How To Seduce A Duke

by Kathryn Caskie

  “Lady Upperton.” He bowed, then turned and looked sheepishly at Mary. “Miss Royle, how pleased I am to welcome you into our family.” He stepped forward, clasped her right hand with both of his, and squeezed it gently. It felt like an apology.

  Mentally bracing herself, Mary gazed deep into Quinn’s eyes. She was ready for the blow that seeing him would inflict, knowing that he was willingly handing her off to his wicked brother.

  But surprisingly, she felt no pain.

  No disappointment at all.

  How could that be? She had set her cap at him. Believed him to be her future. And yet…at this moment, she felt absolutely nothing.

  Rogan stepped forward and broke the lock of their hands. Possessively, he took her hand and set it in place around his own arm. He looked down at her. “Quinn will be a witness.”

  The Black Duke was too cruel. Had she been in love with Quinn, as she had honestly believed she might have been at one time, thrusting his brother forward as witness would have been beyond low. And if Quinn had shared those feelings, it would have wounded him deeply as well.

  But obviously, he did not. Otherwise he would not have accepted a role in Rogan’s elaborate wedding ruse. And yet, he had.

  “Lady Upperton, will you stand as witness as well?” Rogan’s tone was level and serious.

  Oh, he was a master.

  “Dear?” Faded blue eyes stared up at Mary. Lady Upperton separated her from Rogan and led her several feet away. “You know I believe he is the one for you. He is your heart’s match. But first, I need to hear that you no longer have feelings for Lord Wetherly.”

  Mary was stunned by the question. “No, I don’t. As I stand here this night, I wonder if I was ever really in love with him, or if I was merely in love with the idea of him.”

  “What does your heart tell you?”

  Mary lowered her head. “The latter. That I never truly loved him. I only thought I did.”

  Lady Upperton beamed back at her. “Then, I will stand for you, dear gel,” she exclaimed for everyone in the Turkish room to hear. Then, in a blink, the old woman gave Mary a tug back toward the gentlemen.

  “Lady Upperton, please wait-,” Mary sputtered, but before she could finish her thought, Rogan reached for her and brought her to his side.

  “Darling,” his voice was low, almost mocking, “you are not having second thoughts?”

  He was so sure of himself. So sure that she would turn and scamper off like a frightened hare. She straightened her spine. “Not at all.” Mary looked straight ahead and focused her gaze on the supposed vicar. “I am ready.”

  Rogan took her hands in his, and the ceremony began.

  The wedding was not but a haze, a disturbing blend of sacred words and utter folly. It isn’t real, she reminded herself as Rogan slipped a golden ring onto her finger and settled it over her knuckle.

  Just as Mr. Archer uttered the final admonition, “What God has joined, let no man put asunder,” Mary glanced up to see Lord Lotharian and her sisters standing in the doorway, mouths fully agape.

  She could not go through with this. She couldn’t. She conceded. Rogan had won.

  Mary turned to Mr. Archer, meaning to ask him to stop this farce, but it was too late.

  “…declare you man and wife.”

  She looked up at Rogan and saw that he was already gazing down at her…as if in a daze.

  Her stomach clenched. Something felt very wrong. Very wrong, indeed.

  From the edge of her vision, she could see her sisters and the elderly lord rushing into the room, but her gaze remained locked with Rogan’s.

  He released her hands, and she felt his fingers slide around her waist. He cupped her chin with his other hand and tilted her face upward.

  “You have won, my dear. You are a duchess and will live the rest of life in luxury and comfort.” His mouth came down on hers then, and he kissed her mouth hard before pulling away.

  It wasn’t at all like before.

  Didn’t move her mind and body to wish for other things, for more.

  This kiss was punishment.

  When he pulled away, Mary stood there, blinking, confused, and feeling hurt for some reason.

  The next moments were a blur of shaking hands and congratulatory kisses.

  Suddenly, a pen was slipped into her hand and guided toward a book of ruled and numbered vellum pages.

  “That’s right. Sign your full name, dear,” Lady Upperton urged. “Good, good. Now, here too.”

