How To Seduce A Duke

Chapter 4

Rogan and Quinn were soaked to the skin, but this was no great surprise. They should not have raced like mindless schoolboys to Hyde Park when the rain was so clearly poised to fall.

Still, Rogan had never been able to turn his back on a challenge, especially one from his brother, Quinn.

Just as he’d known all along, Quinn’s mystery chit was nowhere to be seen when they finally arrived at the park.

At least, Rogan mused, she had been wise enough to stay at home on a wet day like this. Showed she had a brain in her pretty little head. That was something to recommend her.

Not wishing to slosh water up the stair treads to their chambers, Rogan and Quinn headed straight for the glowing hearth in the parlor and began to shed their clothing there.

Rogan dried his thick hair, then handed his valet the wet towel in exchange for a warm dressing gown. “All I am saying, Quinn, is do not marry in haste.”

“Why not, if she is the one for me?”

“This gel who’s got your blood heated may well be your perfect match,” Rogan exhaled, passing his hand through his damp hair. “Only promise me you’ll get to know her, truly know her, and her family, before speaking of a ring…and children, for God’s sake.”

Quinn tossed his sodden coat over the back of a chair before the fire, then sat down and allowed the footman to tug off his wet boots. “Haven’t you ever seen something from afar, a fowling-piece, or horseflesh perhaps, and known instantly that it was perfect for you?”

“A gun is a far cry from a woman, Quinn. If I became less than enamored with a fowling-piece, I could sell it, or stash it away in the bowels of the house. Can’t do that with a woman. Against the law, you know. At least I think so.” Rogan rubbed his chin. “Might be worth looking into though…for future reference.”

Quinn laughed as he rose and peeled his sodden lawn shirt from his upper torso. “You know what I mean. She’s beautiful, quiet, and shy. Definitely of the Quality-I can tell by the graceful way she holds her back.”

“You can tell all of that from riding past her each Tuesday?”

“Her beauty is not up for debate, Rogan. You will see soon enough. And as for her nature, well, that is quite evident as well. When we pass in the park, she always glances up at me through her lashes. Gives me a shy smile, then blushes the most delicate rose hue and turns her face away.”

“Oh, a delicate rose hue, well, that changes matters, doesn’t it? Of course, I amend my stand. You should marry her at once. A delicate rose hue, imagine that.”

Quinn tied his dressing gown closed. “How can I make you understand?”

“Doubt you can. In my mind, marriage is not about infatuation. ’Tis a business arrangement between families.” Rogan lifted two glasses of port from the footman’s salver and handed one to his brother. “Proceed with caution, that’s all I ask. Wouldn’t want to end up with a common mushroom interested only in your purse.”

“Why is it that when you, or I, meet a woman, you immediately suspect her of having her eye on our fortunes?”

“Because I am a realist, Quinn. I have seen too many gentlemen give their hearts to women who love only their money. You want to live in misery the rest of your days, go ahead, marry a commoner.”

“Marrying a commoner is not always the wrong decision, Rogan. When our father married my mother, she was a simple miss with nary a guinea to her name. Until the day Father died, theirs was the most successful of marriages.”

Rogan turned around and faced the fire so that Quinn could not see the blood rise into his cheeks.

Good God. That statement was at least ten furlongs from the truth.

How could Quinn have been so blind to his mother’s greed? She was a guinea-grabber, and nothing less!

Less than a year after Rogan’s mother had died giving birth to him, Miss Molly Hamish, a fresh-faced commoner from Lincolnshire, had sunk her talons deep into his grieving father. He’d been smitten, and so in need of affection that he’d married her the very moment his grieving period had been at an end.

From what his father had told him in later years, once she’d become a duchess and borne her husband a son-Quinn-she’d closed her bedchamber door to him for good. She no longer even pretended to love the duke, or to tolerate Rogan. She lavished gifts upon Quinn, bought baubles and gowns for herself, and traveled to fashionable spas with her vulgar friends.

The old duke was left in despair, lamenting his rash decision to marry the miserable guinea-grabber for the rest of his days.

Rogan swore he’d never repeat his father’s mistake. And he was not about to let his younger brother fall prey to some conniving commoner the way his father had.

No, he planned to keep a wary eye on Quinn’s budding relationship with this…Hyde Park woman, just to be sure his battle-weary brother was not about to make the grandest mistake of his life.

