How To Seduce A Duke

by Kathryn Caskie

  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.

  Chapter 8

  Bond Street

  The next morning

  “Look there, Anne.” Elizabeth gestured to Mary, who stood in the middle of Madame Devy’s elegant dressmaking shop, arms curled upward as if she’d been balancing a Roman water urn on each shoulder. “Blackstone’s garden statue has followed us here.”

  Anne brought her hand to her lips, but Mary heard the muffled giggle anyway. She was not the least amused.