  The last slip of paper Mary signed was whisked away, and Lady Upperton and Lord Wetherly bent, in turn, to ink their names on the sheet as well.

  “Congratulations. May I be the first to address you as Your Grace?” Mr. Archer said as he bowed before her. “It was my honor to be of service.”

  He, too, signed the paper and handed it to Rogan, then, with the vellum register under his arm, abruptly left the Turkish room.

  “Mary?” Anne laid her hand on Mary’s cheek. “What is wrong with you? You seem all afluster.”

  Mary stared into her sister’s eyes. “Something is very wrong. This is not what was supposed to happen.”

  “What do you mean?” Anne asked softly, as if trying to keep her calm.

  “In the saloon, I saw Rogan slip Mr. Archer a bag of coins. This was all a ruse.”

  She looked at Elizabeth then, who was shaking her head.

  Mary heard a soft whimper escape her lips. “The vicar wasn’t real,” she whispered.

  Lord Lotharian moved near. “Dear gel, I have known Mr. Archer for many years. Met him when we were young and he was assisting his uncle at our parish church.”

  “Then…he’s truly a vicar?” Stunned, Mary stared down at the ring on her finger. “But this was just a game of wits. It wasn’t a real wedding. It could not have been.”

  Rogan had come up behind her. “I know it was a game to you, but not to me. I was dazzled by your beauty and tender touch. I did not see that I was your real target in your quest for title and coin.”

  Lord Lotharian shoved the duke back from Mary. “How dare you! How dare you make such an accusation. I assure you, this woman possesses a large dowry, more than enough to see her marry well, and she is of the noblest blood. The absolute noblest. Truth to tell, Blackstone, she has no need for your paltry title.”

  Mary shook her head. “No, my lord. All of this must stop.” But Lotharian’s eyes were flashing wildly.

  Rogan did not seem to pay her any heed. “She is the daughter of a country physician, Lotharian.”

  “No, she was raised by a physician in Cornwall. But in fact, she, and her sisters, are the true daughters of the Prince Regent himself.”

  Rogan reached past Lotharian and caught Mary’s arm. He hauled her to him. “What nonsense is this?”

  “It is the truth.” Lotharian reached inside his coat and produced the Kashmir shawl. “And I have proof!”

  Rogan stared down at Mary, waiting for her to answer him. “Is this true, Mary?” he demanded as he shook her slightly.

  “I-I don’t know. I tell you, I don’t know,” she replied.

  Was this possible? Rogan wondered.

  Or had the lot of them escaped from Bedlam?

  Rogan looked at the old man shaking a stained red cloth in the air.

  At Mary’s copper-haired sister mouthing the word “princesses” again and again.

  At the old woman running her tiny fingers along the edge of the shawl with reverence.

  Oh, yes. They were all mad.

  He looked down at Mary, peered into her golden eyes, which were frantically searching his. “Is it true, Mary?” he asked her. “You must know.”

  “Until tonight, I didn’t believe it possible,” she reluctantly admitted. “It was just a crazy story…a story of three royal babes, left for dead and handed over to my father in Lady Jersey’s shawl.”

  “You said until tonight,” Rogan prompted.

  “Yes. It was just a story, beyond belief, until we found th
e shawl hidden amongst my father’s belongings-that shawl-and matched it beyond a doubt to one Lady Jersey wore in the portrait hanging in the Harrington gallery.”

  Rogan’s eyes went wide. “Still, even if that did belong to Lady Jersey, it does not prove-”

  “You’re right, it doesn’t.” She reached up and gently touched his shoulder. “Whether or not my sisters and I were those babes, if they ever even existed, it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you and I have made a very large mistake this eve. Please, Rogan, let us find Mr. Archer before it is too late. Let us admit our error and hope that he can find it in his heart to forget this union ever happened. We made a mistake.”

  “A mistake,” he absently repeated.

  He had to think. Make some sense of this, but the din of the room made thought quite impossible.

  There was only one thing to do. He took Mary’s hand, and, before anyone could stop him, he rushed her from the Turkish room and down the grand staircase.

