How To Seduce A Duke

Chapter 7

“Please do forgive me, Your Grace,” Mary said most politely to the duke, though in her head, her tone was anything but civil. “I assure you my grasp of forms of address is quite adequate. Though I confess, I had not expected to find you in our dining room at this hour-or any other.”

Mary edged past her sisters to reach Blackstone and extended her hand. “Let us begin again. Welcome to our home, Your Grace.” Mary dipped into an overemphasized curtsy deep enough to honor the Prince Regent himself.

When she rose, she glanced at her sisters, who, though appearing obviously shaken that the infamous Black Duke was actually standing inside their home, honored him in like manner. When they straightened, Mary tapped her outer thigh, beckoning them, like one might a puppy, to her side.

“Will you not join us in the parlor, Your Grace? I vow we shall all be much more comfortable there.” As any good hostess would, Mary smiled brightly at her guest and stepped into the passage, gesturing for him to follow.

Outwardly, she was calm and serene. Inwardly, she was a tangle of raw nerves.

When they entered the parlor, Mary, as was her habit, snatched the drained cordial glass from her sleeping great-aunt’s bony hands.

She turned and saw that Blackstone was staring at the old woman.

“Should we perhaps retire to another room so that”-the duke gestured to Aunt Prudence-“she is not disturbed?”

“No need.” Mary shook her head and rested her hand on the old woman’s shoulder. She did not move or awaken. “This is Mrs. Winks, our great-aunt.”

Blackstone bowed to their dozing aunt. The edge of Mary’s mouth twitched with amusement. “She is a dear, but well into her dotage. We shan’t bother her, you needn’t worry. It has always been my belief that she enjoys the company of young folk, even if she mightn’t be fully aware.” She extended her hand toward the chair opposite Aunt Prudence. “Please, be seated, Your Grace.”

As they sat down in the parlor, Mary thanked the heavens above that her full skirts concealed her ridiculously knocking knees. It wouldn’t do for the wretch to see how clearly unprepared she was for such a surprise attack.

And this was an attack. It was the only explanation she could muster. For why else would he have come?

Certainly not to apologize for kissing her. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, and Blackstone was no gentleman.

“Your Grace, I am sure it is abundantly clear that we had not expected you this day,” Mary began. Her voice was steady and even, which surprised her. “Might I inquire the purpose of your visit?”

Anne and Elizabeth sat silently, practically huddled together, as they stared at the duke like two field mice cornered by a hungry barn cat.

Blackstone fixed his eyes on Mary then, and suddenly she felt as though she could not draw a breath.

“I have come, my dear lady, to apologize for my actions last night.” He swallowed deeply, and his glance flicked across at Anne and Elizabeth for the briefest moment, eliciting a tiny gasp from each of them. “I should not ask it, but…might I speak with you privately for a moment or two?”

The duke’s words had only just left his mouth when Anne and Elizabeth stood from the settee and, as if they were stitched together, scurried from the parlor.

Cowards. Mary’s pulse thrummed in her wrists. Now she was left all alone with him. Well, except for Aunt Prudence, who was now snoring loudly as if to remind Mary of her presence.

Still, she was as good as alone, and Lord knew, she wasn’t prepared in the least for that. Why, she could not sit here with a man who had taken improper advantage of her only yesterday.

Mary stood and opened her mouth to make her own excuses.

“Please, Miss Royle. Do not go. You have naught to fear from me, I swear it.” He came to his feet and in a single stride was standing before her. “Please.”

With a gentleness that surprised her, he laid his hand on her shoulder and guided her back to sit upon the settee once more. He knelt down before her and took her hand into his.

Saints be blessed, what was he going to do now?

Blackstone covered her hand with his fingers and held tight. “I do hope you can bring yourself to forgive me, Miss Royle. What I did was despicable, and I have no excuse for it…other than I did it for Quinn.”

Mary tried to unobtrusively slip her hand from his grasp, but his own were so large that it was quite impossible. “Yes, what you did was horrid, and you must excuse me, Your Grace, for not understanding your reasoning, but your brother did not seem appreciative of what you did for him.”

Without meaning to, Mary glanced past their clasped hands to his chest. Even beneath his waistcoat and coat she could see the curve of his firm muscles. Suddenly all the sensations of being pressed against that hard chest came crashing into her mind.

