How to Seduce a Duke (14 page)

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.”