  When they reached the landing, he whirled her to face him.

  “It was a mistake, Rogan,” she repeated. “A grand mistake. I thought this whole evening, from your proposal of marriage to our wedding, was naught but folly. I thought you toyed with me, and so I played along, hoping to best you.”

  “And I thought you had bested me. That you sacrificed your body, your maidenhood, for my name and plump pockets.”

  “We must reverse this travesty. We must! You didn’t truly want to marry me. Nor I you. We were both so certain that the other meant to take advantage that we blundered into a marriage neither of us truly wanted.”

  “Mary, at this moment you are a duchess. Do you know what you are saying?”

  “I do.” She ran her hand tenderly down his arm. “Let us find the vicar. Perhaps it is not too late to undo what we have done this night.”

  My God. He had misjudged her.

  Terribly misjudged this kind, beautiful, young woman.

  She’d never wanted his money. She wasn’t an opportunist like Quinn’s guinea-hungry mother.

  She was just an innocent.

  How could he have not seen the truth, when it should have been so clear to him all along?

  Rogan pulled her to him, and without a thought as to what possessed him, he kissed her mouth.

  When he released her, he could see that he’d startled her. “I-I apologize. I am just so relieved that we finally know the truth about each other.”

  “As I am.” She smiled up at him. “Now, shall we find the vicar? If we remain married much longer and word escapes that you did the honorable thing by me, your reputation as the Black Duke will be polished up beyond repair.”

  Rogan threw back his head and laughed. “Well, we cannot have that, can we?”

  “Indeed, we cannot.”

  Rogan grasped her hand, and together they raced up the grand staircase and into the Saloon Theatre.

  Chapter 16

  The carriage lurched to a stop before the Royle sisters’ Berkeley Square town house, and, without waiting for the tiger or coachman, Rogan leapt out of the vehicle and handed Mary down.

  “Hurry. A change or two of clothing, and whatever else you might need for the journey.” Rogan practically chased her to the door. “If we leave right away and drive the horses hard, we might catch the vicar well before he and his sister reach Gretna Green.”

  “Do you really believe we can catch him up?”

  “I do, if we hurry. Could save ourselves a few days of travel.”

  “I’ll just be a few minutes.” Mary rushed inside and up the staircase to her chamber, calling frantically for Cherie.

  She could never have imagined such a predicament as she now found herself in.

  She thought that when she and Rogan had returned to the Saloon Theatre, they had had a fair chance to convince the vicar of their mistake and persuade him to destroy the license and pretend that the wedding had never occurred.

  It might have taken a generous donation to the church, but they at least had had a chance, since only a few minutes had passed.

  Such was no longer the situation.

  When they’d reentered the Saloon Theatre and inquired about the whereabouts of the vicar, they’d promptly been informed by Lord Lotharian that Mr. Archer had gone.

  From what Mary could gather, the vicar’s sister had rushed into the saloon only moments before, upset and agitated, her eyes full of tears because her headstrong daughter had run off to Gretna Green with the household’s handsome young footman.

  The vicar quit the Heroes’ Fete at once, and now he and his sister were in desperate pursuit of the runaway young couple.

  In just a few minutes, Rogan and Mary would be in pursuit of him as well.

  Mary opened a handkerchief and scooped into its middle a boar’s hair brush, horn comb, a clutch of hairpins, and a few small pots and bottles from her dressing table. She tied the handkerchief into a small bundle and whirled around to call again for Cherie.

  But the maid was already behind her, pulling the half-packed portmanteau from beneath the tester bed, where it had been left when Mary had thought to return to the country.

  Cherie opened the case, then hurried to the clothespress and returned with two chemises, pantaloons, and stockings. She plucked the toiletries from Mary’s hand, settled those inside, then belted the portmanteau closed.

  She turned her dark, questioning eyes up to Mary.

  Mary sighed. “The duke and I were married this evening.” She held out her hand and showed the maid the golden ring encircling her finger.

  Cherie smiled brightly and nodded her head excitedly.