Tiny beads of perspiration moistened the cleft between her breasts. My, it was getting rather warm in the parlor.

She turned her gaze away from his form and fixed it instead on the bell on the table near the hearth. If only he would return to his chair, she could summon MacTavish and have the windows opened to the breeze.

Mary tugged a little, but his grip on her hand only tightened.

He lowered his head, and his eyes seemed to search the rug’s pattern for a prompt as to what to say next. When he looked up again, he looked almost unsure of himself.

No, this cannot be. It is just a ruse, that’s all.

“Allow me to be brutally honest with you, Miss Royle,” he finally said.

“I would wish it no other way, Your Grace.”

“When I heard you coax Quinn into kissing you, I had the notion that the sharp teeth of a marriage trap were about to snap closed around my brother.”

He leaned his handsome face close toward hers then, requiring Mary to press her back against the settee to avoid rubbing noses.

“I was certain that the moment his lips touched yours, your sponsor would emerge from the house, claim that he had ruined you, and demand marriage.”

A single burst of laughter slipped through Mary’s closed lips. “Your Grace, you must think me far cleverer than I truly am, if you are under the impression that I am capable of carrying off such a devious strategy.”

“I do not believe I underestimated your cleverness, Miss Royle. Though I fear I completely misread your intent.”

“If you thought I was about to entrap your brother,” Mary said as she cocked her head, “why did you not call Quinn away? Why did you step in and claim the kiss for yourself?”

Blackstone released her hand and came to his feet then. He turned away and walked toward the hearth.

The moment his back was turned, Mary slapped her hands to her chest and gasped in a draught of air.

“Because I had to know.” He settled his elbow on the mantel and swiveled his head to look at her. “I had to know if I was right-that you had a plan. That you were the sort looking to marry for money.”

Mary was quite taken aback by his words.

Did he think she truly found his brother attractive because of his fortune?

How preposterous!

“Your Grace, I have no need for coin, I assure you. I have an adequate portion and quite a substantial dowry.”

Blackstone looked around the room, taking particular note of the threadbare settee and frayed carpet. “If that is true, I beg your forgiveness, Miss Royle.”

“It is true.” Mary glanced down at her worn cambric frock and suddenly wished she had dressed in anything else. “Appearances, perhaps, notwithstanding. This is our great-aunt’s house. When we came to live with her, her staff were already well into stripping the house of all valuables. Thankfully, we arrived when we did.”

Blackstone nodded his head thoughtfully.

Lud! Why did she care what he thought of the furnishings? Or her dress?

He was a beast. What did his good opinion of her matter? Mary swallowed and returned to the core of their conversation. “So, Your Grace, you tested me? How did I fare?”

“Do you think that I would condescend to come here and beg your forgiveness if I still doubted your motives regarding my brother?”

Mary paused in her reply. She would be mad to blindly believe his words, but at the moment, she could not summon any reason to disbelieve him. “No, I suppose you would not.”

“So…you will accept my apology?”

“Your Grace, I do thank you for explaining your actions to me. I gladly accept your apology.” She summoned a smile to her lips. The sort of obligatory expression meant to communicate to a guest that his visit was over but it had been ever so pleasant to see him.

Still grimacing, Mary leapt up, turned, and passed him as she started for the door. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace. Allow me to show you the way out.”

Suddenly she felt him behind her, his warm hands gently squeezing her shoulders and turning her around to face him. She raised her eyes and peered into his. At once her breath seemed torn from her lungs. “Is…is there something else, Your Grace?”

“Just one more request. Let me try to make amends for my indiscretion last evening.” His eyes seemed to search hers for an answer. “Please.”

“What is your request?” Her own voice sounded thick and breathy to her ears, but it was all she could manage with Blackstone so impossibly close.

“Just this, Miss Royle. Consent to share a ride in my phaeton. My brother has mentioned how you do so enjoy taking the air in Hyde Park. Allow me this, and if you never wish to see me again, I shall abide by your wishes.” He seemed to hold his breath in his lungs. “Please, say you will.”

Mary did not speak for some moments. Instead, she peered into his eyes, wondering if he was sincere-for indeed he seemed earnest-or was this, too, some trick of his?

Still, he did offer the choice of never being in his presence again. For this alone it was worth risking an hour in the park with the rogue.