“Brower rout tonight.” Rogan turned around and looked to Quinn. “Might behoove you to look your best this eve. Who knows, your nameless lady might be in attendance.”

Quinn’s whole face seemed to brighten. “Do you think so?”

Rogan shrugged. “Don’t know, but from what I’ve heard, half of London society shall be there. And since you claim she is highborn, which absolutely she is, because of the graceful curve of her back-”

Quinn laughed. “Then you must be sure to wear your blue coat, Rogan.”

“And why is that?”

“So you will look your best as well-when I introduce you to my betrothed.” Quinn grinned at him, then drained the last dark crimson droplets from his glass.

Rogan forced a chuckle, then tossed a wink at his brother and left the room. Instead of heading for his bedchamber, he turned straight down the passage and slipped into the library. There, he inked a short missive and sent it off with a footman.

He’d not leave his brother’s choice in brides to chance. In the event Quinn’s chit was indeed at the rout, Rogan intended to have a plan of contingency already in motion. And that plan included the beautiful young war widow, Lady Tidwell.

Lady Upperton stared across the carriage cabin and smiled at Mary with full approval. “That gown skims your contours so perfectly, dear, one might imagine that it is made from a wisp of spring sky, and overlaid with lace woven from airy clouds.”

“I daresay I had the very same thought, Lady Upperton.” Mary glanced down at the gown Lady Upperton had sent for her-a pale blue gossamer silk confection, iced with hair-thin threads of silver.

She sighed inwardly. The gown was beautiful, she had to admit. Still, she was not at all convinced that in light any stronger than that of the interior of the carriage, the mere whisper of a dress wouldn’t be entirely transparent.

Though she had to admit that such a gown was bound to draw suitors. For modesty’s sake she made a mental note to avoid all clusters of two or more candles, or two or more gentlemen this eve.

Elizabeth and Anne sat quietly beside her on the leather bench, their backs straight and rigid. Practiced smiles were pasted firmly upon both their faces, but it was clear they were more tightly wound with nerves than she.

They were too aware of their finery to enjoy riding in such a splendid vehicle. Instead, they fretted over the possibility of the jostling carriage wrinkling their skirts before they reached the Browers’ grand house.

But reach it they did. Carriages lined Grosvenor Square three deep. Shouting drivers jockeyed for position, each trying to deliver his passengers to the single prime spot before the Browers’ imposing home.

Through the grand lower-floor windows and the open front door, Mary could see into the crowded, brightly-lit house, where elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen moved shoulder to shoulder like dairy cows pushing through an open gate into a green meadow.

Within minutes, she, her sisters, and Lady Upperton were part of the lowing herd moving down the center hall toward the drawing room.

The movement of the crowd was so horribly slow and the sweaty press of bodies so great that Mary could hardly expand her ribs enough to breathe. It was only owing to her stature that she was able to draw a few gasps of air from above at all.

Elizabeth, however, did not share her misery. “Have a look, Mary.” Her youngest sister was cinched between her and Anne, and held tight to their arms. “I can lift my slippers from the floor and still move forward. You should try it. Watch.”

Mary felt a downward tug on her arm, and sure enough, Elizabeth was riding the ton. “Oh, good heavens. Stop that at once. We shall be inside the drawing room at any moment, and for certain there will be space enough for all.”

When her lungs felt about to burst from lack of air, at last the crowd pushed through a set of double doors, and Mary and her sisters spilled out into the expansive, glittering room.

Dozens of candles burned brightly overhead, ensconced in no less than three sparkling crystal chandeliers. The walls were pleated with blue satin.

Mary’s mouth parted in surprise. She could not look more than several feet in any direction without seeing a footman liveried in rich saffron silk serving wine from enormous silver trays.

Anne spun around, surveying their surroundings. Her nose wrinkled. “I do not see Lady Upperton. Where do you suppose she has gone?”

“Likely trapped in the mob near the door.” Mary stood on the toes of her gleaming silk slippers, but she could not spy Lady Upperton either. “I am certain she will be about in a moment. Do not fret.”

“I’m not.” Elizabeth glanced around the room, and an excited flush rose into her cheeks. “How long may we stay?”

“Do you not mean how long must we stay?” Mary quipped.

“Well, dears, how many ticks of the minute hand we are here all depends on the three of you,” came a small, high voice.

Mary looked down at her side, where the squeak had come from, and saw that Lady Upperton had suddenly appeared.