  “No, I am not happy. It was a mistake. Neither of us wanted this, and so we are leaving to find the vicar and see this farce of a marriage put to an end before it is too late.”

  Cherie reached out and ran her tiny index finger over the golden wedding ring. The maid lifted the ringed hand and laid it atop Mary’s heart.

  Mary looked from the ring glittering on her finger to Cherie’s intense, chocolate-brown eyes.

  Her throat suddenly felt raw. She made to lower her hand to her side, but the little maid pressed it back to her heart.

  “No. It was a mistake.”

  Cherie did not remove her gaze from Mary.

  “I am not in love with him.”

  Mary tried to reach past Cherie to grab the leather-wrapped handle of the portmanteau, but the maid caught her arms and held her still.

  She took up Mary’s hand and, for the third time, set it atop her heart.

  Mary’s eyes began to burn. “It doesn’t matter what I feel anyway, Cherie. Even if I did love him,” she said, her voice shaking, “our joining was not meant to be. To him, I am naught but a country miss, far beneath his notice.”

  The maid lifted her tiny hand to Mary’s cheek. It was all that was needed to send a tear plummeting down her face.

  Mary grabbed the portmanteau and turned for the door. She stopped before taking a single step.

  Rogan’s huge form darkened the entire doorway.

  Without an invitation, he walked straight into her chamber, which was quite shocking to Mary, but then, he was her husband.

  Lud, her husband.

  At least for a few more hours. Or days. Certainly not for weeks.

  He took the portmanteau from her. “Is there anything else you need for the journey? We must away.”

  Mary’s gaze flitted about the bedchamber until it lit on her father’s book of maladies. She snatched it up, in the event a headache on her wedding night just didn’t suffice. “Just this.”

  Then, as if she felt she might never come home again, Mary pulled petite Cherie into her arms and hugged her good-bye.

  More than an hour had passed, neither of them speaking, when Mary realized they had not collected Rogan’s clothing from his home on Portman Square.

  The silence bothered her like an insect buzzing around her head. When she could endure it no more, she decided to mention his oversight. “You
haven’t any change of clothing.”

  As if her voice was an affront to the hush of the cabin, he turned his face from the window, and his gaze impaled her.

  “I do not consider you beneath my notice.” His words were precisely spoken, as though he’d practiced them countless times.

  She dropped her eyes beneath his unyielding gaze. He had heard her when she’d been talking to Cherie. Oh, my God.

  “At the very least, you might need nightclothes,” she added, hoping to redirect the uneasy conversation.

  “I do not wear nightclothes.” There was such a sharp edge to his voice that she flinched.

  “Oh.” She lifted her eyes and turned her gaze out the window, suddenly anxious to escape his overwhelming presence. “Nor do I,” she muttered, hoping to shatter the tension between them. But she heard no laugh, no muted chuckle. Nothing.

  “Mary, look at me,” Rogan finally said. He reached across the aisle and grasped her hand. “Look at me…please.”

  His touch forced her attention.

  She did as he asked and looked up. A burst of bronze within his dark brown eyes seemed to glow in the light of the carriage lantern.

  But what she saw there in his eyes was not at all what she had expected. There was no shadow of anger residing there, only naked regret.

  Tenderly, he ran his thumb along her bare hand. “I was wrong, Mary. I erred in my every thought about you, my every presumption, my every prejudice. I should have listened to what my heart told me. But I didn’t.”

  He leaned his head back and gazed at the ceiling. “For years, I have shielded myself, and of late even my brother, from the pain of giving my affection, my heart, to someone who did not care for me but rather for my title and my position.”

  Rogan lifted his head from the rest and looked at her, his eyes dark and liquid. “I doubted everyone’s motives, no matter the situation, distrusted every woman.”

  Mary felt her heart clench at the emotion in his words, in his eyes. She rose and sat down next to him. Hesitantly, she reached up and rested her hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “Who hurt you? Who did this to you?”

  He stiffened then and shrugged her hand from his coat. “No one hurt me. I learned a valuable lesson, that’s all.” He set his elbows on his knees and cradled his head in his hands.