to us invitations for the Heroes’ Fete this night.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Sir Joseph.”

Sir Joseph bowed over his round belly. “Lady Harrington was beside herself with excitement when Lady Upperton called this afternoon. The newspapers reported that Wellington himself might return to London in time to attend.”

Rogan rocked slightly on his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am pleased you and your lady will be able to join us.” He slid an annoyed glance at Lady Upperton. “Shall we be going? My brother is being honored at the fete, and I do not wish to miss a single moment.”

To her horror, Mary saw that Elizabeth and Anne had walked away from the group and were standing below the portrait of Lady Jersey.

“Er…yes, I agree, we should be going very soon,” said Mary, “only I wonder, Lady Harrington, if you and your husband might allow us to view the paintings in the dining room. I fear Lady Upperton and I, due to the popularity of your musicale, were unable to make our way in to see them…though we heard that there is a landscape that is particularly stunning.”

Lady Harrington was beaming. “Why, certainly. Do come this way. I know just the painting you mean.”

Lotharian noticed the Royle sisters beneath the portrait of Lady Jersey.

“Oh, Miss Royle,” he said to Mary. “I wonder if you could fetch your sisters and join us in the dining room momentarily? I see they are quite taken with the paintings here, but do not be too long. The Heroes’ Fete awaits.”

Then he swung his arm around Rogan’s shoulder and brought him in line behind Lady Upperton and Sir Joseph and Lady Harrington. “I daresay, Blackstone, from what I hear, you will not wish to miss it.”

The minute the others had left the gallery, Mary rushed over to her sisters.

“Now, Mary, let us see and compare.”

Mary glanced about to be sure no servant had wandered into the room. Then, she whisked from her shoulders her Platoff cape of pale pink satin and handed it to Anne, revealing the folded, gold-threaded, crimson Kashmir shawl beneath it.

Elizabeth lifted it gently from Mary’s shoulders and held it up before the painting. “Oh my word.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes welled with unshed tears. “Do you see-do you see?”

Mary did see. Anne saw too.

The hand-woven pattern, which would have taken the weaver months to complete, was identical.

The crimson background was exactly the same.

The spare use of hair-thin gold-hued threads…why, there was no question.

The Kashmir in Elizabeth’s hands, though stained and aged, was in fact the same shawl as the one in the portrait of Lady Jersey.

The fine hairs at the back of Mary’s neck rose up, and though the air in the room was thick with heat, a chill raced up her body and over her scalp, as if she’d been touched by a specter. She wriggled, trying to shake off the uneasy feeling.

Anne’s face went white, and she suddenly pitched forward. Elizabeth dropped the shawl and lunged to catch her sister just before her head met the floor.

Mary crouched beside Anne, while Elizabeth tried to pat the color back into her sister’s cheeks. “Anne, Anne?”

Anne smiled and shook her head. “No need to fret, Mary. I am well. ’Twas just the excitement.”

“The excitement of what?” came Rogan’s familiar deep voice from the far side of the gallery.

Elizabeth’s eyes were wild as she met Mary’s startled gaze.

Mary did not turn around but remained crouched before Anne. Her fingers scrabbled for the shawl, finally catching the edge and dragging it toward her.

Mary could hear his approaching footsteps.

Quickly, she lifted the Mechlin lace hem of her underdress and shoved the shawl as high up between her skirts and chemise as she could manage.

As she rose, she clenched her fingers around the flowing China crape overdress and the layers beneath, and held the shawl in place as best she could as she stood.

She forced a pleasant smile and looked straight into Rogan’s eyes. “What excitement? How amusing you are.” She manufactured a laugh. “Why, Your Grace, tonight’s fete is only the most grand social event of the season.” A smirk pulled at her mouth then. “And we are just country gels, as you so often remind me.”

“The carriages are at the door. We are leaving.” He peered down at Anne, still on the floor resting against Elizabeth. “Is everything all right? Shall I call for assistance?”

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the portrait of Lady Jersey, then back at the duke once more. “Everything is splendid, Your Grace. Quite splendid, indeed.”

Lending her sisters a hand, Rogan helped them to their feet. “Very well, then. Shall we go?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” Anne replied as she snatched up the pink satin cape and positioned it around Mary’s shoulders for her.

The sisters’ gazes leapt from one to the other before Anne and Elizabeth started for the passage, glancing nervously back at Mary every few seconds as she followed along behind them with Rogan.