“Very well, Your Grace.” Mary pressed on her hostess smile again. “Shall I expect you around three this afternoon?”

“You may, Miss Royle.” He released her shoulders then but reached down, lifted her right hand to his lips, and kissed it ever so softly. “Thank you.”

Without another word, he cut a half-circle past her and disappeared through the parlor doorway.

Mary stared at her hand where his lips had been.

Oh my word.

To what, pray, had she just agreed?

Somehow, Mary had had the impression that Blackstone would not arrive in Berkeley Square at the appointed time.

She had been wrong.

Not only did he cast the brass door knock to its base at the precise moment the tall case clock in the library pinged the correct hour but he also arrived with a gathering of damask roses bound with a silken blush-hued ribbon.

Mary found this exasperating. How horribly considerate of him. For certain, there was some insulting message hidden amongst the velvety red petals and glossy green leaves.

But Mary had never been very good at puzzles. So, since she could not decipher the cryptic message conveyed by the flowers, she simply passed the flowers to MacTavish and bade him see the stems to a vase.

Then she thanked the duke for his thoughtfulness.

What else could she have done?

He was behaving like a gentleman, and though she suspected his polite manners were more feigned than an ingredient of his innate character, she could find no fault with his demeanor.

He even invited Anne and Elizabeth to join them for an outing in the park.

Likely not wishing to remain in the presence of the Black Duke beyond the few minutes it took to greet their guest, they declined, of course.

This was just as well, since the vehicle halted before their Berkeley Square town home was a high-perch phaeton-capable of transporting only two people.

Within a quarter hour of Blackstone’s having knocked upon the Royle sisters’ door, Mary found herself swaying inside the phaeton, her right thigh pressing against his left, racing down Oxford Street for Hyde Park.

At first, she thought his leg touching hers was a most rakish thing to do, but as she looked at the sheer size of his body she gave him the benefit of the doubt.

He was extraordinarily large, and, well, the phaeton had been built to accommodate an ordinary person. And he was nowhere near an ordinary man.

The duke cracked his whip in the air, and the horses broke from a fast trot to a canter. Mary tightened her grip on the metal edge of the cushioned seat. Not that the clamp of four fingers would prevent her from being hurled from the phaeton if the duke took the next corner at such speed.

“Your Grace, please.” She saw him glance at her. “I believe your invitation was for a ride in Hyde Park.”

“It was.” His voice was barely audible over the roar of the wheels on the road.

“Then please rein in the horses,” she shouted frantically. “Else we shall never reach the park…alive.”

Blackstone laughed and pulled back on the reins. The horses, their sides already glistening and heaving from the exertion, slowed to a far saner trot.

Mary’s own breathing, however, was still at a canter. She laid her hand to her chest and did her best to steady her senses.

The duke pulled the left rein and angled his team to the side of the road. “If I frightened you, Miss Royle, I do apologize. I have only just acquired the conveyance and the matched pair. I was wondering how the phaeton would perform at a good clip, and I suppose I let my musings leap from my mind and into Oxford Street.”

“You are obviously far more accustomed to riding than driving.” Mary felt one eyebrow rise. “Mayhap I should take the ribbons. I likely have far more experience than you, Your Grace. Why, I drove a gig to church on Sundays. I began ten years ago.” She gave her head a confident nod.

Yes, it was a jab to his ribs. A necessary jab, however, if she wanted to survive this jaunt to Hyde Park.

“Splendid idea, Miss Royle.”

“W-what?”

Blackstone handed the reins over to Mary, then leapt from the phaeton to the road. He strode around the back of the vehicle, pausing beside Mary. “Just slide across the seat to the other side. I find it more natural to drive from there. You might as well.” He shooed her across the seat. “You offered, I accepted. You shall take the reins, and I shall relax and enjoy the view from this side.”

“But-”

He knocked his knuckles against the upper edge of the phaeton, then he flashed her a bright smile. “Come now. Do not tarry.”

Mary knew she had no choice.

There was only one small hitch to the situation.

She had actually only taken the gig’s reins twice. Once on a Sunday ten years ago, and then again when she had had to transport the reverend to give her father his last rites.

Blast.

With a slight snap of the leather reins, Mary urged the horses slowly, very slowly, down Oxford Street toward Hyde Park.