“And,” the short round woman added, “how quickly you make the acquaintance of the Browers and their guests.”

Mary’s spirit seemed to drain from her body and into the toes of her slippers. She had not wanted to attend the rout this evening. Would have done almost anything to have simply remained at home. But by the time she’d sat down for her evening meal, she’d known that declining the Brower invitation had been quite out of the question.

True to Lord Lotharian’s word, Lady Upperton had indeed dutifully seen to every possible detail.

When the sisters had returned from the Old Rakes of Marylebone Club late that afternoon, they had been stunned to find silken gowns with matching slippers, hair brilliants, strands of gleaming pearls, reticules, and shawls lying on each of their tester beds.

Even a lady’s maid had been dispatched to help them dress and arrange their hair in classic curls atop their heads.

No, Mary could not have refused Lady Upperton’s generosity without offending the kind old woman, and that she would not do.

“If you are ready, gels,” their sponsor began, “allow me to launch you into London society.”

Lady Upperton wasted no time beginning her introductions. Within a clutch of minutes, the Royle sisters were formally introduced to more than a dozen ladies of the ton. Lud, already Mary was more exhausted than she had been the month smallpox had stricken the parish.

Anne and Elizabeth did not seem likewise affected. Even now, they eagerly followed the short stub of a woman straight into the jaws of a rousing conversation. Mary, however, stepped backward and allowed the crowd to consume her whole. In an instant, she was whisked several feet away.

In truth, she had no other option but to slip away. Every fiber of her being told her she did not belong there mingling with London’s crème de la crème.

She was an uneasy, jumbled nest of nerves, so when she spotted a petite chair beside a japanned folding screen in the corner of the room, she made for it.

Turning her head, she peered over her shoulder to be sure she would not be observed, then dragged the tiny chair behind the concealing screen and plopped down to weather the rout.

For several tedious minutes, she sat quite still, eavesdropping on snippets of conversation or staring up at the ornate moldings edging the ceiling.

By degrees, Mary began to grow very, very bored.

She leaned back in the petite chair and yawned. Just then, she noticed a row of books sitting atop the mantel only an arm’s length from the edge of the screen.

La, why hadn’t she noticed them before?

She stood up and, keeping her body hidden behind the screen, reached out. Her fingertips barely brushed the cover of the book nearest to her.

Oh, perdition. Just…out…of…reach.

She strained; her shaking fingers scrabbled against the book leather, but they were unable to make purchase.

And then, suddenly, the book was floating before her eyes.

“Is this perhaps what you were reaching for, miss?” came an astonishingly low male voice.

The man’s face peered around the edge of the screen.

Mary’s eyes widened. “Y-you, you-”

She hadn’t meant to say anything, but of all the people in this city to find her hiding away like a child-how horrid it was that it was him.

The viscount’s despicable brother.

The man smiled. “I do not believe we have been properly introduced. I am Rogan Wetherly, Duke of Blackstone.” He paused for a moment and his eyes seemed to rake her body, finally settling on her face. “Forgive me for staring. Am I incorrect, or have we met before?”

Heat suffused Mary’s cheeks. Oh yes, we’ve met. You are the ogre from the garden. And the beast who nearly ran us all down on Oxford Street only this afternoon.

She opened her mouth but snapped it closed again.

There was no way she was going to admit anything to him. So, instead, she shook her head.

“No? Are you certain? You seem so familiar to my eye.”

Mary shrugged her shoulders, then focused her gaze on the wedge of space between the giant of a man and the edge of the screen.

It was tight, but if she rushed through the gap she might make her escape.

“And you are?” He raised both dark, slashing eyebrows, waiting for her to offer her name.

Mary sucked in a lusty breath. “I am…I am leaving. Do excuse me, Your Grace.”

Nerves propelled her forward, a bit faster than she intended. Pushing past him, she accidentally hit the screen with her left elbow and, with her right, knocked the duke a half stagger toward the wall.

She cringed and had just started for a cluster of gentlemen in dark coats when she heard a thud. And then, behind her, a chorus of gasps.

The sound she’d heard was no mystery, but she could not help herself from looking back over her shoulder at its source.

The screen had fallen to the floor, and Blackstone, still standing where he had been, appeared to everyone to have toppled it.

Even more ghastly was the fact that his blazing eyes were staring straight at her.

Nearly a dozen or so guests followed his potent gaze back to her, and chatter washed through the crowd in a wave of excitement.