She gripped the shawl through her skirts and walked very slowly, praying that the shawl-the evidence, perhaps, of their lineage-would not fall to the floor as she moved.

Rogan offered her his arm, and she knew she ought to take it, if only to avoid unwanted scrutiny, but there simply was no way to accept it without dropping Lady Jersey’s shawl.

So instead she spurned him, earning herself an almost inaudible growl of disappointment from the duke.

Couldn’t be helped. She was not about to let go of the shawl.

And so she looked straight ahead, chin upright, and walked through the gallery, then the passage, and to the front door, where Lady Upperton and Lord Lotharian were waiting with the Harringtons.

Three gleaming carriages made their way from the Harrington house on Cavendish Square to the opulent Argyle Rooms, where the Heroes’ Fete was to commence.

Mary stared out the window as the Duke of Blackstone’s carriage rumbled down the road.

She could not believe she was sitting upon the same seat where just the night before the man now opposite her had taken her maidenhead.

She could feel Rogan’s heated gaze upon her, no doubt feeling the irony of the situation, just as she was.

Tonight they each sat on opposite sides of the carriage, gloved hands folded in their laps.

How ironic. Less than twenty hours past, they’d been panting, and kissing…and, well, tonight was completely different, that was all.

My, it was warm in the carriage.

She glanced over at Elizabeth, who seemed not at all bothered by the heat.

Moisture had begun to bead at Mary’s own brow, and the lace trim of her underdress was beginning to stick to her skin.

The only part of her that wasn’t steeping in the closed carriage was her hand holding the shawl in place beneath her skirts. Her hand was ice cold from gripping the Kashmir so tightly, and deuce it if it wasn’t beginning to cramp.

“How did Lady Upperton convince you to extend an invitation for the fete to the Harringtons?” Elizabeth suddenly asked the duke. “Did you break a valuable at their musicale and feel you owed them something in return?”

“Elizabeth,” Mary hissed. Involuntarily her gaze lifted to Rogan’s face, and she saw that he was watching her.

“No, nothing like that.” Rogan’s gaze was quite serious. “She simply asked me to do it as a personal favor to her. And in exchange, she would give me something I require.”

Elizabeth braced her hands on her knees and leaned forward. “And what would that be? Will you tell us?”

“Sister, you are being most rude. Sit back please and stop questioning the gentleman.”

That wicked grin of his suddenly appeared on his lips. “I will tell you, since Lady Upperton has already given me what I needed.”

Mary could not breathe. She had no idea what he might say next, only that it would not be good given the way he was now looking upon her.

“I asked her to ask Lotharian, your guardian, for his blessing.”

“His blessing? Whatever for?” Elizabeth asked.

“As a gentleman, without it I could not ask your sister here to marry me.” He did not smile, did not move. “But you will be pleased to know he gave it without hesitation.”

Good heavens. He was not serious. He could not be.

Rakes did not marry. Lud, there was a whole club full of aging rakes on Cavendish Square that proved that unequivocally.

And then she saw it. A tiny smile twitching on his mouth. Ah, it was just another of his depraved games.

“So, Miss Royle, what say you? Will you marry me?”

Mary sat up straight in her seat and met his steely gaze with one of her own.

She could see it in his eyes. He was not serious. No, this new game of his was called “retribution” for stopping him from slaking his lust with her last night.

She was certain his proposal was not sincere. He didn’t drop to one knee, or confess his undying love.

This was just a game. A competition.

Who would back off first?

Well, she could play along. Make him cringe with her next words.

“Yes, I will.” Mary smiled confidently, though already this game of nerves was exhausting her. “How soon?”

Rogan leaned forward too, until their noses almost met in the middle. “Tonight, if you like.”

Mary shook her head. “We’d need a special license.”

Rogan nodded thoughtfully, then, as if he’d just remembered something, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a special license. “Oh. Fancy that. I happen to have one. So tonight, is it?”

God, he was good!

“Your brother is being honored tonight. It would be horrid of us to steal his moment.”

“You’re right.” He paused for a moment and peered out the window.

Ha, he was backing down.

Then he snapped his head back around. “How about just after the fete? We’d have plenty of witnesses-no doubt there will be several ecclesiastical authorities present at the Heroes’ Fete.”

“Several, you say?” Mary gulped. “Well then, we shall have our choice.”

Rogan gave her a flat smile. “So, we are agreed then.”

“Absolutely.” Mary’s hand began to spasm. So distracted was she by the discussion that she inadvertently flexed her hand, and the shawl slipped to the floor.