From time to time she heard a frustrated shout, or a string of lively oaths, and a moment later a red-faced hackney driver, an angry coachman, or a scowling drayman would roar past the phaeton waving a wild fist or whip in the air.

At first she attributed the rude rebukes to a pitiful lack of patience. Nothing she had done.

After the second or third hackney driver jeered at her as his vehicle overtook the phaeton, however, it finally occurred to her that perhaps she could free up the reins a little bit.

Still, she did not entertain this thought overlong. To her way of thinking, it truly did not matter how hard she drove the duke’s team, but rather how straight a course she could maintain, given her limited experience with a pair of ribbons in her grip.

Besides, if she walked the horses any faster, she knew the chances of losing control and toppling the phaeton were probably as high as if the duke had still been driving. Therefore, it seemed logical to her to handle the team conservatively.

At one point, from the corner of her eye, she observed Blackstone tipping his hat to a pair of ladies walking on the flagway beside the phaeton. Several minutes later, Mary caught a glimpse of the pair walking beside the phaeton again. Or rather…still.

No, this cannot be.

“Are those the same women we passed a few minutes ago? Surely not.”

“The women we passed?” He chuckled. “We never passed them. They have been strolling alongside the phaeton for some time now. You do maintain quite the leisurely pace.”

Mary felt her cheeks heat. “The street is busy this day. And, well, taking the reins of a gig is one thing, driving a high-perch phaeton clearly another, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace.” The duke groaned. “My dear Miss Royle, I realize that ’twas only this morn that I worried you over the proper way to address me, but every time I hear you refer to me as ‘Your Grace,’ I find myself looking over my shoulder for my father. Do me the honor, please, of calling me by my Christian name-Rogan.”

Mary blinked. “I do not believe I can manage that, Your Grace. After all, we hardly know each other. Blackstone, perhaps?”

“No, I think not. I hear Blackstone too often from the mouths of gentlemen at the track, or the clubs.” He reached across, gently took the reins from her hands, and clucked to the team. “Only Quinn calls me Rogan, and I own it has been far too long since I heard my given name roll softly from a woman’s lips. I rather miss that.” He snapped the reins, and the horses hastened to a trot.

A tremor raced through Mary’s body, and she stiffened.

Pressed against her as he was, the duke noticed her reaction. “I think you misunderstood my comment, Miss Royle.” He turned his face toward hers. He wasn’t even looking at the road.

“Have I?” Mary swung her head around and stared at the street before them. “There’s a hackney just ahead. Do take heed.”

But still he looked at her as he drove. “I only meant, Miss Royle, that my grandmother was the last woman to speak my name with kindness. And that was many years ago.”

Mary held her eyes wide and stared ever forward. She curled her fingers around the lip of the seat cushion again. “Surely there have been others…lady friends, for instance. The hackney. Oh, God. Look out for the hackney!”

“You are aware of my black reputation, Miss Royle. Some of what you have heard is naught but exaggeration and hearsay, but I would venture to say that other parts are true enough. And, I must admit, the story that I never favor a woman long enough for my beard to darken my face, well, that claim is not too many steps from the truth.”

The duke turned his eyes forward just long enough to swerve the team to the right and avoid plowing into the very-solid looking hackney. Then he leveled his gaze upon her once more. “Only those closest to me call me Rogan.”

His voice, so low and rich, hummed through her as deeply as the rumble of the wheels on the road. “I beg your pardon, but it hardly could be said that I have earned such a distinction.”

“But you will. I can feel it.” He smiled at her.

“I fear you must explain yourself, else I shall believe that you suppose too much.” A town carriage was crossing the road only twenty strides before the phaeton. “Please, Your Grace, do humor me by looking ahead. The street is teeming with vehicles.”

“My dear Miss Royle, my brother believes he may have found a kindred spirit in you. My every instinct tells me that you will forge some sort of connection with our family. We should be friends, at the very least. Do you not agree?”

Could this really be true? He wished to be friends? “Yes, Your Grace, I see your point. It is only logical to assume we will be in each other’s company quite often, so I agree, we should be friends.”

“So please, call me Rogan, even if only when no others will hear. Do it as a favor to me-your friend.”