A tremble raced over her limbs. Good heavens, she’d only been inside the house for a clutch of minutes and already she had made a goose of herself and an enemy of the brother of the man she would someday marry.

There was no other choice. She had to leave. Now.

Then she felt a small hand on her upper arm.

“There you are, Mary. Come with me, dear gel.” Lady Upperton gestured across the drawing room. “This way, please. There is someone who wishes to make your acquaintance.”

Mary exhaled in relief. Lud, she had no idea if Lady Upperton was the least bit aware that she had rescued her from a most awkward situation, but at that moment, she didn’t really care. All she knew was that the tiny woman was leading her away from Blackstone.

Within moments, Lady Upperton had guided her to the farthest reaches of the drawing room, which suited Mary perfectly well. She would be glad to meet whomever Lady Upperton wished, for that introduction had saved her from unimaginable embarrassment before the ton.

“Here we are, dear.” Lady Upperton smiled brightly at her.

Mary lifted her gaze forward and suddenly could not move.

Lord Wetherly, the handsome blond viscount, whom she was destined to marry, was standing directly before her.

She could hear that Lady Upperton was in the midst of an introduction, but the words were like buzzing in her ears. And she could not quite follow what was being said.

But here he was.

Lord above, what a night. Though they might have abandoned her earlier, all the angels in heaven were certainly smiling down upon her now.

Her eyes locked with his, and she bequeathed him a shy smile.

The edges of his mouth lifted, and he bowed before her. “Miss Royle.” His tone was smooth and pleasing to her ear. Not at all like his brother’s deep voice, which vibrated through her in the most annoying way when he spoke.

“Lord Wetherly.” Mary bent and dropped a perfectly executed curtsy, having had the benefit of so much practice earlier that day at the Old Rakes of Marylebone Club. Of course, she would not mention that, and she trusted that Lady Upperton would keep that secret to herself as well.

“I truly must thank you, Lady Upperton, for introducing me to your protégée. I own, Miss Royle and I have exchanged gazes from time to time in Hyde Park, but until this evening, we had never chanced to actually meet.”

“I am honored you remembered me, Lord Wetherly.”

Before he could reply, an even broader smile shaped the viscount’s lips as he focused on a point somewhere behind her. “Ah, there you are, Rogan. Do come and meet Miss Royle. She is Lady Upperton’s protégée.”

The viscount leaned on his cane to reach past Mary and draw forth his brother, who had at one moment or another silently crept forth to stand right behind her.

Blackstone moved to his brother’s left. He tilted his head to the side a bit, and a crooked grin took hold of his lips. “Miss Royle, is it?” He straightened his head above his shoulders and merely tipped his head to her.

Lady Upperton nudged Mary in her ribs. “Curtsy, dear,” she whispered.

Mary smirked up at the duke and bent slightly at the knees. Even that was more than he was due.

Who did he think he was, giving her naught but a nod?

“Miss Royle and I have not met until this eve,” the viscount said reprovingly as he shot his brother a loaded glance. “Though, coincidentally, we have crossed paths in Hyde Park on several occasions.”

“Hyde Park?” The duke’s eyebrows drifted toward his hairline. “Then she must be-” He looked straight into her eyes with his piercing gaze.

Mary felt a familiar hot flush sweep across her cheeks.

“Ah, there it is, Quinn,” the duke said, gesturing to Mary’s face. “A delicate rose hue.”

“Yes, well…” Lord Wetherly shifted his feet in apparent unease, but it was nothing compared to the awkwardness Mary felt.

She turned her head, breaking free of the duke’s gaze, and peered past Lady Upperton to locate her sisters.

“Damnation! I know where I’ve seen you.”

Mary snapped her head back around just in time to see Lady Upperton wave her furled fan in the duke’s direction.

“Ladies are present, sir,” the old woman scolded. “And it doesn’t matter to me if you are a duke or a prince. I demand respect and I will have it.”

“I do beg your forgiveness, Lady Upperton, Miss Royle.” He narrowed his eyes at Mary and seemed to study her.

Mary’s breathing became faster. His words were apologetic, but the mischievous look in his eyes was anything but.

“I thought I recalled seeing you before, Miss Royle, and now I know where that was.”

Mary swallowed deeply. Oh no.

His eyes seemed to widen to twice their earlier size. “Y-you are the statue from the garden!”