Oh, perdition! Mary frantically lifted her foot and dragged the edge of the Kashmir shawl beneath the cover of her flowing skirts and into the narrow gap at the base of the carriage seat.

When she looked up again, Elizabeth was staring at both her and Rogan in turn, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.

“No…this is pure folly.” A small nervous laugh escaped Elizabeth. “You will not truly marry this evening.”

Rogan folded his arms at his chest. “I assure you, I am most serious in this matter. I fully intend to marry your sister before the sun rises.”

Mary’s heart played a riotous tattoo in her chest. She sniffed in three short breaths, trying to calm herself.

No matter what he said, she told herself, this was just a grand game of nerves.

A game-one she intended to win.

“What say you, Miss Royle?” he asked, just waiting for her to back down. But she wasn’t going to do that.

Mary could not meet Elizabeth’s gaze. She had to sound confident, and she knew that if she looked into her sister’s eyes, her voice would quaver. “Oh, yes. Definitely before the sun rises.”

Elizabeth squealed and clapped her gloved hands enthusiastically. “I cannot believe it. Anne will be so disappointed that she had to ride with Lady Upperton and Lord Lotharian! She is missing everything! What wonderful news, Mary!”

“Yes, wonderful,” Mary murmured.

Leaning across, Elizabeth hugged Mary, then stared up at Rogan and began chattering away in her excitement. “Our sister Anne will be beside herself. She was certain she’d be the first wed. But no-’tis our Mary!”

Mary swallowed deeply. What was she doing? She was actually lying to her sister to beat Rogan at his own horrid game.

But she’d set everything to rights at the fete. She’d pull both her sisters aside at the celebration and explain everything. They would understand. They would.

It wasn’t as if she was really going to marry the Duke of Blackstone.

By the time the Blackstone carriage wheeled before the entrance to the Argyle Rooms, Mary was numb.

During the course of her brief journey from the Harringtons’ home to the fete, she had not only kicked beneath the seat the only shred of evidence they possessed of their births but she had also agreed to marry the man she despised most in this entire world.

She should have never risen from bed this morning, for the day could not have unfolded more wrongly.

Unaware that the shawl was wedged beneath the seat, Elizabeth practically leapt from the carriage, so eager was she to share the news of Mary’s surprise nuptials. “Are you coming, Mary? Do hurry!” Without waiting for a reply, she started for the doors.

Rogan rose and offered a hand to Mary, but she pretended not to notice and sat very still. There was no possible way she could retrieve the shawl without him taking notice and asking questions.

Then, given his nature, he would use the shawl as leverage or as a flag to wave over his head to humiliate her. She wanted neither, so she decided it was best to leave the shawl inside the carriage for now and retrieve it later.

As she rose to climb from the carriage, she surreptitiously slipped her fan into the narrow gap between the carriage wall and the seat.

Then, she took the footman’s hand and descended the steps to the pavers, where she waited several heart-pounding moments before Rogan emerged from the cabin. She worried for naught, however, for his hands were empty, and his slim-fitted coat did not reveal any shawl-like lumps or bumps.

Mary smiled inwardly. More likely Rogan had needed a few spare seconds to collect himself before facing all of society-and Quinn-if indeed he had the nerve to announce his plans to marry an unsophisticated country miss.

“Mary, please.” Elizabeth stood just outside the door, waiting-something that she had never excelled at.

“Your Grace.” As a taunt, Mary lifted her arm for him to take and to lead her inside.

“My darling,” he replied.

Then, while Mary still reeled from his words, he caught up her hand and raised it slowly to his mouth. Before she could snatch her hand away, he pressed a hot kiss that seemed to sear the tops of her fingers right through her glove.

A tingle raced upward from her hand and spread like fire across the whole of her body. She blinked slowly and moistened her lips.

A chaste kiss to her hand and she was all atwitter.

Oh, God.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

When Rogan straightened and looked her in the eyes, it was the wryest of smiles that greeted her. “Allow me to be the first to tell you, my dear, how very lovely you look on your wedding day.”

And then he gave her a furtive wink.

Mary stiffened, her resolve instantly renewed.

“Shall we go inside, Your Grace?” she replied excitedly. “I know Elizabeth is eager to tell everyone our joyous news.”

Rogan’s jaw tightened, and the corded muscles that ran the length of his neck tensed.

That was all she needed to see.

For now she knew with all certainty that she was ready for his game.

Ready to win it.