“Very well, if you will do me the favor of watching the road before us.” Mary collected a deep breath in her lungs to prepare for the moment the phaeton would careen into the carriage.

“Very well, who?” A teasing grin sat upon his lips as the moment of sure impact grew more imminent.

“Very well-Rogan!” Mary closed her eyes. “Yes, I shall call you Rogan. And you may refer to me as Mary, but please, please, stop!”

The phaeton bounced. Mary opened her eyes in time to see the duke brace his right leg on the phaeton’s footboard and yank back the reins hard.

The horses slowed immediately, then reared slightly. Their hooves seemed almost to dance as they came to a full halt just as the carriage screamed by.

“Thank you…Rogan.” Mary’s heart pounded so hard that she could scarce hear her own words.

“Darling Mary, you never had anything to fear. Believe me. I had at least five more seconds for you to agree to call me Rogan. And I would have used every one. It was all worth it, for now we are friends.”

Mary drew a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed her forehead before looking up at Rogan, beside her. “Yes, we are friends. But I would have agreed far more quickly had I not feared for my very existence.”

“Really?” He slanted a single dark eyebrow and grinned at her. “I shall try to remember that in the future.”

“Please do.” Then, for no clear reason she could name, Mary realized, quite unexpectedly, that she felt quite at ease with the Black Duke.

With Rogan.

She looked across at him and did not resist when the corners of her mouth lifted.

It was clearly a day for unexpected visits. Except this time, when the door knocker sounded, the sun had long since set.

Mary was just finishing a late supper with her sisters when MacTavish entered the dining room and informed her that a gentleman caller was awaiting her in the parlor.

It was long past the sort of visiting hours propriety recommended, which told Mary that the caller could be none other than her new friend who did not always abide by society’s rules-Rogan, the Duke of Blackstone.

And, for some reason as yet unknown to her, Mary wasn’t the least bit bothered that he’d come so late in the eve. Her hair was a bit mussed, and she was wearing the same threadbare cambric frock she’d had on earlier in the day.

It is only Rogan, she told herself, so she did not even bother to glance into the gilt-framed looking glass hanging in the passage. Instead, she walked straight into the parlor without a care.

Only it wasn’t Rogan she saw pointing his cane into the carpet and pacing.

It was Quinn.

A jolt of dread raced down her spine.

Lud, this changed everything. Her appearance was of consequence. Lord Wetherly was her intended, after all. She had decided that almost a month ago.

Quinn lifted his clear blue eyes the moment her first slipper crossed the threshold, leaving her absolutely no chance for retreat to see to her toilette.

Mary hurriedly tucked a loose coil of hair behind her ear and bit her lips to draw a bit of color into them, but she knew she still looked rather like a rag girl. It could not be helped now, however.

“Oh, Miss Royle.” He started for her at once. “I do so apologize for the late hour, but I simply could not wait until tomorrow to call upon you.”

Mary bobbed a quick curtsy. “Think nothing of the time, Lord Wetherly…Quinn. You are always welcome in our home.”

He rested his cane against his thigh and took both of her hands in his. “As I said, I could not wait, though I realize it is entirely ill-mannered of me to arrive unannounced.”

His expression was nerve-bound, and he seemed to be having difficulty holding her gaze. His cane slid from his leg to the floor, and he glanced longingly at the settee.

“Come.” Mary stepped over the cane, then hurriedly led him to the cushioned seat, settling the both of them into it. “Do tell me what troubles you so. I can see worry in the lines of your face.”

Quinn withdrew his hands from hers and lowered his head. “I have something to confess, yet I do not know how to go about it, for, more than anything, I do not wish to hurt you.”

“And why would you think yourself capable of that?” When Quinn did not immediately reply, Mary reached out to his hand resting on the cushion between them and laid her hand comfortingly on his.

“My dear Lord Wetherly, please tell me what it is that so distresses you. I cannot bear to see you in such a fretful state.”

Quinn raised his eyes to hers once more. “You are very good, Miss Royle. So very good.” He lifted his free hand and placed it over hers, enclosing her hand between both of his. “I had thought to call early this afternoon, but I received a note from Lady Tidwell.”

Lady Tidwell? Lady Upperton had warned her that the widow might give cause for worry.

He gazed deep into her eyes, and at once Mary knew he was looking for a response.

And though she did feel a painful punch of surprise in her middle, she did not permit herself any reaction to his words. There would be a suitable explanation, she was sure of it. And so, she waited.

“Her brother, Lieutenant Spinner, a man…no, he is more than that-a friend-I served with him on the Peninsula…in Toulouse. He stopped to visit his sister before he shipped off to India in the morning. He wished to speak with me of a matter of some importance. And so, given his limited availability, I went to see him and Lady Tidwell.”

“How very kind of you.” God, it was getting difficult to remain restrained. The drawn-out overture was making her imagine all manner of horrid news he might deliver. “But please, go on. You’ve not told me what vexes you so.”

“Dear Mary, please believe me when I tell you I hold you in the highest esteem.”

Another prelude. And a complimentary one too.

Whatever he would tell her next would not be good. Mary held her breath, waiting for the “but” clause to be added.

And then it came.

“But Spinner asks a great favor of me-one I cannot refuse. Please understand, he practically saved my life in Toulouse. I owe him much.”

Mary’s throat began to work, and she swallowed deeply. “Tell me then, what did you promise?”

Moisture must have risen into Quinn’s blue eyes, for now they glistened in the candlelight like morning sun on the Serpentine. “Lady Tidwell has just emerged from mourning and wishes to reclaim her place within society.”

“Yes, I saw her speaking with you at the Browers’ rout. She is…quite lovely.”

“Yes, that was she.” Quinn squeezed Mary’s hand between his own. “But she is not as well as she appears. Her brother claims she often thinks too much of her husband, who died at Salamanca, and when she does, she sometimes falls into a state of melancholy.”

The skin between Mary’s brow furrowed. “I am confused, sir. How does her state affect you?”

“Spinner believes that if she were kept busy, socially, she might emerge from her downheartedness. He asked me to escort her for the rest of the season.”

Mary shot to her feet. “What?” What about me…about us?

“Oh, Mary, know that I am greatly fond of you. A few weeks of consideration is all I ask of you. Please. I owe Spinner my life. I must help him.”

Mary felt a little dizzy. She took a few steps and sat down in a wing chair near the hearth.

“Do not fret. You shan’t be alone whilst I carry out my duty. My brother will escort you in my stead.”

His words struck Mary like a bucket of icy water.

“The duke? The man who shoved you out of the way and kissed me?”

“He told me he apologized to you earlier this day-and that you accepted. Is this not true?” Quinn stood.

Mary paused to steady herself. “He did apologize and yes, I accepted.” Mary cupped her hand over her eyes.

“Then there should be no problem with the arrangement.”

“Forgive me, Quinn, but you needn’t worry about my loneliness. I do not require the company of your brother. I have my sisters, after all.”

“Please, Mary, he would be doing this for me as well. You are a beautiful woman. Very beautiful. Oh, I know it is wrong of me to feel this way, but I could not bear if I saw you dancing and conversing with another gentleman.”

“Oh, dear sir, you have naught to fret about. I have no interest in any other.”

“Please, Mary.” Quinn went to her. He bent at the waist and pried her hand from her eyes. “Please, endure my brother for a few weeks-for me.”

Mary looked at Quinn squarely.

This was no rakish game he played. Quinn was the most honorable man she had ever known, aside from her father. She could not ask him to refuse the lieutenant’s request.

And so, she must do the honorable thing as well.

“Very well,” she belatedly said. “I shall endure your brother’s company-but only until the end of the season.” Mary smiled playfully at Quinn, trying, as best she could, to make light of the situation.

“Brilliant!” Quinn retrieved his cane from the floor. “Now, I will leave you to your evening. Again, I apologize for coming so late. I knew I would not be able to live with myself if I did not discuss this with you immediately.”

Before Mary could stand herself, Quinn started for the parlor door, twirling his cane twice. He spun around at the mouth of the passage and bowed. A moment later, Mary heard the front door close with a click.

Lovely. Just lovely.

Mary rose and wearily started for the library to search for the book of medical maladies that Elizabeth had found in their father’s document box a few days earlier.

She would need it for certain. It would be ridiculous to think that she could feign a headache every night during the season.

Yes, she would need a full selection of ailments to present to excuse her from society events.

For there was no possible way she could survive a season on the arm of Rogan, the Black Duke.

Absolutely none at all.